She dragged her thoughts away from the unwelcome imagery and spoke as calmly as she could.
‘His father’s name is Roger Fry, and the young man’s name is Leonard, usually known as Lennie.’
‘We have no one of that name here.’
‘But you do have a young man named Drew. I spoke briefly with him a few days ago. Lennie Fry’s full name is Leonard Andrew Fry, so I was wondering if he could be one and the same. It would reassure his father so much to know that he was safe and well, you see —’ Her voice fell away lamely as Lord continued to stare at her without expression.
She hadn’t noticed how strange his eyes were until now. They seemed almost devoid of colour at all, blind and penetrating at the same time. If there wasn’t some other bloody substance in this iced lemon tea then she was in danger of hallucinating out of sheer terror. The room was large and not particularly warm, but its very starkness had a claustrophobic effect, and she was starting to sweat uncomfortably.
‘Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,’ she said in a panic, knowing she was backing down, being Audrey Barnes, farm girl, desperate to get out of here alive before something unspeakable sucked her in.
‘Perhaps you would like to speak to Drew,’ Lord said placidly.
Alex blinked. The room settled down into an ordinary room with four white walls that stayed in one place, and she cursed herself for her momentary panic.
‘Is that possible?’ she asked.
‘All things are possible in this world and in any other.’
He flicked his fingers again, and a door opened at once. Alex’s nerves were razor-sharp now, and so was her brain. There was no way anyone outside could have heard the tiny click of his fingers, which meant that the room had to be wired, so that someone in another part of the building could overhear every word.
She guessed this was only the case when Lord wanted his conversation with an outsider to be overheard. Perhaps to warn someone that they were being sought so they could be prepared for any questioning. It figured.
‘Drew’s presence is requested,’ Lord said pleasantly to the young girl who had admitted Alex.
When she had left them Alex asked if she could see him alone.
‘Of course. Everyone is at liberty here and they come to us voluntarily. We do not chain our people, Miss Best. Please remain here, and Drew will join you in a very few moments. Peace and harmony go with you always.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in a strangled voice. He left the room and she was so very tempted to get up and flee. But she couldn’t be sure exactly where she had entered the building, and besides, now she had got this far, she had to see it through. She had to be sure whether or not Drew was really Lennie Fry, and discover what he could tell her about the events surrounding the disappearance of Steven Leng. She had to remember who she was and why she was here. Without warning, she went cold and rigid, but before she could formulate the thought that screamed through her head, the door opened, and Drew came inside. His eyes were dark and resentful, his whole body full of suppressed angst as he sat on the edge of a wooden chair. She spoke quickly.
‘You know why I’m here, don’t you? I’m looking for Lennie Fry, and I suspect that you may be him, and that you were one of Steven Leng’s friends. And your father would rather like to know where you are,’ she added sarcastically.
If Lord, or anyone else was listening in to this conversation it hardly made any difference now. She was here to do a job and she had to do it. Jane Leng depended on her. She saw Drew’s face tighten, but his voice was mechanical.
‘We are all here out of choice, and we don’t have to answer to anyone for that choice.’
‘I’m not asking you to leave the Followers, and nor is your father. You do remember him, do you, Lennie? He lives in a big house in Clifton —’
‘My name is Drew,’ he said, almost in a chant. ‘I have no father outside the fraternity of the Followers. I have no need of worldly goods and chattels, and my philosophy is to bring peace and harmony wherever I go’
‘Christ, the old Jesus freak really does have you under his thumb,’ Alex said recklessly. ‘I’d say there’s not much difference between his demands and the way any normal father would chastise his teenage son for dabbling in drugs and wanting to go to India with some nonsense idea of finding himself. But you’re no longer a child. So tell me. Have you found yourself here, Lennie?’
She saw the flash of anger in his eyes and knew she was on dangerous ground, but if she hoped that goading him would produce some wild response she was disappointed. Or perhaps it was because he was aware that Lord was listening, and maybe even watching.
That was an even creepier thought. When he didn’t answer, but just stared at her in the same way Lord had, she tried another tack.
‘If Roger Fry is your father, then all he wants to do is know that you’re well. Any son owes his father that much, wouldn’t you say?’ She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes flicker, and he gave the smallest nod. ‘And all I’m after, is to know if you ever saw Steven Leng after the incident in the woods, or if he ever made contact with you again. His mother believes he’s still alive, you see, even after all these years. She’s my friend, and I want to help her, especially now that her husband has just died.’
She watched him carefully, but again he didn’t respond. Did he know Bob Leng had jumped from the bridge, or was he so indoctrinated in the Followers’ code that it meant nothing to him? But he couldn’t know, could he? So if that was the case, how come he had sent money for flowers for Bob Leng’s funeral? If he’d done that, he had to know Bob had topped himself. So who had told him?
He stood up. ‘Our time is up.’
‘Yes,’ Alex said, keeping her voice as steady as possible while her heart raced. ‘Well, thank you for talking to me, Drew. I can see I have nothing to report to either Lennie Fry’s father, or Mrs Leng.’
‘Peace and harmony,’ he said mechanically.
Alex held out her hand to shake his, and after a few seconds’ hesitation he took it briefly, and she felt the tiniest pressure of his fingers. He was Lennie Fry all right, and something had scared the hell out of him. Whether or not it was Lord or something more sinister, she didn’t know. But she recognized dilated eyes when she saw them, and it sure as hell wasn’t love that produced them. It was fear. Lennie or Drew or whatever the hell he called himself, was shit-scared.
As he turned to leave the room the young girl entered as silently as before, and gestured to Alex to follow her. She went gladly. This place might be full of peace and harmony to those who chose to be here, but to Alex it was as dead as a morgue, and she couldn’t wait to get out.
‘Peace and —’ the girl began at the door.
‘Crap,’ Alex said. ‘Same to you.’
She stepped out into the daylight, annoyed with herself for reacting that way, and needing to take long deep breaths to rid herself of an atmosphere that had, been stifling in its deadness. In the street, doing their busking, smiling and sweet-natured, they all seemed so happy and content. Such a close-knit family, with a father — an overlord — who was as dictatorial in his own insidious way as any ranting father of wayward teenagers. Alex knew which she preferred.
She had been so intent on catching her breath and feeling relieved to have got out of there alive, however bizarre the thought, that she hadn’t noticed the white world in which she was now standing. During the time she had been inside the Old Mission building, the snow had come down with a vengeance, the streets were slippery and treacherous, and for a moment she felt completely disorientated.
There was very little traffic moving around this part of the city, and in any case, Alex had decided to walk, rather than make her presence too obvious by driving up in a car. She was glad now that she had left it at the B&B, and she had also been wary enough not to want the make and number of her car noted by any inmates of the Old Mission for future reference. You couldn’t be too careful in this business.
These boots weren�
�t meant for walking, she thought feelingly a while later. At least, not for walking in snow. They were long black fashion boots into which she had tucked her black jeans, with the idea of keeping out the cold from her legs. But they also let in the wet, and she was chilled and shivering by the time she neared the main part of the city. That would be all she needed, she thought, angry with herself: to be landed — and stranded — down here with a dose of flu. But if she was, she wouldn’t damn well give in to it. The only place to deal with that was in your own home and your own bed and beside your own fireplace.
She knew very well that the only reason she was giving in to these inane thoughts was to keep out the one she should have remembered earlier. It wasn’t even the fact that Lennie/Drew had known about Bob Leng’s death, although that contributed to the other thing. It was the thing that should have alerted her the minute she heard it. The fact that Lord had addressed her by her name — and she had never given it.
*
She tottered into Dun Roamin’, wet and miserable, hoping to reach her room unseen while she considered this and decided what to do about it. But it was too much to hope. Mrs Dunstable materialized almost at once, her face horrified at Alex’s bedraggled appearance.
‘My dear girl, where ever have you been in this weather? My regulars always hibernate the minute we get snow, and it looks as if you should have done the same.’
Maybe she would if she was ninety years old, like some of them. She managed not to say it out loud and suppressed a sneeze with difficulty, guessing that the landlady wouldn’t be too pleased if she infected the entire establishment.
‘I’ll be fine when I’ve had a hot bath and a hot drink,’ she assured her.
And entered everything on her laptop and made a few phone calls, she thought.
‘You go on upstairs and get out of those wet things and I’ll bring you a drop of whisky, dear. On the house, of course,’ Mrs Dunstable said, and Alex couldn’t argue with that. And besides, one threatened sneeze didn’t mean the flu, she told herself determinedly. She wouldn’t even think about it.
‘Thank you, Mrs Dunstable,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘Oh well, I’ve got nieces who are just as scatty as all you young things, and I’d like to think somebody was taking care of them too.’
Then God bless Mrs D’s scatty nieces, Alex thought silently.
‘What is it you do exactly, dear?’ she said, following Alex to the lift as if to make sure she was doing as she was told.
‘I’m in public relations,’ she answered, knowing of old that this was a description that covered a multitude of possibilities. People assumed what they liked, and few of them questioned it. As the lift doors enclosed her she saw the landlady give a nod, and she leaned weakly against the back wall, eyeing her appearance in the lift mirror and realizing what a sight she looked.
Before leaving for the Old Mission she had arranged her hair in a thick plait for neatness. It made her face look thinner, and by now her fringe and eyebrows were edged with snow. She looked ancient, she thought irrationally. Old Father Time in drag. Once in her room, her boots seeped on to the carpet, and she tugged them off hastily, shivering as her sodden trousers clung to her legs. She should have taken the car — but the sight of some of them sliding on the roads had made her revise that idea. Why were the British never prepared for bad weather?
When she answered the knock on her door the landlady handed her a tray with a selection of spirits in small bottles — the type you got on aeroplanes. There was whisky, brandy, vodka, rum and gin. A secret tippler, possibly ...
‘Take these, dear, and let me have what you don’t use. Some of my regulars bring them back for me from their travels, and I keep them for emergencies. There’s no hurry.’
‘Thank you,’ Alex said, trying not to laugh. It was all so twee, but she had to admit the woman was all heart, even if she did want the unused bottles back. No wonder her regulars were so — well, regular.
She decided on the whisky, even though she didn’t like the taste of it much, and grimaced as it went down and hit her stomach like fire. But as long as it killed off any germs it would be worth it. For good measure she decided to lace her tea with the other bottle when she had had her bath as hot as she could bear it, and washed the snow out of her hair.
By the time it was all done and her hair was moderately dry, she was snug in a sweatshirt and jeans, with her feet in thick woolly socks, and she curled up on the bed with the tea and hot toddy. And then she reminded herself that she must record all that had happened while she still had Lord and Lennie’s conversations fresh in her mind. At least, they had been fresh before the whisky ...
*
She awoke a couple of hours later, aghast to find that she could have fallen off to sleep so soundly. There was obviously more punch to that whisky than she had bargained for and she didn’t usually indulge in the middle of the afternoon, either. But at least she had no sense of impending flu, and she wasn’t so muzzy that she didn’t instantly recall where she had been earlier that afternoon.
She sat up quickly and fetched her laptop, typing in every single thing she could remember. It didn’t amount to much, really. Except for the two things that bothered her the most.
One was the fact that Drew was definitely Lennie Fry, who had sent money to pay for Bob Leng’s funeral flowers, and yet wouldn’t identify himself, either to his father, or to her. And the second was the fact that Lord had known who she was — or at least, had known her name. Which meant that somebody had told him. She dismissed the thought of Mrs Dunstable at once. Why would she, when neither had any connection as far as she knew? The person who had delivered the lily to her had just left it for the lady with the lovely red hair.
Tracey at the coffee shop? She hadn’t told her her name either. She hadn’t given Zelena her card, and certainly not Drew. She liked mysteries herself, but not those of a personally threatening kind.
The sound of the dinner bell startled her. Had she really been up here for so long? She looked towards the window, and the lightness she had assumed was still daylight she now realized was attributed to snow.
‘It’s what we call a mini-blizzard,’ one of the regulars in the dining-room told her with the superior satisfaction of the local. ‘You won’t be driving away from ’ere for a few days now, me dear.’
‘I shall have to,’ Alex said with a smile. ‘I’ve got business to attend to —’
He gave a bucolic laugh, as if business was a foreign word to him. It probably had been for twenty years or more, Alex thought shrewdly.
‘When you get to my age, you’ll realize that business can always wait, miss. ’Tis better to be safe than sorry on these roads.’
‘Mr Horsey’s right, dear,’ the landlady said, fussing around the tables to see that everyone had everything they wanted in the way of mountains of potatoes and sprouts and lashings of steak and kidney pie. ‘The weather forecast is bad and they’re advising people not to travel unless they have to.’
‘I see,’ Alex said. It had never stopped her before, and she would make up her own mind, even though for the rest of the evening until she escaped back to her bedroom she had to listen to the regulars yarning about their own personal weather disasters, and the times they had been cut off by floods or snow — and to listen to them, you’d think no other place in the whole of England had ever experienced such weather conditions before.
But when she turned on the TV in her room and saw the news pictures, she had to admit that it didn’t look too good. Mrs Dunstable had been right, and people were being urged not to travel unless it was absolutely necessary. So now she had to ask herself — would a day or so longer matter a damn? She was cosy and warm here, and Jane Leng’s money was paying for it, so why not do as she was told and hole up here for tomorrow, anyway?
Perhaps it would all be gone in the morning. Tales of treacherous slush, broken limbs and crashed vehicles in swollen rivers had been part of the regulars’ stories as ea
ch tried to outdo the other. She wanted none of that!
*
The mini-blizzard lasted for six days. Mrs Dunstable reported that nothing was moving in or out of the city, and the delivery men were struggling to provide food and essential services. But to reassure her guests and to prove her good landladyship, or whatever it was called, thought Alex, it was lucky that she had such a vast deep freezer to provide for them all.
There wasn’t a damn thing Alex could do about it, and there was no point in calling Jane Leng to report no progress. She did feel morally obliged to call Roger Fry, to let him know that she thought his son was with the Followers, as he had suspected, but that he seemed very well, and that Roger wasn’t to worry.
She made it sound as if Lennie himself had asked her to pass on the message, thinking that a little white lie never hurt anybody. Kids never had the remotest idea how much their parents worried over them.
‘Then if that’s his choice, I must abide by it,’ she heard cold-fish Fry say in a voice barely tinged with relief. ‘But I thank you for contacting me, Miss Best, and of course you must send me your bill.’
‘There’s no need. I was in the area anyway, and I didn’t have to do very much,’ she said, crossing her fingers as she spoke.
The less she had to do with him, the better. All he wanted was to know that his son was still alive and kicking, if anybody asked. He didn’t really want to know him, whether he was still a hippy-freak or India-bound. She wondered how he would react if he could see him now — blond and beautiful and banjo-playing in a public street. For one second she was tempted to send him a photo, and decided it would be too cruel. Let him keep his image of his son, whatever it was.
Deadly Suspicions (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 3) Page 19
