Realising she couldn’t wait any longer, Rion slowly opened her eyes.
She found herself in a small enclosed space that at first glance appeared to be a bricked in railway arch. In front of her metal bars ran from floor to vaulted ceiling, separating Rion from the front of the chamber. Directly opposite, on the other side of the bars, a dusty, highbacked chair faced her. The whole space had a sacrosanct, almost ghostly feel to it. This effect was increased by the lone candle flickering in an alcove by the enormous iron door, which, for some reason, had a peephole in it looking out.
This last bit of information confused her. If she was in prison surely the peephole would be outside looking in?
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom Rion could see the elaborate chair was covered in what once must have been expensive, dark green velvet. Dulled silver studs formed a pattern on the seatback. To one side and behind her was a wall, the bricks had long ago lost their red warmth and were now a cold, grimy grey. A fine mesh grille separated Rion from the other part of the rear chamber so that, in all, she was caged in a quarter of the damp space. On the other side of this finer mesh large boxes had been piled up on evenly spaced shelves that rose to the ceiling.
So she was in a railway storage arch, perhaps beneath a station – that was clear – but what was she doing here? And how was she going to escape? She listened for the rumble of trains but couldn’t hear any.
Everything was deeply silent.
21
ANGIE ON THE CASE
“And you say she was homeless?” Inspector Devine asked, his pen poised over his notebook.
Auntie Em nodded, “Before she came here she was anyway. She slept rough in the cemetery.”
“Rion had family in Bridlington I think,” Ollie added.
“So she was a runaway?”
Ollie exchanged a glance with Auntie Em and Nicky realising how that made it sound. “Well – ”
“Did you also say she was sixteen?”
“And a half,” Ollie added helpfully.
The inspector closed the notepad with a deft flick of the wrist. “Emma,” he began before correcting himself, “Ms Nelson. In our experience we’ve found that most of these teenage runaways return home.”
“Unless they’re captured by darker forces first,” Nicky said indignantly.
“She wasn’t hanging around Kings Cross was she?”
“Not that I know of,” Nicky admitted.
“Or the amusement arcades in Soho?”
Nicky shook her head.
Inspector Devine sighed. “We haven’t much to go on at this stage. I’ll put the word out, we’ll try and locate her parents and if she hasn’t turned up by the end of the week we’ll go from there. Have you a likeness of her?”
“I do.” Nicky dashed into her studio, returning to the mews with a photo she had taken of Rion after Johnson’s shoot.
Ollie felt a wrench to his stomach when he looked at the picture. It was a hauntingly beautiful black and white image of Rion with her hair falling around her shoulders. “This makes her look older than she is,” he said.
The inspector put the picture with his notepad, “We’ll be in touch.” As he made his way out of the mews he stopped and turned round, “I suppose Sir, that you have an alibi for Friday night?”
Ollie looked at him in disbelief.
“He has to ask angel,” Auntie Em whispered.
“I’m sure StJohn StJohn will vouch for me.”
The policeman began to write on notepad, “ S- I – ?”
“Spelt Saint John Saint John,” Auntie Em helped. “Pronounced Sinjin Sinjin.”
They watched until Inspector Devine had disappeared around the corner.
“I thought you said he was tame,” Ollie protested.
“He is, but there’s nothing much he can do until – ” Auntie Em’s voice trailed off.
“Until a body turns up?”
“Oh angel don’t say it.”
“Don’t even think it,” Nicky said glumly.
“It’s all my fault. I should never have said she could move into the unlucky house. It was bound to happen.”
“I should never have left her.”
“And I should have gone back for her!” Nicky wailed.
Ollie put his arms around both women. “C’mon we can’t all reach for the blame – if that was the case none of us are guilty and all of us are guilty.”
“You know Halloween is really the old Celtic festival Samhain,” Auntie Em blew her nose. “Our ancestors considered it the most dangerous night of the year, when the barriers between the real world and the ‘Otherworld’ broke down and people were – ” she gave a little sob, “ – lured to their death!”
Ollie had never seen Auntie Em this distraught. “We don’t know if anything’s happened to her. Maybe she met some friends – ”
“She only knew us!”
“Maybe she went back to Bridlington to get some things and forgot our numbers.”
“She wouldn’t have forgotten Jake in hospital would she?” Auntie Em asked.
“It’s unlikely,” Ollie had to admit.
“And she wouldn’t have missed her chance at Glamourista either,” Nicky was sure of that.
“She’s only been missing three days – ” Ollie said.
“Today’s the fourth!”
“How would you feel if someone said to you, ‘You’ve only been hungry for three days’?”
“Or, ‘You’ve only been in pain for three days’?”
“Three days is a long time angel.”
“Five minutes can be an age, I mean ten seconds can seem like forever if you’re frightened.”
“Ok. OK,” Ollie put up his hands to stop the attack. “But what are we going to do?”
Angie Peters was still no closer to her ‘big idea’ for Glamourista – or her ‘grand projet’ as her husband liked to call it. Edwin could say things like that. He made them sound perfectly natural, he’d been educated in Switzerland after all, whereas if she tried it just sounded pretentious.
It was definitely time for her ginseng.
The editor scooped the tarlike liquid from the jar with the tiny teaspoon provided. She melted it in the hot water, screwed up her nose and took a sip. Angie hated the taste of the ginseng but was told it would give her energy whilst keeping her calm.
Boy did she need that.
Her work alone, she thought, practically required ginseng be fed intravenously without even touching on her husband’s problems. Poor Edwin would need something aged and malted to get through this crisis. He would probably also require chemical compounds, pink pills with cartoon faces – homeopathy just didn’t get a look in under such circumstances.
Pinching her nose she took another sip of the foul liquid and perused the photographs in front of her. They were good, of course, but there was one that particularly intrigued her. The editor of Glamourista picked up the phone and dialled. “Nicky? Sweetheart it’s Angie here. The shots are great.”
“Which one are you going to use?”
“Hmmmm. The one half in shadow will be perfect for the byline but for the main picture?” the editor glanced at the pictures again. “The one with Johnson’s foot on that rather attractive bench.”
Nicky was pleased as it would give Ollie a credit. “That’s the one I would use.”
“Is the furniture maker a friend of yours by any chance?” The editor knew how these things worked.
Unwilling to appear too incestuous Nicky deflected the question, “Ollie? He’s a friend of Johnson’s.”
“Then perhaps Johnson can feature him in his column.” Angie held her nose and took another sip of the disgusting potion before continuing, “One picture in particular caught my attention.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know why you included it but it’s a young girl, very interesting looking, slightly haunted?”
“That must be Rion,” Nicky hoped she sounded more surprised than she felt. She had never been much
good at lying. “She’s Johnson’s new assistant. We were playing around with the film after the session ended.”
“Could you get her in?”
“I – er – wish I knew how to contact her,” Nicky said truthfully.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Angie had clicked off the phone and already pressed Johnson’s speed-dial before the photographer had a chance to say goodbye.
“Johnson darling, it’s Angie.”
“Angie.”
The editor thought Johnson’s voice sounded uncharacteristically muffled but bubbled on regardless.
“We have the pictures back. You’re going to love them. Nicky might have taken ten much needed pounds off Jim James but she’s taken twenty years off you.” The editor waited for Johnson’s gleeful remarks that were very slow in coming. “And you didn’t even need it sweetheart,” she joked still waiting for some expression of joy at the news. “You look twenty four in most of them!” Again she waited. “Johnson?”
“Sorry Ange, I’m not myself today.”
“How’s your column?”
Johnson sighed, “Rather limp but nothing a good dose of viagra couldn’t cure.”
“The magazine column Johnson.”
“In the same state I’m afraid. My assistant – ”
“I was just going to ask about her! Nicky put in a photo with your lot and she’s just – ”
“ – vanished Angie.”
“Sorry?”
“She’s vanished. Disappeared off the face of the earth. It’s too sad. Ollie – ”
“The furniture maker?”
“Designer,” Johnson corrected. “ – thinks something terrible has happened to her. The police aren’t interested at the moment. It’s all just awful.”
“She’s probably just met someone.”
Johnson sounded doubtful, “She didn’t seem to be the type.”
“They never do, do they? She’ll turn up, you’ll see.”
“The column might have to wait.”
So that’s what this is about Angie thought.
“We can help with that sweetheart, just give us a couple of ideas.”
Johnson made some noncommittal sound down the phone.
“We could do something on your friend Ollie – that would be easy wouldn’t it?”
Johnson brightened up, “And someone could ghost it for me?”
“That’s what we’re here for sweetie,” Angie swirled the ginseng dregs around the glass, grimacing as she swallowed for the final time. “You know you can call me anytime but especially call if your assistant shows up – she’ll be perfect for something here. What did you say her name was?”
“Rion. Rion Ward.”
It hadn’t been a good few days for Sir Edwin Peters. The week had started badly and got worse. The unfavourable report had come out on Monday, depressing the shareholders and the value of the shares. Events had so compounded that he now found himself being interviewed by some arrogant little prick on Business This Week.
The only consolation he could wrest from this ghastly situation is that no one watched the lunchtime programme. Who in their right minds would?
“On Monday the report appeared in SCIENCE about independent investigations into Peters & Peters the UK’s largest organic, environment-friendly, pesticide manufacturer– ”
The answer came through to him as he listened to the interviewer witter on: his shareholders and prospective shareholders would be watching, he thought gloomily – that’s who.
“You described your pesticides as ‘like a neutron bomb’ – that doesn’t sound like a very environmentally friendly claim does it Sir Edwin?”
“On the contrary,” Sir Edwin replied, “it sounds like the most environmentally friendly claim of all. The insects and baddies are all killed whilst the flowers, fruit and cell structure of the plant remain intact.”
“But how did Peters & Peters change, almost overnight, from chemical usage to organic? Normally it takes years – ”
Sir Edwin interrupted him, “But it did take years. It merely seemed overnight,” he grated his teeth behind the smile he flashed at the interviewer. God, he needed a Scotch. “I would remind you that the plant had been passed by the D.T.I. on no less than four separate occasions.”
“So the leakage – ”
“Well, of course a part of the company remained producing – er – ” Sir Edwin racked his brain for the right word, “ – unorganic – ” Was that the correct term? “ – er – material but that section was away from the main production centre. To my knowledge the leak has been found and checked.”
“Is there anything not to your knowledge?”
Sir Edwin silently counted to ten.
“Does the Queen know everything about what goes on at Buckingham Palace?” Sir Edwin hoped his voice didn’t betray his annoyance. He had been advised to stay calm and contrite. “Does the Prime Minister know everything about his party? Does – ”
Just as Sir Edwin was warming to this theme the interviewer interrupted, “Judging by the recent reshuffle I would say the Prime Minister makes it his business to know everything about his party.”
“Obviously things happen without my knowledge but as chairman of Peters & Peters the buck must stop with me.” Sir Edwin turned to look directly at the camera, “I take full responsibility for whatever has happened.”
Watching their boss’ performance on tv the staff of Peters & Peters judged it to be quite an honest one. As they drifted back to work Auntie Gem sought out Mr Paul.
“Is he guilty?” she asked the young assistant manager.
“Of what?”
“Poisoning the canal?”
Mr Paul thought for a moment. “Perhaps we went too quickly,” he said tactfully. “It’s like Olympic athletes – ”
Auntie Gem looked blank.
“The unknown ones?” Mr Paul prompted. “They come out of nowhere to win three gold medals. I mean progress like that doesn’t go unaided does it?”
Auntie Gem was sure it didn’t. “So what aided him?”
Mr Paul rubbed his thumb over his forefingers, “Friends at the D.T.I.”
“And he knew all along?”
Mr Paul smiled, “What do you think?”
Auntie Gem wasn’t sure what to think but, remembering how dangerously ill Jake had been as well as the devastation of the fish, eels, frogs and her beloved heron, she knew what to do.
Angie was waiting for her husband upon his return from the Business This Week studio. She had placed a bottle of Laphroaig on a silver salver in plain view on the hall table. Beside it two empty tumblers waited expectantly. Also on the salver was a porcelain pillbox containing two of his favourite pink pills, neatly broken into halves.
Edwin’s weary face lit up when he saw her. “Things can’t get any worse can they? I mean, they can’t take away my knighthood or anything can they?”
Angie thought it might well be grounds for divorce if they could. Again she reminded herself to check where the title would go should the subject be more than just mentioned.
“I’m sure they can’t darling,” she said in her most soothing of voices. Picking up the silver salver she moved through to the elegant sitting room. This was perhaps Angie’s favourite room in the house. With its view over the garden, its large Conran sofas and its ‘real’ antique furniture it always reminded her of how far she had come.
Angie filled the thick tumbler with Scotch, sat her husband on the sofa and gave him the pillbox. “I have something to tell you.”
Edwin looked at the floor, “Go on. Tell me you have a lover, tell me you want a divorce. Kick a man when he’s down why don’t you?”
“Don’t be silly Edwin,” Angie crossed over to the marble fireplace, switched on the gas and lit the bowl of fake coals that glowed so convincingly real. “By tomorrow everything will be ok. Trust me.”
All it had taken were a few calls to confirm that Rion Ward was indeed on the missing persons register. After that a
nother call brought her the result she wanted.
Angie gently kissed her husband on the forehead. “And it’s all thanks to you Edwin.”
The early November sun threw feeble rays across the room as she told her husband what she had done.
22
THRICE BURIED
Rion judged it had been three days since she had been taken from the barge but couldn’t be sure.
Most of the time she was kept in the near-darkness of what she had now decided was not, in fact, a railway arch but some kind of cellar, an old coalhole perhaps or some other sort of bunker. Rion still couldn’t figure out who the elaborate chair belonged to, or what the boxes on the shelves on the other side of the cellar contained, but she was in no hurry to find out.
She also wondered about the two peculiar swords beside the door.
Her watch told the time but the young girl had no idea if it was noon or the witching hour. There was no sense of night or day in the secret place where they had hidden her.
Rion still didn’t have a clear idea of who ‘they’ were, nor what ‘they’ wanted, but she had a feeling that when things were clear ‘they’ might not be too pleasant.
A distant scraping, a muffled clang followed by footsteps on flagstones heralded the arrival of one of her keepers but which one would it be? Gorby? Ted? Mary? Or the new one?
The door opened with a groan. Age and damp had swelled the heavy oak so that it needed a push to make a gap wide enough for a person to slip through.
“Oh it’s you,” she was relieved to see it was the new one. A silent young man of twenty nine entered. His pointed eyes were set too close together, a tightly cropped beard moulded the shape of his chin, in his hand he carried a brown paper bag.
“Don’t close the door,” Rion said trying to peer through the gap into the dimly lit corridor. In the few seconds before the timer kicked in she saw shadowy, barred alcoves much like her own. “It’s so stuffy in here, the fire gives me a headache – can’t you turn it off for a while?”
After the initial chill of the first day a gas fire had been brought in and left on permanently. She had also been given a man’s thick Arran sweater, which smelt of damp, an old duvet and several blankets that softened up the worn mattress.
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