Moon (7 page)

    For a moment, the hands, seen by Childes almost as his own, paused as if the denier had sensed something, had become aware of being observed. Sensed Childes, himself. Something deep inside his mind was coldly touched. The moment passed.

    Tilly Platnauer knew she should not be enjoying the tale, but Duxbury's bluff rendition was compelling. Her shoulders were already beginning to judder with mirth.

    The little corpse was torn free from the silk-lined casket and now Childes could see the tiny open eyes that had no depth, no life-force. The boy was laid on the grass beside the pit, where the night breeze ruffled his hair, blowing wisps across his pale, unlined forehead, giving an illusion of vitality. His clothes were cut free and pulled aside so that the body was naked to the night, white marble in colour and stillness.

    Metal glinted in the thin moonlight. Plunging downward. Entering.

    Slicing.

    The glass shattered, wine mixed with blood spilling on the lace tablecloth. Someone screamed. Childes had risen, knocking over his chair, was standing over them, swaying, his eyes staring towards the ceiling, a glistening wetness to his lips, a light sheen moistening his skin.

    His body shook, went rigid, even his hair appeared brittle. With a desolate cry he fell forward onto the table.

    

    

    
Gloatingly, it bit into the heart of the dead child.

    

    

    Amy clenched her fists and closed her eyes against the reflection of her father.

    They were in her bedroom, she white-faced with eyes tear-puffed and red, sitting miserably at her dressing-table, Paul Sebire agitated, angrily pacing the room behind her. She could not clear from her mind the sight of Jon when he had been led away from the house by Platnauer, the
conseiller
helping him into his own car, refusing to allow him to drive himself home, despite his protests: Jon's face had been so taut, so stricken.

    He had refused a doctor, had insisted that he -was okay, that he had just suffered a blackout, that the heat of the dining room had overcome him. They knew that the night was cool, that the house was merely warm, not too hot, but hadn't argued. He would be fine as soon as he could lie down, he had told them, as soon as he could rest; he strenuously declined Amy's and Vivienne's offer of a bed for the night, saying he just needed to be on his own for a while. His distant gaze had frightened her as much as his ashen face, but it was useless to argue.

    She had held him before he left, feeling his inner trembling, wishing she could soothe it away. His cut hand had been treated and bandaged, and Amy had brought it to her lips before letting him go, kissing the fingertips, careful not to hold on too tightly. Childes hadn't allowed her to go with him.

    Paul Sebire stopped pacing. 'Aimee,' he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. 'I don't want you to be angry, I just want you to listen to me and to be rational.'

    He stroked her hair, then let his hand fall back onto her shoulder. 'I'd like you to end this relationship with Childes.' He waited for the outburst, which never came. Amy was merely staring coldly at his reflection in the mirror and, in a way, that was more unsettling. He went on, his tone cautious: 'I believe the man is unstable. At first I thought tonight he was suffering from an epileptic fit of some kind, but soon realised the symptoms were not the same. Aimee, I think the man is heading for a mental breakdown.'

    'He's not unstable,' Amy said calmly. 'He's not neurotic and he's not heading for a breakdown. You don't know him, Daddy, you don't know what he's been through.'

    'But I do, Aimee. I just wonder if you're fully aware of his background.'

    'What do you mean?' She had turned towards Sebire, his hand sliding from her shoulder with the movement.

    'Something rang a bell for me a long time ago when you first started mentioning his name; I couldn't put my finger on it, although I was bothered for quite some time. More recently, when I began to suspect you were becoming seriously involved with him, I did some checking.' He raised a defensive hand. 'Now don't look at me like that, Aimee. You're my only daughter, and I care more about you than anything in the world, so do you really think I wouldn't pursue a troublesome matter which concerned you?'

    'Wouldn't it have been possible to ask me about Jon?'

    'Ask you what? I had a feeling, that was all, a nagging doubt. And I couldn't be sure of how much you yourself knew about Childes.'

    'And what did you discover?' she asked caustically.

    'Well, I knew roughly when he had come over from the mainland and that he had a career in the computer industry before. I asked Victor Platnauer, as a member of the Island Police Committee, to make a discreet - I promise you it was discreet - investigation into Childes' background, whether he had any dealings with the police in the past, that sort of thing.'

    'Do you imagine he would have been employed by any of the colleges if he had some kind of criminal record?'

    'Of course not. I was looking for something else. I told you, his name was somehow familiar to me and I didn't know why.'

    'So you found out what drove him away from England, why he was forced to leave his family.'

    'You made no secret of his divorce, so that didn't come as a surprise. But what did was the fact that he had been under suspicion for murder.'

    'Daddy, if you had him thoroughly investigated you must be aware of all the facts. Jon helped
solve
those crimes. The penalty he paid was false accusations and relentless hounding by the media, even for long afterwards.'

    'Officially, the murders were never solved.'

    She groaned aloud, half in despair, half in anger.

    Sebire was undaunted. 'There was a series of three murders and the evidence indicated the killer was the same person. All the victims were children.'

    'And Jon was able to give the police vital clues.'

    'He led them to where the last two were buried, that's true enough. But everyone wanted to know
how,
Aimee, that's what caused the outcry.'

    'He told them, he explained.'

    'He said he witnessed the killings. Not physically, he hadn't actually been there when the crimes had been committed, but he had "seen" them happen. Can you blame the police, the public, for wondering?'

    'He has… had a… a kind of second-sight. It's not unusual, Daddy, it's happened to others. Police have often used psychics to help them solve crimes.'

    'Whenever a particularly gruesome series of murders is reported, any number of crackpots always contact the police saying the spirits have told them what the murderer looks like or where he'll strike next. It's common and pathetic, and a total waste of police time.'

    'Not always, it isn't always. Crimes have been solved by such people many times in the past.'

    'And you're telling me Childes is one of these gifted persons.' Sebire made the word 'gifted' sound like a sneer. 'That's what the newspapers reported at the time.'

    'That's just the point: he isn't. He's not clairvoyant, he's not psychic in the usual sense. Jon had never experienced such an insight before, not in that way. He was just as mystified and confused as anyone else. And frightened.'

    'The police held him on suspicion.'

    'They were staggered by what he knew. Of course they suspected him at first, but he had too many witnesses testifying he was elsewhere at the time of the murders.'

    'It was still felt he was involved in some way. He was too accurate with his information.'

    'They eventually traced the murderer and proved that Jon had no connection with him.'

    'I'm sorry, but that's not on record. The killings were never solved.'

    'Check with your sources, Daddy. You'll find they were - unofficially. The madman cut his own throat. The case was never officially closed because he left no suicide note, nothing to admit he had murdered the children. All the authorities had was very strong circumstantial - no, conclusive - evidence against him. They hinted as much at the time, and so did the newspapers, but no one could officially announce the fact; the law, itself, prevented them from doing so. But the murderer killed himself because he knew they were closing in; Jon had given the police enough information for them to pinpoint their man, someone who was known to them as a child-molester, who had spent time in prison because of it. The killings stopped when he took his own life.'

    'Then why did Childes run away?' Sebire was pacing the room again, determined not to leave until he had made his daughter see sense. 'He deserted his wife and child to come here. What could make him do such a thing?'

    'He didn't desert them, not in the way you're suggesting.' Amy's voice had risen in pitch. 'Jon begged his wife to come with him, but she refused. The pressure had been too much for her as well. She didn't want either herself or Gabriel, their daughter, to be subjected to any more innuendo, phone calls from cranks, the media at first pointing the finger of suspicion and later trying to build Jon into some kind of super-freak! She knew there'd be no peace for them…'

    'Even so, to leave them…'

    'Their marriage was in trouble before that. Jon's wife was a career woman when they were first married. When their daughter came along she took up all her time; Fran became sick of being a housewife, always living in his shadow. She wanted her own life before these incidents took place.'

    'And the child? How could-?'

    Amy's voice lowered. 'He loves Gabriel. It nearly broke him to leave her, but he knew if he stayed the tension would destroy them all. There was nothing he could offer his daughter on his own; he didn't know at that stage how he would live, what he would do. My God, he'd thrown away a brilliant career, was leaving his wife everything they possessed and almost all their savings. How could he take care of a four-year-old daughter?'

    'Why here of all places? Why did he come to this island?' Sebire had once more stopped his pacing and was now hovering over Amy, his own anger building.

    'Because it's close to home, don't you see? It's far enough away for him to have been a stranger when he arrived, yet easy for him to return, to keep in touch with his family. Jon hasn't walked out, he hasn't turned his back on them. He was devastated when he discovered his wife had sued for divorce - perhaps he imagined one day they'd patch things up for the sake of Gabriel, that they'd come to live with him here, I don't know. He may even have had plans for returning to England in a few years time when he would be long forgotten by the public. All that changed when he received the divorce papers.'

    'Okay, Aimee, given all that, accepting there was no complicity on his part in those brutal killings and that he was not totally to blame for the break-up of his marriage -'

    Amy opened her mouth to speak, her pale eyes blazing, but Sebire stopped her.

    'Hear me out.' His manner was firm, allowing no dissension. 'The fact remains that the man is
not
normal. How do you explain these - I don't know what you'd call them, I'm not familiar with psychic mumbo-jumbo - let's just say "intuitions"? Why on earth did they happen to him?'

    'Nobody knows, least of all Jon himself. No one can explain them. Why are you blaming him?'

    'I am not blaming him for anything. I'm merely pointing out that there's something odd about the man. Can you tell me exactly what happened here tonight, what caused his so-called blackout? Has this sort of thing ever occurred before? Good God, Aimee, what if he'd been driving a car, perhaps with you in it?'

    'I don't
know
what happened to him, and neither does he. And as far as I know, he's never suffered anything similar.'

    'But he refuses to even consult a doctor.'

    'He will; I'll make him.'

    'You will stay away from him.'

    Amy smiled disbelievingly. 'Do you really think I'm still a child to be told what I can and cannot do? Do you honestly imagine you can forbid me to see him again?' She laughed, but the sound was brittle, without humour. 'Wake up to the twentieth century, Daddy.'

    'I shouldn't think Victor Platnauer is too keen on having a tutor in his school who is susceptible to fainting spells.'

    Her breath escaped her. 'Are you serious?'

    'Absolutely.'

    She shook her head and stared at him with a simmering anger. 'He wasn't well, it could have happened to anybody.'

    'Perhaps. With anyone else it would soon be forgotten though.'

    'And you won't forget this?'

    'That's hardly the point.'

    'Tell me what is.'

    'He worries me. I'm afraid for you.'

    'He's a kind, gentle man.'

    'I don't want you involved with him.'

    'I already am. Very.'

    Sebire visibly flinched. He strode to the door and stopped, looking back at her. She knew her father so well, knew his ruthlessness when opposed. His words were controlled, but there was seething intensity in his eyes.

    'I think it's time others were made aware of Childes' dubious past,' he said, before leaving the room and firmly closing the door behind him.

    

    

    Perspiration flowed from him, literally trickling in smooth rivulets onto the sheets of the bed. He turned onto his side, damp bedclothes clinging, his own dank smell unpleasant.

    The vision, the sighting, was still fresh in Childes' mind, for it had been so real, its horror so tangible, so palpable. It filled him now. Potent. Vigorous.