The Wolves of London (38 page)

Feeling wretched, I started to say how sorry I was, but Clover waved away my apologies. Briskly she pulled the covers back, bundled them up and carried them away. I shivered from reaction and because the sudden exposure to the air made me cold. I was wearing old-fashioned blue and white striped pyjamas, and I had a bandage around my ankle where the dog had bitten me. My feet were bare and looked long, white and veiny. Although they were probably no different to usual, I suddenly couldn’t help thinking they looked like the feet of a sick old man. I had never thought of myself as old, or even middle-aged, before.

‘Is there a hand mirror in here?’ I asked.

Frank showed no surprise at the question. He gestured towards the back wall, where a Victorian dressing table sat beside a small sink. ‘There’s one on there.’

‘Would you mind fetching it for me?’

He did so without comment and handed it over. I held it up in front of my face, afraid of what I might see. But it was the same old face as ever: long, bony, grizzled with three-day stubble, and wearing a pissed-off expression despite my best intentions. I was maybe a bit paler than usual, a bit darker around the eyes, but that was only to be expected. I’d had a horrible suspicion that I would suddenly look old, wrinkled, grey-haired, but there was no evidence of that. I let my arm with the mirror in it drop and sank back into the bed, groaning.

Clover returned with a fresh duvet, which she threw over me, then she moved the tea tray from the chair beside the bed and sat down.

‘You need to rest,’ she said, ‘recuperate.’

‘I’ve been resting for the last three days.’

‘You’ve been fighting, not resting. This isn’t the first time you’ve thrown up. You need proper rest now, and once you think you can keep something down, you need some food and liquid. You’ve had nothing solid for days and you’ve brought up most of the liquid that we’ve been able to get you to swallow.’

‘But what about Kate?’ I said. ‘I’ve wasted enough time.’

‘You’re in no fit state to go running around London looking for Kate,’ she said. ‘You won’t be doing her any favours by driving yourself into the ground. Besides, where would you go? What would you do? You’ve got nothing to go on. Everything that
can
be done to find her
is
being done.’

I knew she was right, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I sighed, and winced. Even taking a deep breath was painful.

‘Thanks for looking after me. Both of you,’ I said.

Frank shrugged and nodded, clearly embarrassed.

‘So where are we?’ I asked, gesturing towards the window.

‘Kensington,’ said Clover, confirming my theory. ‘It’s a safe house. It belongs to a friend of mine.’

‘Another friend?’

‘You make a lot of useful contacts in my business.’

I decided not to push it – for now. Instead, looking out at the trees shedding yellow and brown leaves as their branches shivered in the wind, I asked, ‘Can anywhere really be safe for us?’

Clover shrugged. ‘We’ve been here for three days and nothing’s happened so far.’

‘Can I have my phone?’

She raised her eyebrows at the sudden change of topic. ‘What for?’

‘I want to see if I’ve got any messages.’

She looked thoughtful for a moment – perhaps she was deciding whether I was mentally strong enough to be reconnected to the real world – and then she crossed to the same dressing table from which Frank had taken the hand mirror. Opening the left-hand drawer she said, ‘All your stuff is in here – wallet, keys, phone, that kind of thing.’

‘What about my clothes?’ I asked.

‘Washed and dried.’

‘But not ironed?’ I muttered, teasing her.

She waggled my phone at me. ‘You might not be well, Alex, but that doesn’t mean I won’t slap you if you don’t behave.’

I smiled, though the humour was perfunctory, a vain attempt to relieve the tension I was feeling. Clover handed my phone to me, and I switched it on, pleased to discover that it didn’t seem to have suffered any detrimental effects from its journey into the past. I had sixteen voicemail messages – a couple from Candice, four from DI Jensen, several from friends and colleagues, and a couple from Dr Bruce at Darby Hall – together with a bunch of texts, many from the same people, who were presumably following up the messages I hadn’t responded to.

‘Anything significant?’ Clover asked, looking anxious on my behalf.

‘Maybe,’ I said, showing her the list, my heart thumping at the prospect of what Jensen could be ringing about. Bad news or good? I was almost too afraid to find out.

‘We’ll leave you to it,’ she said tactfully, picking up the tea things. ‘Do you feel like eating anything yet?’

After throwing up, my stomach had settled, and was now grumbling emptily, though it still felt tight with tension. I shrugged.

‘I’ll bring you some homemade chicken soup anyway,’ she said.

I nodded. ‘Sounds great.’

She left the room, Frank following silently. I took a deep breath, then dialled up my voicemail and listened to my messages.

The first from Candice was to ask whether I’d had any news about Kate. The second was more subdued, more concerned: ‘Dad, where are you? I’m worried about you. No one knows where you are. The police have been in touch to say they’re anxious to trace you. Please call me. I’m really, really worried. I love you.’

The batch of messages from friends, students and work colleagues were along similar lines, but more wary and restrained. From the tone of some it was clear they were not above thinking I might have had something to do with Kate’s disappearance, and that I was now not so much lying low as on the run.

The two messages from Dr Bruce were short and to the point, the second containing a note of admonishment as if she believed I was deliberately ignoring her. In the first she requested that I call her at my earliest convenience, and in the second she said almost exactly the same thing, but replaced ‘at your earliest convenience’ with ‘as a matter of urgency’.

Intriguing – and slightly alarming – though her messages were, however, it was the quartet of messages from Jensen that I was
really
concerned about. They were carefully worded, the detective inspector expressing thinly veiled concern for my welfare and asking me to contact him as soon as I could.

The moment the last of his messages, which were all virtually identical, had ended, I began to shake. What news did Jensen have for me? Or did he even
have
any news? Could it be that he was simply suspicious of the fact that I appeared to have fallen off the face of the earth and wanted to know where I was? I knew the only way to find out was to call him back, but I was scared; terrified, in fact. I told myself the news wouldn’t be bad, that there was no way Kate’s kidnappers would harm her, not while I still held the heart. But could I be sure about that? The answer was no, I couldn’t be sure about anything. I took a deep breath and pressed ‘Reply’.

It was a woman who answered the phone. I heard the bustle of an office behind her. Her voice was clipped, business-like. The only word she said that penetrated my racing mind was ‘police’.

‘Is DI Jensen there?’ I asked, surprised at the phlegmy rasp that had replaced my voice.

‘Who’s calling please?’

‘This is Alex Locke.’

I wondered whether I ought to elaborate, but my anxiety blanked my mind and froze my tongue.

‘Hold on, please,’ she said, but barely two seconds later there was a click, and the wordless clamour of the office environment was replaced by a split second of silence, and then a voice:

‘Mr Locke. Where have you been?’

The voice was sharp, demanding, for which I was obscurely glad; it was not the voice of someone about to convey distressing news.

‘Away,’ I said, trying to remember what I’d told him the last time we’d spoken. ‘Staying with friends.’

‘Didn’t you receive my messages?’

‘I just have.’ I tried to calm my racing mind, to not be intimidated by his admonishing tone and rapid questions. I took a breath, during which – even though it was only a second or two’s reprieve – I wondered whether I should tell him I’d been ill.

In the end I said, ‘The phone signal’s dodgy here. I’m out in the sticks, I’m afraid.’

If he thought it odd or suspicious that I would knowingly remain out of contact when my daughter was missing he didn’t immediately say so. ‘Where are you?’ he wanted to know.

‘Do you have news about Kate?’ I asked, ignoring the question, deciding to go on the attack.

There was a pause, as if he was contemplating whether to answer my question, or counter with another of his own.

Then he said, ‘Not as such, I’m afraid.’

‘Not as such? What does that mean?’

I heard a huff of resignation or exasperation at the other end of the line. ‘We’re pursuing several lines of enquiry, but I’m afraid at present I have nothing concrete to tell you.’

I considered cutting the connection, but knew that would only rouse his suspicions and his ire still further. Elaborating on what I’d already told him I said, ‘Sorry, this is a very bad line. I can hardly hear what you’re saying.’

I don’t know whether he believed me or not, but he raised his voice and repeated what he’d just said. Then he repeated his earlier question. ‘Where are you, Mr Locke?’

I counted to three, then said, ‘Hello? Hello? Inspector, are you still there?’

He began to reply, but I cut in: ‘I don’t know whether you can still hear me, Inspector, but I’ve lost the connection at this end. I’ll call you as soon as I can. Goodbye.’

I ended the call, cutting him off in mid-flow, and then sat, breathing heavily for a few moments, as if we’d just been engaged not in a verbal joust but a physical one.

Within a minute of ending the call, Jensen sent me a text, demanding that I provide him with the contact address and landline number of where I was staying. I didn’t reply, thinking that I could always blame the lack of signal at a later date.

Much as I loved Candice, after speaking to Jensen I didn’t think I could cope with my eldest daughter’s emoting at that moment. I felt bad, but sent her a message saying that I was sorry I hadn’t been in touch, but that I was staying with friends outside London and hadn’t been able to get a decent signal. I said I was okay, but that there was still no news of Kate. I received a text back almost immediately, in which Candice said she was
so
glad I was okay and that I should call her as soon as I got the chance.

That just left Dr Bruce – aside from the messages from my friends and colleagues, of course, which I fully intended to ignore. I stared at the second of her texts for a few seconds, and then I sighed and pressed ‘Reply’. The phone rang four times and I almost rang off, but then a female voice all but sang out the words, ‘Darby Hall Psychiatric Hospital.’

I asked for Dr Bruce, and explained who I was and why I was ringing. As with my call to the police station I was put through within seconds.

‘Mr Locke,’ Dr Bruce said in her dry, reserved voice.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t ring you earlier. I’ve been away. No reception.’

‘Mr Locke,’ Dr Bruce said again, ignoring my explanation, ‘I wanted to speak to you about Lyn.’

No surprise there, I thought, but I didn’t say so. ‘Is she all right?’ I asked. ‘Nothing’s happened, has it?’

‘Something
has
happened, yes, but the development is very much a positive one.’ She paused as though choosing her words carefully. ‘Since your visit Lyn has shown a remarkable upturn in terms of her emotional state and cognitive abilities. I won’t go so far as to say that her improvement is miraculous, but it’s certainly encouraging.’

‘You mean she’s getting better?’ I asked.

‘Again, I wouldn’t wish to make assumptions. It may be that her improvement is temporary – a flash in the pan. In fact, the breakthrough she appears to have made has been
so
sudden and dramatic that I’m inclined to feel…’

‘Uneasy?’

‘I was about to say
more
cautious than I might if her improvement had been gradual.’

I stayed silent. I could tell by her tone that she wanted to say more. Sure enough, after a moment, she said, ‘Lyn claims that during your visit you banished the “dark man”, which as you know is the phrase that she uses for her particular psychological condition. In fact, she claims that you… captured his darkness, took it away. Would you happen to know what she means by that?’

Reluctant to tell her about the heart, I said, ‘Well, Lyn and I talked for quite a while. She was more lucid than usual. Maybe I just managed to get through to her.’

I half-expected Dr Bruce to pull me up on that, to waspishly inform me that getting through to Lyn was precisely what she and her team of trained psychologists had been trying to do for the past five years. But instead, speaking more animatedly than I had ever heard her before, she said, ‘It seemed more than that. Lyn referred to the darkness as though it was a physical thing. She claims that you gave it to her, that you allowed her to hold it, and then you took it back.’

‘She must have been speaking metaphorically,’ I said.

There was a brief silence, and then, almost coldly this time, Dr Bruce said, ‘Yes, I suppose she must have.’

‘It’s good to hear she’s doing so well, though,’ I said, beginning to wonder whether there was more to Dr Bruce than met the eye, whether
she
had been playing a long game too – or was I simply being paranoid?

‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘When were you next planning to visit Lyn, Mr Locke?’

‘Soon,’ I said vaguely.

‘The sooner the better would be my recommendation. I believe your visit would be of great benefit to her.’

‘Yes, well,’ I said, ‘I’ll see what I can do. Goodbye.’

I cut the connection, feeling oddly unnerved.

A minute later I heard the creak of ascending footsteps outside the door.

‘You decent in there, chief?’

‘Yes, Frank,’ I called. ‘Come in.’

He opened the door, allowing Clover, who again was carrying the tea tray, to precede him. On the tray this time was a steaming bowl of soup, a side plate of French bread, a glass of water and a couple of pink pills, which I assumed were painkillers.