Midmorning on Saturday saw Mac on his way to view the flat Rina had found for him. It was only a fifteen-minute walk from where he was currently renting, but it was a walk that left behind Victorian promenade and holiday shops and took him back in time a couple of hundred years. The old town clambered up the cliff either side of a tumbling river. The lifeboat station, a new build, jutted out on a concrete raft just beyond the river and plunged its ramp down into an especially deepened bay in what had once been a little harbour but had long since been silted up by the outflow of the river. Beyond that was a new marina and tiny, somewhat pretentious ‘yacht club’ which Mac had seen but not yet visited.
On the Frantham New Town side of the river, narrow streets wound back up the steep hill. Mac was getting to know the old town because in his off-duty hours he had enjoyed exploring the narrow streets and tiny, quirky shops but he’d rarely been called there on official business. Eden had told him that it had somehow escaped the worst of the second-homes boom, largely because access by car was just so difficult. A footpath – the one Mac had taken that morning – led from one end of the promenade around the headland. Otherwise there was one narrow road in and out, almost impassable for anything bigger than a moderate family car. The locals had tended to cling tenaciously to what they’d got once they had it, which was why houses passing on through three or four generations seemed to be the norm. Mac figured that the narrow lane’s days were probably numbered even so.
The boathouse fronted on to what had been a jetty where the fishing boats landed before fishing had largely died out in Frantham and the new pleasure boat marina been constructed.
As usual, Mac was early.
He had meandered slowly down the winding alleyway between two terraced rows that called itself Milly’s Lane. There was a bookshop halfway down that on previous visits had produced some interesting finds. He was thinking about the dinner at Rina’s the evening before.
After Duggan had left Mac had stayed on to help with the clean-up and then to chat to Tim and Rina. Was Edward Parker involved in the abductions? Tim had wondered. The fact that he had kidnapped his own son counted. Didn’t it?
Mac was not so sure.
‘The only real lead we have on Parker’s employer,’ he had confided, ‘was the flat Edward Parker had bought which, by all rights, should have been well out of his price range.’
Parker had paid cash. Bank transfer. Unusual but by no means unknown. So, where had he got the money from? The paper trail had led to an offshore conglomerate that traded in everything from coffee beans to hemp fibre and the experts were still probing but, so far as Mac knew, nothing out and out illegal had been found. But why had they bought Edward Parker a flat?
‘Penny for them.’ Mac almost jumped. He turned, recognizing the voice.
‘Hello. What brings you here?’
Miriam Hastings smiled and her blue eyes sparkled. ‘I could ask you the same, Mr Inspector Mac. Do you live in the old town?’
Mac fell into step beside her, fighting the odd frisson of excitement he felt when her hand brushed his. ‘Actually, I might be,’ he said. ‘I’m going to view a flat. In fact …’ He took a deep breath. ‘Um, would you like to come along, give me an opinion? I’ve not had much practice at this sort of thing.’
She laughed, glanced at her watch. ‘Why not. I’m only mooching. There are some lovely little shops down by the harbour and I’ve got to get something nice for my sister. She’s got a birthday coming up. Maybe I could give an opinion on your flat and you could help me shop.’
Mac’s heart rate accelerated. He told himself not to be so silly. This was a chance meeting, not a date. ‘It’s a deal,’ he said. ‘What sort of thing does she like?’
An hour later Mac had a new home. Rina had been right, the little conversion over the boathouse was perfect for him. An odd, little porthole gave a view on to the ocean. A newly installed row of windows looked down on the river mouth and the tiny seafront café.
The flat was tiny, open-plan but for a cubbyhole of a bedroom and a small shower room but Mac loved the exposed beams, the wood burning stove, the scrubbed timber of the new floor. It smelt new and clean, of fresh paint and sea water and just the faintest overtone of boat – tar and seaweed – remaining from the previous use.
‘It’s very you,’ Miriam told him.
‘How would you know?’
‘Oh, I’m a very good judge. Pay the man his deposit and let’s get you moved in.’
After that it had seemed only natural that they go for lunch in a little pub she knew just away up the hill. Mac had not felt so light in many, many months.
George and Ursula had escaped from Hill House at mid-morning, taking a picnic that Cheryl had concocted for them and George’s newly acquired binoculars.
George had tried to ignore the soppy look on Cheryl’s face as she watched them set off together, clearly now seeing them as an item.
He found it hard to believe that he’d been at Hill House for almost a week. Found it equally hard to believe that he had only been there for a week. Already it was becoming hard to focus on his previous life; there were moments when it felt as though it had all happened to some other George. Some faraway George. He felt so oddly dissociated from it all.
They had taken the cliff path from the house, turning away from Frantham and walking in silence for the most part. Ursula was good at silence; it was a quality George admired. So few kids his age knew when to shut up and he really was not in the mood for chat. From time to time they paused so that George or Ursula could scan the horizon with the binoculars or study the birds. George found it awkward at first until Ursula told him the trick was to look at the thing you were trying to see and then bring the field glasses up to your eyes.
The binoculars were heavy, gunmetal barrels designed for long wear, not for lightness, but George found something oddly comforting in the cool, smooth feel of the steel beneath his fingers and the almost sharp knurling on the focus wheel. He liked the sense of history and the fact that they had belonged to someone Rina loved. It was nice, he thought, that she had kept them all this time. George had so little in terms of possessions. His memories were tied up in a handful of photographs and his mother’s rings and watch.
‘What’s he doing?’ Ursula asked. George looked to where she was pointing. Further along the cliff path stood a man in a red jacket. He seemed very close to the edge and was looking down at the crashing ocean with an intensity that filled George with dread. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and focused on the man’s face. He looked, George thought, in his late twenties. He had dark hair, a bit too long, it blew across his face and, now he could see him properly, his expression seemed to confirm to George that he was …
‘Stop! Hey stop. Don’t.’
George began to run, binoculars on their neck strap bouncing against his chest. Ursula thundering behind him.
‘Stop. Please. Don’t!’ George couldn’t bear the thought of it. The intent and concentration on this man’s face reminded him of the desperation on his mother’s before she’d committed suicide.
‘No!’
The man looked up and watched them as they ran towards him. As they drew closer, George could see that he looked puzzled rather than suicidal. That he was, in fact, standing firm footed on an outcrop George had been unable to see from his position further down the path. Sure, he was close to the edge. Too close for comfort, George would have thought, but he didn’t look like a man ready to jump, merely like a curious observer of something below that George still could not see.
‘I don’t think …’ Ursula began. ‘George, maybe we should go.’
He wanted to agree. He wanted to disappear, to not be there but those options weren’t available on the top of a very exposed cliff path.
He could feel his face glowing red and the words sticking in his throat. ‘Um, hello, I mean …’ The words dried and the man continued to look at him as though he didn’t quite understand.
‘Maybe he doesn’t speak English,’ Ursula whispered and George seized on that hope but it was short-lived.
‘I’m Simeon,’ the young man said. ‘Is something wrong with you? Do you need helping?’
George was glad that Ursula stood beside him. They exchanged a look. The man’s tone and inflection was wrong. Odd.
He pointed at the binoculars hanging round George’s neck. ‘Are you bird watching? I like to watch the gulls and the cormorants. They’re my favourites. They look like dinosaurs. I live in that house over there. My brother’s home, do you want to see?’
‘Er, thanks, but no. Better not,’ George said. It was clear that this man wasn’t ‘all there’ as his mother would have said. ‘I think we’d better go, actually.’
The man called Simeon shrugged and turned back to his observation of whatever it was that commanded his attention. In spite of everything, and reassured by the fact that this man was utterly oblivious to his discomfort, George was curious.
‘What are you looking at?’ he asked. ‘Are you watching the birds?’
Simeon shook his head. ‘I watch things,’ he said. ‘I watch all kinds of things, but not the birds today. Today I’m watching a boat in a silly place. A place it shouldn’t be.’
George and Ursula exchanged a look, then both stepped forward on to the outcrop. ‘Where?’ Ursula asked. ‘Ooh, it’s a long way down.’ She gripped George’s arm painfully and leaned forward dangerously far.
‘A long way down,’ Simeon repeated.
Cautiously, George joined their observation. ‘I don’t see anything,’ he said, oddly disappointed.
Simeon shook his head. ‘It isn’t there today. I’m looking for it but it doesn’t always come. I look for things and then I write them down and then Rina Martin reads my lists and writes things back to me.’
‘You know Rina?’
‘Of course. If I didn’t know her I wouldn’t send her my lists, would I?’ Simeon laughed and George had to accept the logic of that.
‘She asked me to look for a boat that was in a silly place so I’ve been looking for it. I’ve seen it two times now, but not today. Maybe it will be there tonight.’
‘What kind of boat?’ Ursula asked.
‘A little boat, of course. A little boat that comes out of a big boat. The big boat has to stay out there. A big boat would crash on to the rocks and break. A little boat with lights and an engine that buzzes.’ Simeon buzzed to demonstrate.
‘An outboard,’ George said, reminded instantly of the sound he had heard the day his father died. A small boat with an outboard motor and then the vibration of a much larger engine, though he had been too far back from the cliff edge by that time to see anything.
‘What was the big boat like?’ George was excited now and Ursula stared at him, confused by his sudden change of tone.
Simeon shook his head, shrugged. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘It was just big. Can I try your binoculars?’
Mac had rarely felt as comfortable with anyone. Miriam was funny and gentle and bright and over lunch they talked about everything but work.
‘How did you find the boathouse?’ Miriam asked as they dawdled over coffee. ‘Property on long-term let is like gold dust round here.’
‘A friend of a friend,’ Mac said. ‘The owner knows a friend of mine, Rina Martin and she thought—’
Miriam laughed. ‘Ah, the redoubtable Miss Martin. Wasn’t she in television, or something?’
Mac nodded. ‘Mrs Martin,’ he said. ‘She was widowed. And yes, television. She played Lydia Marchant in Lydia Marchant Investigates. My mother was a fan. She’s been a very good friend since I moved here.’
‘Oh yes, that rings bells. Wasn’t she mixed up someway in … when the old lady was murdered and that kid? I remember reading something in the local paper about her disarming the boy’s father. Some joke about Lydia Marchant still investigating.’
Mac laughed. ‘That sounds about right. She runs what pretends to be a boarding house but it’s really a retreat for ex-performers. They’re all quite mad in the most wonderful way and Rina is one of the most astute people I have ever met. Sharp as a box-load of knives. But she didn’t actually disarm Edward Parker. That, apparently, was Tim, aka The Great Stupendo or, no, I’m forgetting, he’s given up the clown act and he’s sticking to Marvello the Mentalist.’
Miriam was laughing, shaking her head. ‘None of that make any sense at all,’ she protested.
‘Seeing Tim in an orange wig makes even less. He’s finally come to his senses and they had a symbolic cremation. I mean, Tim’s tall and dark and thin-faced and kind of gothic. Would make a magnificent vampire, but a children’s clown? I really don’t think so.’
The waitress brought their bill and Mac picked it up.
‘No,’ Miriam said. ‘We go Dutch, OK? This time, anyway.’
‘This time?’
She nodded. ‘When I let you take me out on a proper date, then I’ll let you pay.’
‘Very generous of you,’ Mac said trying not to show just how hard his heart pounded at the thought. ‘And is that … is that likely?’
She picked up the bill, glanced at it and then reached for her purse. ‘Oh, I think it might be,’ she said. ‘Remember, you’ve got trial by shopping to go through first, that is if you’re still up for it?’
Mac had forgotten about the sister’s birthday present but he nodded eagerly. ‘I’ll do my best to pass,’ he said.
When the phone rang at three o’clock that afternoon Rina had a strange premonition. She hesitated before picking up. If her sense of who it was happened to be correct, did she really want to take this call? Did she really want to deal with the implications?
Chastising herself for momentary cowardice, she lifted the receiver.
‘Peverill Lodge. Rina Martin speaking.’
‘Hello Rina, I’m glad it was you that picked up.’
On the phone she sounded even younger than she was, Rina thought. She glanced towards the living room door, but no curious heads peeped round to see who the caller was. The piano tinkled and crashed, notes driven to their limits by the enthusiastic playing of Stephen, the self-professed musical partner in the Montmorency act. The Peters sisters sang, their voices striving hard to rise above the enthusiastic but unskilful performance.
Rina winced. ‘Hello, my dear,’ she said glad that the phone was cordless. She retreated to her private room and closed the door.
Silence enfolded her. She fancied it was so quiet she could hear her own heart beating an irregular rhythm.
‘I won’t ask you where you are or any of that nonsense, but tell me, are you well? George will want to know.’
Karen laughed softly. ‘Oh, Rina,’ she said. ‘If we’d had someone like you in our lives earlier things might have turned out so differently.’
Rina doubted that. Karen, she felt, was more a result of nature than of nurture and little of that nature came from the mother’s side. Unless, of course, there had once, in Carol Parker’s life, been some instinct to nurture and protect. Karen possessed that in spades, though circumstance had warped her expression of it.
‘I’m fine, Rina,’ she said. ‘I’m doing all right. How’s George? Where have they put him? I don’t suppose the authorities would just let things lie so he could stay with Paul’s family, could they?’
She sounded hopeful. Rina sat down. ‘He’s at Hill House,’ she said. ‘Been there a week, and he’s back at school. He’d found a friend at the home and seems to be settling in as well as you’d expect. He knew you’d be in touch. He asked about you.’
‘Course he’d know,’ Karen said. ‘Look, Rina, I’ve sent you a postcard. Pass it on to him, will you. And don’t feel embarrassed if you have to tell that policeman about this call. I know you might, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be long gone and far away. You take care now and give my love to my little brother. Tell him to work hard and that I miss him.’
The phone went dead. Rina sat, clutching it against her chest aware that tears pricked at her eyelids.
Karen was too young to have done the things she had and too young to be on the run. She reminded herself that Karen and her mother and brother had spent years on the run and it was hardly a new experience for the nineteen year-old. She was an old hand at it.
She’d have to tell Mac, of course, but she’d make sure George got the card. After all, what forensics could they usefully get from a postcard? It would have passed through scores of hands before it reached her. When the phone rang again she was caught off guard. Was it Karen ringing back?
‘Peverill Lodge. Rina Martin speaking.’
It wasn’t Karen. Rina recognized the voice. ‘Fitch? And how are you on this fine afternoon?’
She heard the man pause as though uncertain of his response; questioning whether or not she was taking the mickey. ‘I’m fine, and the boss says to say thanks for the meal. He likes his home cooking. He’s got a woman comes in and does it for him. I like it too.’
Rina thought it might be inappropriate to laugh. Somehow she restrained herself. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll pass your thanks along.’
‘And there’s another thing,’ Fitch said.
‘I thought there might be.’
‘The boss thinks you and that copper, you’re all right. On the level. So he’s told me to give you some details. A family got their kid back. The dad, he’s willing to talk to you. You got a pen handy?’
Rina scribbled the details. The address was, she reckoned, about twenty miles away. ‘After what happened to Patrick,’ she asked, ‘isn’t this man afraid the gang might hear about us poking around?’
Fitch made a sound in his throat that might have been a laugh; might just have been contempt. ‘He’s a tough cookie,’ he said. ‘And he’s sent his family away. Very far away and he’s working with the boss to try and bring some of the other families on board.’
‘And what makes your boss think I can do any good here?’ Rina asked, suddenly fazed by this new responsibility.
‘He don’t know, does he, but he’s willing to try anything. His boy’s dead, Mrs Martin. Wouldn’t you try everything, even the long shots?’
‘Yes, Mr Fitch,’ Rina said softly, ‘I rather think I would.’
Mac had arranged for the police artist to go to Hill House as, that way, he didn’t need to organize chaperones. Cheryl was quite excited about it all and the other kids buzzed about trying to get a look at what was going on.
Mac sat in the kitchen with George, looking through pictures on the laptop he had brought with him while Ursula worked with the artist. After ninety minutes or so, they changed roles, George having, once more, drawn a blank on the photos.
Ursula was very quiet as she studied the images Mac showed her, volunteering little in the way of conversation and only really responding to the questions he put to her, though her responses were perceptive and detailed.
‘And you still think he was older. Late forties, maybe?’
She shrugged. ‘Older than you. His face looked kind of lived in. The blond one was younger and he looked like life hadn’t touched him. Like he didn’t really care. Like it was all just a bit of a laugh.’
‘Taller than me?’
‘The blond one, about your height. The other one was … the middle of his head was level with the blond one’s shoulder.’
Five foot seven, five foot eight inches, Mac estimated.
But again, she drew a blank on the pictures he showed her, picking out people who were similar, but not quite right. She was articulate and concise in being able to tell him what was different, what the same, but the men they were looking for were not on Mac’s laptop.
The artist came in with George; she looked pleased. She laid four drawings down on the kitchen table and they studied them.
Mac was impressed. There were the differences you would expect from eyewitness reconstructions, but both the pictures of the blond man and his shorter, bald companion were remarkably alike. Mac had seen the artist at work many times, he knew she would have been very careful not to lead either of the kids, so he felt confident that these pictures were valid.
‘We’ve got CCTV footage to go through,’ he said. ‘I think these should give a much clearer idea of who we’re looking for. You’ve done well, both of you.’
‘Ursula’s been showing me some of her drawings,’ the artist said. ‘She’s very talented.’
George stared at her. ‘You draw? You never told me that.’
She shrugged. ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I never really have the time.’