She had anointed them all in her favourite oils. The air was fragrant with the scents of flowers and herbs.
Her hands rested on the crystal ball as she concentrated on the task ahead, visualising a face behind her closed eyelids. Strangely, after all this time, it took a while for the cranial contours Noj had thought she knew so well to form a perfect alignment in her mind. It was as if the subject was trying to shrink from sight.
But then, at once, it came.
Noj lifted her hands and opened her eyes, staring deep into the globe before her.
* * *
With a clatter, the cat shot back through the flap in the front door and ran into the kitchen, hackles up, hissing. Sheila looked up through the window, heard the sound of tyres crunching down the lane. Listened hard to the noise it made and looked down at the basket where the cat stood on tiptoe, hair standing out on end, teeth bared and emitting a low, yowling sound, eyes fixed in the direction of the door.
“We thought this might happen, didn’t we, Minnie?” Sheila said. She put her cup down and walked through the kitchen to the laundry. Took the oiled and loaded twelve-bore down from its rack.
* * *
“Come,” Smollet’s voice rang out behind his office door.
Sean pushed it open, surprised to see the DCI sitting alone.
“The forensics not through yet?” he asked.
Smollet picked up the paperwork he had been studying, handed it across the desk.
“Ben’s finished all right,” he said, “only I din’t think it was worthwhile him hanging round. Take a look for yourself, but there in’t really all that much more to it than what he told us this
morning – his so-called witch was so neat she din’t leave us any fingerprints. Could be that witches don’t have them, I s’pose.”
Sean sank down in the seat opposite, his eyes scanning the report. It appeared just as Smollet had said.
“So all that drama turns out to have been a bit of a false lead,” the DCI went on.
“You’re not going to pursue it, then?” said Sean, looking up at him.
“You think I should?” Smollet raised his dark eyebrows a fraction.
Sean shook his head, maintained the line he had used with Rivett earlier. “Well, they haven’t committed any crime, have they? Except perhaps, against taste and decency.”
“My thoughts entirely,” said Smollet.
The DCI’s eyes across the table were as unyielding as a pair of mirror shades.
“So what else did you want to ask me about?” Smollet gave an encouraging smile.
“Well,” said Sean, “there are a couple of things bothering me. If I was doing an official enquiry, I would have to say to you that Len Rivett is much too close to the original case. He’s not so much helping me as steering me into the direction he wants me to take. I also get the feeling that although he might have formally retired, he still believes that he’s in charge of this gaff.”
Smollet’s brows drew together. “No,” he said, “that in’t the case at all. As I …”
“And two,” Sean didn’t give him the chance to finish, “why you didn’t think to tell me that you were in the same class as Corrine Woodrow at school. Maybe we do things differently where I was brought up, but if I was in your shoes, that would have been the first thing I would want to get out in the open.
Seeing as,” he smiled, “you say you ain’t got anything to hide?”
* * *
Francesca put the phone down, wondering what the best course of action was. Came to a decision as she left the office and called her father as she crossed the car park towards her bright red Micra.
“Dad,” she said, “I’m going to be later than I thought. Could you do me a favour in the meantime? Ross is going to be faxing me some documents this evening, I’m not quite sure when, but if I’m not back by then, as soon as the machine comes on, could you check them for me? Yeah, they are. Very important. In fact, if you do get them before I’m back, would you ring this number,” she reeled off the memorised digits, “and speak to a man called Sean Ward? Tell him what they say. I know, but it’s for a reason. I do,” she gave a short, ironic laugh. “And when it comes to business, yes, I do trust Ross as well. He owes me, remember? And, Dad, you have to trust me on this too. Tell Sean what the documents say, word for word. Yeah. Thanks. Love you, Dad. See you soon.”
Francesca unlocked the car door, hesitating a moment before she got in.
No, she reassured herself, if Smollet had granted her an interview now, it was best to get down to it first. It was what Sean had wanted.
She slid into her seat, turned the key in the ignition and set off towards the sea front.
* * *
“What,” said Smollet, “you mean that weren’t in all them notes of yours? I would have thought your employer would have
had you fully briefed on that before she sent you down here. Would have saved you a lot of unnecessary running around.” He stretched his perfectly manicured hands out on the desk in front of him.
When Sean said nothing, he went on. “No, the reason I kept out of this so far was in case you thought there was some sort of conflict of interests. I din’t want to prejudice the independence of your enquiry, did I? But seeing as you now asked me, I’ll tell you. I was at school with Corrine Woodrow for about a year, when I was fifteen, sixteen. I spent about ten minutes of every morning in the same form room as her, she weren’t in any of my other classes and I din’t socialise with her out of school. She weren’t the sort of girl you wanted to get involved with. And that’s all there is to tell.”
“Hardly,” said Sean. “The phantom DNA from that pillbox could feasibly belong to any one of Corrine’s schoolfriends. What would you say if I asked you for a swab?”
A small smile twitched at the corners of Smollet’s mouth. “You don’t half go about things a funny way,” he said. “If that’s what you want, you only had to ask.”
Sean smiled back at Smollet. “So,” he said, “when Len Rivett told me that you were only in your short trousers when it all happened, that was just a figure of speech, yeah? Maybe a local colloquialism I’m unfamiliar with?”
“Most probably,” said Smollet and his smile grew broader, his perfect white teeth lending him a politician’s glow. “He’s always making out I’m younger than I am.” He shook his head, his demeanour giving way to one of solicitude.
“Look,” he said. “I do take on board what you said to me about him acting like he never retired. That’s all part of it, and don’t think that don’t get to me sometimes, too. He had
a hard time letting go of this job and that is fairly obvious he resent me being here instead of him. But, I honestly thought he’d be an asset to you. Nobody know the ins and outs of that case better than he do and there in’t no one else in this town, myself included, who can sniff out what and where people are hiding quite like Len can. But,” he opened his palms, “I don’t want you to go thinking that I do no special favours for no one. If you’re suspicious of him, I’ll take him out of the picture. Starting tomorrow, I’ll get a new man assigned to help you, I’ll second you one of my best detectives. And,” he looked down at his wristwatch, a chunky piece of platinum and gold, “for the next hour at least, I can answer your questions about any of my old classmates you want me to recall. I’m afraid I have got an appointment later, I’ll have to be away by half-seven, but we can continue this tomorrow, anyhow. Is that all right with you?”
Sean raised his eyebrows. “Quite,” he said, reaching for his Dictaphone.
* * *
Francesca pulled into the car park at the front of the portico entrance of the grey flint and cream stuccoed Victorian mansion. She got a sudden chill, looking up at it. How her father would hate to think of her entering this building, even if he knew what she was doing it for. Subconsciously she touched the emblem she wore around her neck, given to her by her cousin, Keri, which she had felt the urge to wear today. A blue eyeball, set in silver.
She took out her phone, dialled Sean’s number. It went straight to voicemail, so she left him a message.
“The monkey kindly agreed to finally meet me this evening – I’m just about to do the interview now. Should be through by about half-seven, eight at the latest. I know you said you had someone else to see first, so just give me a call when you’re free. You might also get a call from my dad, if he gets that information I told you about before I come home I asked him to ring you with it straight away. Hope that’s all right. See you later.”
She checked she had everything she needed in her briefcase and got out of the car. Hesitated again before the entrance of the place. The clouds had parted overhead, revealing the moon, fat and low in the sky above her.
“
Ola dika sou matia mou
,” she whispered, touching the evil eye again. A line from a song of her childhood, that reminded her of Sean’s sad brown eyes.
Then she went inside.
* * *
Noj jerked back from the crystal ball, her heart leaping into her mouth.
“No,” she said. “No, I don’t believe it.”
She willed herself to be calm, to return the vision back from where it came. The globe became cloudy, the image of a sea-front villa fading into mist.
“Thank you,” said Noj, bowing her head, putting her hands back around it and lifting it up with care, returning it to its place. Her heart hammering, she ran downstairs to the phone, punching out Sean’s number from the card she had left beside it.
It went straight to voicemail.
“Sean,” she screeched, “as soon as you get this, call me back on my mobile. You’re in more danger than I realised. I’ll try
to find you in the meantime. But whatever you do, don’t go anywhere with either of those two pigs.”
She cut that call and hit speed dial. “Joe,” she said. “Where is he and who is he with?”
Across the road from the Masonic Lodge, the Irishman replied: “In his ancestral mansion. The journalist has just arrived but there’s no sign of your Mr Ward yet.”
Noj tried to think straight. “OK,” she said. “You stay with them. I’m going to find him.”
“Right ye are,” said Joe.
* * *
“I’m meeting DCI Smollet,” Francesca gave the polished-looking little man on the reception desk her best smile. “My name’s Francesca Ryman.”
“Yes of course, madam,” he bowed his head politely. “Allow me to show you the way.”
Francesca’s heels were loud on the tiled floor as she followed him down the wood-panelled hallway, lined with portraits of Victorian men with mutton-chop whiskers. The lights were a low glow and somewhere in the distance, a piano tinkled.
“Here we are, madam,” the man opened a door and ushered her in.
Francesca’s eyes took in another wood-panelled room, with floor-length red velvet curtains pulled across the window. In front of her, a table was set for dinner for two, with a bottle of wine opened in the middle, one glass half full of red.
But both seats were empty.
Frowning, Francesca turned around. “Are you sure …” she began.
But the door was closing on the polished little man and, as
it did, she could see the figure standing behind it, a tall, broad, shape in a sheepskin coat and a black trilby with a feather in the side of it.
“You know me, don’t you, girl?” said Rivett.
“But I don’t want to go back there! You don’t know what it’s like!”
Samantha sat on her bed, her hands bunched into fists, her face red not so much from crying, Amanda thought, but from the exertion of throwing a fit that had lasted so long.
She sat down on the bed beside her. Sam immediately turned her head away.
“Sam, listen to me,” Amanda said, keeping her voice calm, while putting a firmer hand on her daughter’s chin and propelling her head back round. “You are going to have to learn some day that life isn’t fair and you can’t always get what you want. If you make a mistake, you have to live with the consequences. Learn from them.”
“What,” Sam looked pointedly down at Amanda’s stomach, “like you do?”
“Yes,” Amanda smiled as sweetly as she could, “like I do. I know there are plenty of things you think you have every right to be angry with me about. You won’t believe me now if I tell you I know how you feel, but trust me when I say that, a few months down the line, this will all seem like nothing. All you have to do is be brave. And I know you’re not a coward, are you, Sam?”
Samantha stared at her mother hard, as if trying to puzzle out a trick question.
“No,” Amanda answered for her, “you are a beautiful, intelligent, talented girl and I don’t doubt you can get the best over anyone.”
She raised her hand to stroke a strand of hair away from her daughter’s eyes. Edna’s hairdresser, Sandra, had done a pretty good job of reshaping the grown-out sides and spiky crown into a more sophisticated style.
“All you have to do is make it to the end of the school year,” Amanda said, “without any more dramas. Then you can go to art college, or sixth-form college, to wherever it is that you want to go that your brain can take you. And that could be anywhere, Sam. It really could.”
Samantha dropped her gaze, but she didn’t pull away. Her fingers pummelled into her duvet, while she bit hard at her bottom lip. Finally she looked up. “You’re right,” she said, “I’m not a coward.”
“Good.” Amanda hoped her smile didn’t betray too much relief. “That’s what I want to hear.” She gave her daughter’s shoulder a squeeze, then stood up. “Right, I’m going to make spag bol for our tea, and then we’ll go to the pictures. Your choice, Sam, whatever you want to see.”
Both of these things were far more of a treat than was usually allowed on a Sunday night.
When Sam smiled back, for one brief second, Amanda was reminded of what she had looked like as a child – sweet, demure, innocent.
She didn’t see the expression change as she shut the door behind her.
* * *
“You coming to the party at the weekend?”
In the corridor by the fourth-and fifth-form cloakrooms, Marc Farman was putting his books back in his locker when he spotted Darren Moorcock and Julian Dean.
“What party’s that, then?” said Darren, stopping to watch Marc do up his padlock. There was a sticker of a skull-and-crossbones placed above it.