`I was hoping that you might tell me, Miss Price.'
`Didn't Ellen know?'
`She didn't say.'
`EX2218,' Cathy repeated slowly. `No... Oh I know! How about an elixir number from her list of home-brewed medicines?' She laughed and added: `An E-number that got on the wrong side of a customer?'
Malone was impressed: it was a good suggestion and could explain Ellen Duncan's refusal to discuss the matter.
`Not that it's likely,' Cathy continued. `She's a good herbalist -- certainly helped me out recently with an embarrassing little problem.'
Malone rarely allowed himself to be led in conversation and ignored the bait. He rose, crossed to the window, and looked down at Pentworth. `A stunning view,' he remarked.
`It's even better from my bedroom upstairs, Mike. You'd be amazed at what you can see. With or without my telescope.'
Her feeble attempts at game-play using facile sexual innuendos were beginning to annoy Malone. He decided that he'd teach her a little lesson in real gamesmanship before the interview was over. It was unlikely that she had a tape recorder rolling and he didn't much care if she had. He regarded her impassively. `Did you see anything else of interest last night, Miss Price?'
`No.'
`You saw me, surely?'
`When you were jogging? I certainly did. I've seen you several times. Your tracksuit looks uncomfortably tight. And please don't call me Shirley.'
It was funny in Airplane, sister.
`Did you follow me? With your telescope, that is?'
`Yes.'
`And you saw nothing unusual?'
`Other than an interesting jiggle?'
Malone's face was stone.
Cathy gestured impatiently. `Damn -- I'm sorry, Mike -- I get these silly, playful moods. Consider my wrists slapped...' She hesitated. `Yes -- I did see something strange... But you'd only laugh.'
`I rarely laugh, Miss Price.'
Cathy could believe him. `It was like a kid's toy. A sort of crab-like device -- I called it a spyder. Spelt S-P-Y. It seemed to fit. It was very hard to see -- and it was following you. I thought I was imagining it at first -- I'd had a long day -- and then you seemed to see it, too.'
Cross out Ellen Duncan's tea.
`Yes,' said Malone slowly. `I did see it briefly.'
`Was it a toy?'
`It must've been. Did you see where it came from?'
`No.'
`Or where it went to?'
`No.' She added, `Perhaps there really was a UFO on Tuesday night. Maybe it was something they left behind.'
There was a silence as Malone stared into the middle distance, his hostess apparently forgotten. She regarded him, puzzled by his unexpected absent-mindedness. He suddenly shook his head as if clearing unwelcome thoughts.
`I'm sorry, Miss Price--' `Oh please call me Cathy.'
`I was miles away.'
Come on, sister. Now you ask me what I was thinking.
`What were you thinking?'
Bingo!
Malone moved from the window and stood looking down at her. A dismissive wave of his hand, and his embarrassed, self-effacing smile was just right. `Oh -- I couldn't tell you that.'
`Yes you can.'
`You'll be angry.'
`Who says?'
`Promise you won't be angry?'
`Cross my heart etcetera.'
Too easy!
`Well,' said Malone with disarming affability. `Having been treated to frequent glimpses of your pubes during the last ten minutes, I couldn't help wondering what it would be like to run my tongue up and down your clitoris.'
The grey eyes widened in shocked disbelief, but for only an instant. The silence in the room was total.
Then Cathy threw back her head and laughed. `My God -- I walked right into that. Touche, Mike -- I really asked for it. I do apologise, and I think our policeman are marvellous.'
Malone felt he could forgive her much for such a generous reaction to his trap unless it was an attempt to gain control.
Cathy smiled mischievously up at him and allowed her knees to part slightly. `As a public-spirited citizen, I always believe in helping the police with their inquiries.'
`I think,' said Malone carefully, `that I have as much information as I need, and more than I want.'
It was a blunt rejection that kept control with him. As expected, her expression became icy. She snapped her legs together. `A pleasure meeting you, Mr Malone. You will forgive me if I don't see you to the door.'
Five minutes later, as Malone was driving to his appointment with Ellen at Pentworth Lake, he reflected that perhaps he had been hard on Cathy Price. But he had no regrets; she had tried to manipulate him and that he could never accept no matter how enticing the reward.
Chapter 18.
VIKKI FELT HER HAND'S wrist socket losing its suction. She dropped the large Jiffy bag she had been holding open, and managed to push the hand more firmly into place before it fell off. It was a normal daily occurrence, usually cured by a few quick presses of the hidden vacuum pump beneath the hand's artificial skin. But this time she heard the faint hiss of air leaking past the wrist seal when she worked the pump. It wasn't necessary to press the escape valve to release the vacuum; the hand slipped off onto the packing table of its own accord. She examined its wrist socket. The soft, moulded inner contours with their film of lanolin were in perfect condition, but there was something wrong with her wrist -- she hated calling it a stump -- such a brutal word. A lump was protruding from the tough layers of skin that had been built up over the severed carpal bones in a series of operations.
Vikki examined the growth with mounting dismay. It was quite firm, only about eight millimetres long and the same width but it was enough to interfere with the suction bond, and she was certain it hadn't been there when she had washed. She dreaded problems with her wrist. Last month a rash of blisters had meant the temporary use of her old, claw-like jointless prosthetic hand with an uncomfortable arm harness to hold it in place that meant having to wear long-sleeved blouses.
The Taylors' family physician, Dr Millicent Vaughan, had told Vikki to call her at any time on her home number if she had problems with her wrist. Normally Vikki hated making a fuss but the growth was so worrying that she picked up the telephone, called Millicent Vaughan and luckily caught her just before she was leaving to go shopping. It was a bad line. Vicki had to repeat her profuse apologies about bothering the doctor on a Saturday.
`Where are you now, Vikki?'
`I'm looking after Ellen Duncan's Earthforce shop. I really am sorry to--'
`That's on my shopping list,' said Millicent briskly. `I'm low on oil of rosemary. Stop fretting. I'll be with you in fifteen minutes. What the devil's the matter with the phones? This is the third bad line this morning.'
Vikki returned to her work and was completing an order when the old-fashioned shop bell jangled.
Millicent Vaughan was a stern-looking, greying, gaunt woman whose kindly nature towards her genuine patients was belied by her forbidding appearance. She knew that Vikki would not have called her, particularly on a Saturday, unless she was desperately concerned.
In the shop's backroom she examined the strange growth and was at a loss. It certainly wasn't a blister as Vikki thought. The skin covering the lump looked new and healthy. She pressed it gently and took her finger away. The pressure-whitened area turned pink immediately. Whatever it was, it had a good blood supply.
`I can feel you touching it!' Vikki suddenly exclaimed.
Millicent was incredulous. The whole area of skin over the stump was nerveless. Skin could renew itself but not nerves. `Look away, Vikki, and tell me when you can feel my touch.'
Vikki turned her head and was unable to feel any contact around the stump until the doctor touched the growth. It was a very light touch. `It tickles, doctor.'
The doctor was puzzled and repeated the experiment to be certain. She pressed her fingertip more firmly against the curious lump and fancied sh
e could feel five tiny nodes at the tip that were slightly harder than the new skin.
`What do you think, doctor?'
The doctor meet the troubled green eyes. She was always frank with her patients. `To be honest, Vikki, I'm not sure what to think. But it certainly doesn't look malignant -- the skin's much too healthy. It could be your hormone factory stirring up some bone growth. Does it stop you wearing your hand?'
`No -- there's a lot of give in the lining, but I have to pump a bit harder for it to stay on.' Vikki hesitated. `I think it's grown a bit in the last half hour.'
`I think that's you becoming a little bit obsessive, young lady.'
`I suppose so.'
Millicent considered for a moment. `Can you come and see me at Monday evening's surgery?'
`Yes -- of course.'
`Good. I will have had a chance to consult with Doctor Reynolds by then.' She gathered up her shopping bags and gave Vikki a reassuring smile before turning to leave. `And don't you go worrying, Vikki -- it looks like a little unwanted bone growth. Perfectly harmless. I'll see you on Monday evening. God bless.'
Millicent was lost in thought as she made her way to the shops. Regeneration of nerves? That was impossible -- there must have been intact nerves in that patch of skin in the first place. But the growth? And the five hard nodes beneath the skin? Now where the devil had she seen that before?
She spotted a patient who was certain to waylay her with an account of a trifling ailment and dodged into an antique shop.
`Ah, Dr Vaughan,' said the manager, beaming. `What a stroke of luck. I've been meaning to see you about these blinding headaches I've been getting.’
Chapter 19.
`IT CAN'T BE FENCED,' said Ellen emphatically. She swept her hand around the expanse of flooded wetlands of Pentworth Lake. `Wooden posts would rot away in no time -- the water's acid -- and concrete posts would sink.'
`And it's designated as an area of outstanding natural beauty,' Asquith Prescott boomed in a voice that was the result of generations of breeding to ensure it could be heard across restaurants.
`An area of outstanding natural danger,' Harvey Evans observed sourly. The police inspector was a stocky, powerfully-built man, five years from retirement, whose rising rank and weight made him look shorter than the regulation height for police officers. He and Prescott were dressed in casual wear for their customary Saturday morning round of golf. `Thank God those radio transmissions have stopped. But if they start again, we'll the Silent Vulcan UFO hunters back and then we'll have to do something about this lake.'
The three watched the two police constables haul on the ropes to guide the Zodiac dingy into a new position. The first diver was seated in the boat, now fully kitted out in wet suit and aqualung, watching his colleague's bubble tracks, ready to go to his aid. Normally they would be in the water together but they had decided not to stir up the silt anymore than it was already.
`You'll be resuming work on your dig soon, Ellen?' said Prescott conversationally.
`Another month, Mr Prescott,' Ellen replied. The emphasis on the `Mister' was to discourage the landowner's familiarity. A wasted effort, of course. Underneath his colourful silk waistcoats, flat caps and tweed suits, the flamboyant, ambitious Asquith Prescott, chairman of Pentworth Town Council, and the biggest landowner and baby kisser in the district, wore an ego-filled, thought-tight armour suit of vanity and political cunning that allowed no room for points of view other than his own.
The year before, at one of the fund-raising balls organized by his wife, Prescott had stalked Ellen with the deadly stealth of a marshmallow steamroller and had cornered her in his library. As a mark of his regard for her, he had breathed whisky fumes in her face, plunged an uninvited hand down the front of her evening dress, and shoved the other between her thighs. Ellen's protests and struggles had had little effect until she had delivered a knee to the groin. It wasn't an accurate gooley-crusher, nor was its message clear. Prescott had staggered backwards with: `Ah -- time of the month, eh, Ellen? Should've said. Not fair getting you excited like that. Quite understand. Quite understand.' And he had shambled off to find a less biologically-challenged victim.
Since then Ellen had given the Prescott balls a wide berth. She never liked having to wear evening dresses anyway. Also her integrity ensured that the few quiet words she had had the previous month about his behaviour to the chairman of the association's selection committee were believed because Ellen wasn't the only complainant. The result was that Asquith Prescott's name on the constituency's short list of parliamentary candidates got short shift and fell off.
`DS Malone should be here by now,' Evans grumbled. `He'd have some ideas on protecting this place. Something's got to be done, Miss Duncan.' `It's only dangerous after exceptionally heavy rain, Mr Evans. And Mr Malone had a late night. He very kindly sorted out some trouble I had with vandals early this morning after he'd gone off duty.'
`Damnit,' Prescott muttered, looking at his mobile phone. `Service keeps dropping out. I need to speak to my manager.'
`Try mine.' Ellen delved into the depths of her donkey jacket and offered her handset to Prescott. The service faded as soon as he got through. `Odd both services being on the blink,' Ellen commented.
Mike Malone's blue Escort arrived. He paused as he was walking past the divers' pickup truck and seemed to be sniffing before joining the group. Evans brushed aside his apologies for being late and introduced him to Prescott.
`I thought Miss Duncan owned this lake?' said Malone, eyeing Prescott dispassionately.
`As chairman of the town council, I'm naturally concerned that two men should disappear on my patch,' said Prescott pompously.
`You mean you wouldn't be concerned if you weren't the chairman, sir?'
`And I'm a member of the district council, of course. Have been for ten years.'
`And a trustee on the board of several local charities, I believe,' Malone added respectfully.
`Not forgetting my chairmanship of the Board of Governors of Pentworth Primary School,' Prescott rejoined, pleased that this nonentity was showing due respect. `So I have an interest in the safety of our children.'
`We are most fortunate indeed to have you here, sir.'
Ellen struggled to maintain a straight face.
`Mr Prescott and I always play golf on Saturday mornings,' said Evans huffily. Two minutes on the scene and already Malone was trying to tread on egos although Prescott was too full of himself to realize when the piss was being taken. Then it was Evans' turn:
`Golf?' Malone queried. `I thought that your morris men and your model airplane took up all your spare time, Mr Evans?' Malone's face was expressionless yet Ellen was sure that he gave her a surreptitious, conspiratorial wink.
`There's no sign of the missing men, sergeant,' said Evans pointedly.
Malone glanced at the divers and constables. `That I'd guessed, Mr Evans.'
`They will return--' Ellen began but was interrupted by a shout from the diver. She had intended to say that the missing men would return to the surface.
They all moved onto squelchy ground and watched the constables hauling in the dinghy. The first diver was hanging onto his colleague who had hooked an arm over the side of the Zodiac. Once in shallow water he managed to stand with difficulty. His wetsuit was streaked with silt and sand, and compressed-air was hissing explosively from the demand valve's exhaust in his full face mask. He grabbed the long pole that a policeman in waders held out for him and staggered out of the water, the quicksand almost pulling his flippers off as he lifted them out of the water. The weight belt fell with a dull thud on the ground and one of the policemen took the weight of his aqualung as the diver twisted the harness's quick release buckle. `That has got to be the most disgusting muck I've ever dived in,' he declared, sitting down and shutting off the cylinder valves on the aqualung's silt-smothered mixer manifold. The hissing stopped. He inspected the face mask and shook out a thick syrup of sand and water. `Look at that -- muck stopping
the reg's diaphragm from working.' He looked up at the gathering. `Sorry, Mr Evans, but I can't possibly allow any diving in that stuff. What the hell is this bloody lake anyway? It's got no discernable bottom. A bloody great area of quicksand. It just gets thicker and thicker.' He looked at the depth gauge on his wrist. `Ten metres I managed.'
`I'm surprised you managed to go that deep,' said Ellen.
The diver started sponging the worst of the silt off his wetsuit. `Just how deep is it anyway?'
`No one knows,' said Ellen. `The Pentworth Society did a survey about five years ago using drain cleaning rods as a probe. They got as far as a hundred metres, ran out of rods and had to give up.'
`Over three hundred feet,' Evans commented.
`Well over three hundred feet,' Ellen replied. `But a bed does form during long dry spells when the silt has a chance to settle. It becomes quite firm and safe. People go swimming in hot spells. What happens is that the lake's fed by subterranean springs that cause an upwelling, particularly after heavy rains.' She gestured to the hills. `There's a huge run-off from the South Downs. It's the upwelling that creates the swamp conditions -- when the sand and water become mixed in roughly equal proportions.'
`Which is all quicksand is,' Malone commented. `Sand and water. Nothing special. Right, Miss Duncan?'
`Nothing special!' Evans exclaimed. `Two men drowned in it yesterday!'
`They could've just as easily have drowned in clear water,' Ellen countered. `More easily, in fact. In quicksand you're more buoyant than in water. It's about twice the density of water therefore you're pushed up by a correspondingly greater force --just as the high salinity of the Dead Sea makes you so buoyant that it's impossible to sink.'
`You needed twice the normal amount of lead on your weightbelt,' observed the first diver who was stowing the diving gear in the pickup.
`That's true,' agreed the second diver.
Prescott put an arm around Ellen's waist. `Ah... But what this little lady is forgetting is that quicksand sucks you down. Nasty stuff, Ellen. The council will have to consider some sort of outer fencing option. Expensive but we must think of the children.'
Temple of the Winds Page 11
