Jason finished his coffee, then went for an hour-long bike ride, in bright, frosty sunshine. When he returned, he chopped up some fruit and mixed it into a bowl of cereal, fetched the papers from the hall mat, and thumbed through the Argus and the Guardian while he ate his breakfast.
Afterwards he had a thirty-minute shower. It was the longest he’d had for many days, and it surprised him, with all the stress of recent events, that he hadn’t had a relapse. He soaped and rinsed himself repeatedly, before getting dressed in jeans and a sweater and going up to his studio, looking all around for any sign of the woman before closing the door behind him.
He was finding it hard to dismiss all that had happened last night as a dream. And yet, what other possible explanation was there?
He sat at his desk and logged on, in turn, to his email and social media. All seemed normal. He replied to a few posts and then logged off again, aware that he had to knuckle down.
He placed a fresh gesso board on the easel, put on his apron and gloves and began to mix his paints. But he was too distracted, his mind somewhere else.
I did not imagine last night. I did not dream it.
He looked out of the window at the building site and scene of the accident, and realized the police hadn’t called him back yet. Wondering whether to call the PC directly rather than go through the tedium of the long wait on the 101 number, he peered closely at the box on the desk, which was where he put the business cards of everyone he had ever met, and started working through it. Looking for a name. PC Neil Lang. The officer had written his direct phone number on the card he’d left.
He couldn’t find it.
Had he left it in the kitchen somewhere?
He hurried downstairs. The integral door to the garage – commandeered by Emily and Louise as their catering kitchen – was open. He checked the refectory table and a couple of kitchen drawers, but the card wasn’t there. He hurried across and leaned through the open door to the garage.
Emily, dressed in an apron and protective gloves, her hair up inside a sterile hair-net, stood at a long trestle table covered in a white cloth, laying out rows and rows of glass bowls.
‘Em,’ he said, ‘where did you put the business card from that police officer, Neil Lang?’
‘Police officer?’
‘One of the two who came here last week – Wednesday night.’
She replied without looking up, ‘I don’t remember any police officers coming here last Wednesday night. What police officers?’
He stepped back, feeling giddy, suddenly. Had he imagined them, too?
Humorously, she added, ‘Were they the ones that came with the vicar I couldn’t see?’
He looked at her, feeling very strange, as if he was in some kind of altered reality. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘I think I would have remembered police officers coming here.’ She continued with her work.
‘We had a conversation about them.’
‘We did?’ She gave him a strange, blank look and shook her head.
He hurried back up to his study, sat at his desk, and dialled the non-emergency number for Sussex Police, 101.
To his amazement, it was answered after a couple of rings. ‘Sussex Police, how can I help you?’
‘I’d like to speak to PC Neil Lang, please.’
‘One moment, please.’
Out of the window to his right he saw the Penze-Weedells coming out their front door. Claudette held up something in her hand, and stabbed it with a gloved finger. The key fob. Seconds later, as he still waited on the line, he saw the garage door open and their little, box-shaped, purple electric car reverse out and stop, obediently, in front of them. They got in, Claudette in the driver’s seat, and a few seconds later they shot off and out of sight.
‘Hello, caller, we don’t have any record of a PC Neil Lang, I’m afraid.’
‘You don’t?’ He spelled out the name.
The operator sounded friendly. ‘Not in Sussex Police. I’ve checked the records.’
‘But he came to our house – last Wednesday, December nineteenth. He was with a colleague, PC Christina Davies.’
‘I’ll check her for you, if you can hold? May I take your name, please?
‘Sure, it’s Jason Danes.’
‘Danes.’
He spelled it out for her, phonetically. ‘Juliet Alpha Sierra Oscar November, then Delta Alpha November Echo Sierra.’
‘Mr Jason Danes?’ she replied, with no hint of recognition of his name.
‘Yes.’
‘One moment, please.’
A car coming along Lakeview Drive, going slowly as if looking for an address, caught his attention. He blinked. It was the huge red and white 1960s Cadillac he had seen before. The driver, sitting on the left, had a large cigar in his mouth; a woman sat beside him, and there were two excited-looking children in the back.
Just as he had seen before.
As they disappeared from view the operator came back. ‘I’m really sorry, we don’t have any record of a PC Christina Davies. Are you sure they are with Sussex Police, sir?’
‘I thought they were.’
Suspicious, she asked, ‘Do you want to report this as possible fraud, sir? There have been instances of fraudsters, locally, posing as bogus police officers.’
‘No – er – no, I don’t think they were after any money. Look – could you help me with something else, please? We live in the Cold Hill Park estate. Last Monday, December seventeenth, I witnessed a fatal accident on the construction site. I phoned this number and spoke to the gentleman who answered, saying I had seen the whole thing happen.’
‘What exactly was that, sir?’
‘It was the construction worker who was killed by a bulldozer. I said I’d seen the whole accident happen, but I’m a little surprised no one’s been in touch to take a statement from me.’
‘Well, yes, that does sound a bit odd, sir. A construction site worker killed. You don’t remember the name of the call handler by any chance?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. But I gave him my name and phone number.’
‘Your number is showing here, sir. Let me check this out – are you all right to keep holding.’
‘Fine.’
This time it was several minutes before she came back to him, sounding apologetic but a tad less patient than before. ‘Mr Danes, you say you reported a fatal construction site accident you witnessed, on Monday, December seventeenth?’
‘Correct, yes.’
‘Look, I’m very sorry, sir, but I’ve checked very carefully; there is no record of any accident at Cold Hill Park on that date.’
Jason could not believe what he was hearing. ‘I saw it! I saw the whole thing happen from my studio window. The poor guy was beheaded by the bulldozer jaws. There were police officers at the scene for several days after, for God’s sake!’
The tone of her voice changed, as if she was now talking to an infant. ‘Mr Danes, I am very sorry to tell you this, but there was no reported death at Cold Hill Park. I’ve had a colleague check the local newspapers and there is no mention of it, either. You’ve just asked me to put you through to two police officers who do not exist, and you are now claiming to have witnessed an accident that did not happen. I’m very sorry, Mr Danes, but I really cannot help you any further, unless you would like to report possible fraud?’
‘No, well – thank you,’ he said, lamely.
As he ended the call, his mind in turmoil, he heard Emily screaming.
‘Jason! JASON! Help me! OH MY GOD, HELP ME!’