The Devil's Dice

by Roz Watkins

  Jai smiled uncertainly, as if he was dealing with a dangerous lunatic. ‘They should call them all Hurricane Adolf,’ he said. ‘Or Hurricane Osama.’ He must have decided to humour me.

  ‘Or call them all Hurricane Daisy and let the sexist morons die. Natural selection.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

  ‘I don’t blame Richard,’ I said. ‘He couldn’t do anything else. Have they found Kate?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Are there any clues where she’s gone?’

  Jai bashed his heel repeatedly against the wooden chair leg. ‘I’m not supposed to be talking to you about it, Meg. Richard says you need a rest. Get away from it all.’

  ‘I don’t need a rest,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t help being stuck here feeling useless. Did Rosie leave any clues on social media? When did she disappear? Has she got a boyfriend? Do you really think Kate’s got her?’

  ‘I really don’t know. They’re doing all the usual stuff, combing the area, they’ve put out an appeal. She’s been gone a while now. Since Thursday evening.’

  I slumped in my chair. ‘Do you think she found out Peter was her father?’

  Jai shrugged. ‘I should go…’

  ‘Jai…’

  He looked at me, all wide-eyed concern.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘Meg, are you all right? Why don’t you go over to your…’ He broke off and rubbed his nose.

  ‘You’ve remembered my mum’s conspiring with the prime suspect?’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  The dream from this morning slipped into my brain. Hannah’s friend. Something about genetic diseases. Something important. ‘Did you find out any more about Lisa Bell’s company? I’m not convinced Hamilton had schizophrenia. There’s more to this—’

  ‘Meg, you’re supposed to be having a rest. And you’re suspended.’

  Resting was the worst thing for me now. Resting could kill me.

  ‘Go on. I’m fine. Really.’

  He hadn’t even taken his coat off. I was shivering in my white T-shirt. I saw him to the door and closed it behind him with a click, before heading back upstairs. I’d thought he was a friend, but he was just a colleague. I shuffled under the covers, closed my eyes, grabbed a pillow and wished I had more sleeping pills.

  I was slipping down. I recognised this state. I had to catch myself before I sank too low. I had to save Rosie.

  Sometimes I had lucid nightmares – realised I was dreaming and needed to wake up to escape the nightmare, but waking was like clawing myself from a vat of tar. This was the same. It took hard, physical force to make my eyes open. The lids seemed to have weights attached. I did it though. Raised my leaden body and propped myself on pillows. My laptop was by the bedside. I reached for it and pulled it slowly onto my chest. It felt twice its usual weight.

  I had to stop the bad thoughts. The best thing for me now was to concentrate on the case, if only I could make my brain work. I had to save Rosie. Kate hadn’t taken her – why had I allowed myself to believe that? Something else was going on. Peter Hamilton hadn’t been suffering from schizophrenia.

  Lisa Bell’s company was called Pharma-Kinetica. I clumsily typed the name into Google. An expensive-looking website popped up. I blinked and tried to get my exhausted eyes to focus. The website discussed the development of treatments for orphan diseases. These were rare conditions. I felt a tingling in my fingers.

  Deep in the website I found reference to drugs for hyperkinetic movement disorders. The experimental drug Peter had taken was for a movement disorder. We’d been assuming it was the beginnings of schizophrenia. But the curse was something else – something genetic that had blighted Peter’s family for generation after generation, something even worse than schizophrenia, something neither an ancient healer nor the best of modern medicine could help. And finally there it was.

  Chapter 36

  I popped into a sitting position, my lethargy evaporating, and stared at the laptop, my heart beating fast.

  Huntington’s Disease. A genetic disorder that affected muscle coordination, getting worse and worse over time and eventually leading to death. The early symptoms included personality changes, mood swings, fidgety movements, irritability and altered behaviour.

  I wiped the laptop’s screen, which was reflecting the morning light back at me, and clicked to another web page. Could Huntington’s explain Peter’s behaviour? It typically came on in mid-adult life and seemed to fit his symptoms.

  I searched my sluggish memory for the name of the other drug Peter had been taking. ABILIFY. I googled ABILIFY Huntington’s and held my breath while I read that ABILIFY was used for the chorea (abnormal movements) associated with Huntington’s, and was often used in the early stages of the disease.

  I threw off the covers. Sweat prickled my back. These symptoms sounded just like the ones Peter had exhibited – and that Kate had interpreted as schizophrenia. I remembered her saying in our first meeting that Peter had been drinking but denying it. Staggering when he stood up. The staggering could have been caused by Huntington’s and he could have been telling the truth about not drinking. Felix might not have pushed him in the StairGate incident. And the experimental drug could have been for Huntington’s – someone with that disease would have been desperate to try anything.

  So, where did that leave Rosie? If she was Peter’s daughter… Even though I’d only met her a few times, I couldn’t bear the thought of her having this disease. I clicked page after page, frantically reading the horrifying words. The gene was dominant, so any child of an affected person had a fifty percent chance of inheriting the disease. About six percent of cases started before age twenty-one. What had Rosie said on the stairs? There’s something wrong with me but nobody knows what it is.

  I lay back on my pillows, feeling sick and panicky. The prognosis for Juvenile Huntington’s was appalling. If she had it, she’d go into a slow decline, gradually losing movement until she could no longer walk or move her arms, and eventually couldn’t talk or swallow. Finally, she’d be unable even to breathe and would die, probably in her twenties or thirties.

  I pictured Rosie in Grace’s kitchen, rolling her eyes at Alex. I couldn’t accept this as her fate. Although I knew it was ridiculous, I wished again that I’d lied about the probabilities in the card game, and made her think she was right. I could at least have given her that.

  I shoved the laptop aside and stood, feeling the room spin as if I was drunk. I needed to go and talk to Olivia. If Peter had been showing early signs of Huntington’s and Rosie had found out, who knows how she might have reacted. Maybe it could help us find her.

  The task of dragging myself to Olivia’s felt impossible, but I decided to take it one step at a time. I could abort at any point. I stood and tried not to think about the fit Richard would have when he found out.

  My mobile rang. Fiona. I hesitated, then pulled it to my ear.

  ‘Meg, it’s Craig. Don’t hang up.’

  My knees softened and I sank back down on the bed. ‘Craig. Hello.’

  ‘I borrowed Fiona’s phone. I didn’t think you’d take my call.’

  ‘Could be right there, Craig.’

  ‘Well. I wanted to say… I’m sorry you were suspended.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought it was unfair. Anyway, I’ll see you when you get back. Bye.’

  ‘Hang on, Craig…’ But the phone had already gone dead.

  What was that all about? Was it a figment of my imagination? He could have been playing evil games with me but he’d sounded genuine. I realised I was feeling a little more positive. The task of getting out of the house and over to Olivia’s felt slightly less monstrous.

  *

  I pulled up at the end of Olivia and Felix’s lane, feeling like I’d run a marathon. I put on my most waterproof raincoat, hauled myself from the car, and crept on a puddled footpath which led to the back of the house, to avoid being seen by any other detectives. I paused to q
uell a wave of sickness, then walked past a window towards the kitchen door. Olivia must have seen me through the rain-smeared glass and she flung the door open.

  Her voice was high and desperate. ‘Have you found her?’

  I shook my head quickly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Her shoulders sank and she backed into the kitchen, waving me in after her.

  I walked in and saw Grace Swift, Edward’s wife, sitting in one of the chairs. She smiled and jumped up.

  ‘Inspector Dalton. Is there news?’

  I gave another shake of my head.

  Grace wilted. ‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’ She glanced at Olivia. ‘I’m sure they’ll find her soon. If there’s anything I can do—’

  Olivia’s voice was flat. ‘It’s fine. Thank you, Grace. It was good of you to come over.’

  Olivia’s hair was tangled, and make-up was smeared around her eyes. She gestured towards the chunky wooden seats at her farmhouse table. I sat down and dripped rainwater onto the kitchen floor.

  ‘Well, I’d better go.’ Grace gave Olivia a rather awkward hug. She turned to me. ‘You don’t need to ask me anything, I assume?’ Worry lines creased the skin around her eyes. ‘I haven’t seen Rosie since last week.’

  ‘Have you seen Kate Webster at all? Peter’s wife?’

  ‘No, not for weeks. Why?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll be in touch if we need to talk to you.’

  The door from the hallway crashed open, banging against my chair, and Felix took a step into the kitchen. He obviously didn’t notice me; I was sitting behind him, partially shielded by the door. He shot a look at Grace. ‘I suppose you knew.’

  Olivia’s voice was contemptuous. ‘Of course she didn’t know.’

  Grace shuffled closer to the external door. ‘Know what?’

  ‘What my bitch of a wife hadn’t bothered to tell me. That my daughter isn’t actually my daughter.’

  Grace stuttered. ‘No… I didn’t have any idea…’

  ‘Well, she knows now,’ Olivia said. ‘You stupid bastard.’

  Felix spun round and lunged with his hand outstretched towards Olivia’s neck. She jumped up and backed away.

  I leapt from my chair. ‘That’s enough, Felix.’

  He froze and then pivoted to me. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ He turned to Olivia and spat the words at her. ‘This bitch tried to frame me. Put one of my gloves in the woods near where Peter’s idiot sister fell off the cliff.’

  I ignored Felix and walked to Olivia. I touched her arm. ‘You don’t have to tolerate this, Olivia. He has no right to do this.’ Her scarf had fallen to the floor and I saw the bruise on her neck, yellow and green.

  Felix stood rigid, his breathing fast and audible. He fixed me with his reptilian eyes, and spoke with slow, measured menace. ‘Why don’t you get out of our business, or I’ll call your boss.’

  A brief panic – did he know I was suspended? I guessed not. It was just bravado from a habitual bully. ‘Be my guest. He’ll want to talk to you about assaulting your wife anyway. You’ll save me a call.’

  Felix advanced towards me. ‘You fucking interfering—’

  I stood my ground, trying to keep my voice firm. ‘I can have uniformed police here in thirty seconds. With handcuffs. They’re right outside your house. Would you like me to call them?’ I sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to say Yes.

  Felix hesitated, glanced at Grace standing open-mouthed by the door, and shot me a look of the purest loathing. He stormed from the kitchen.

  Olivia collapsed onto her chair. Grace rushed to her. ‘Are you okay?’

  Olivia nodded. ‘I’m fine, Grace, honestly, I’m used to him. His bark’s worse than his bite. You should go.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Grace,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure she’s alright.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure…’ Grace smiled nervously and disappeared through the back door.

  ‘She brought me one of her stupid bloody magazines,’ Olivia said. ‘As if that’s going to help.’ She picked up a magazine and flung it across the table. ‘Look at the lead article.’

  I reached for the magazine. Bright red letters stood out over a picture of a man and a woman standing hand in hand and gazing wistfully at the camera. ‘When God Challenges Us.’ It was another Life Line magazine, an older edition than the one featuring the godly business woman.

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Olivia snatched the magazine from me and hurled it over her shoulder. She was acting as if the incident with Felix had never happened.

  ‘Olivia, you can get help,’ I said gently. ‘You don’t have to put up with it.’

  ‘I know. I know. I will. I’ve seriously had enough. All this… It’s put everything in perspective. But right now, I need to find Rosie.’

  ‘I understand. Just be aware it’s abuse and it’s a crime.’ Our eyes met and a flash of understanding passed between us. I remembered her shining out of Peter’s Cambridge photographs, and wondered how it had all gone so wrong.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘As you say, we need to find Rosie. I came round because we’re trying to work out more about what was going on in her life.’

  ‘I’ve already told your people everything I know. They’ve searched our whole house. What do they think? That we’re hiding her in the attic?’ Olivia tapped her fingers fast against the table and leant forward. ‘And wanting to know if she’s vulnerable. Of course she’s bloody vulnerable. She’s fifteen. She’s not the sort of girl to run off. She must have been taken. Or had a terrible accident.’

  ‘Rosie was having some health problems, wasn’t she? Did you find out what was wrong with her?’

  The tapping stopped. ‘The doctor didn’t know.’

  ‘Did he mention genetic diseases at all?’

  She spoke slowly. ‘He asked us if there was anything in the family but there wasn’t.’

  ‘I know this is hard,’ I said. ‘But did Peter ever talk to you about Huntington’s Disease?’

  Olivia froze. ‘No! Rosie does not have Huntington’s.’

  ‘Olivia, please. It might be relevant.’

  She put her head in her arms and her shoulders shook. I sat pathetically across the table, not sure how to react. Should I put my arm round her?

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I stayed put.

  She looked up. Mascara trailed down both cheeks. ‘Peter was talking about it.’ She spoke so quietly I could hardly hear. ‘A few times, Rosie’s legs went rigid and then collapsed from under her. And once she had a kind of fit.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  I looked down and noticed the magazine sprawled on the floor. I read the other headline articles. It certainly didn’t look like a comforting read. ‘Bringing up Godly children in modern times’, ‘Balancing work, family and God’, ‘Care, not killing,’, ‘How to be a good Christian wife’. Something about the phrase ‘good Christian wife’ made me shudder. What would a good Christian wife do when her husband tried to strangle her?

  Olivia gulped. ‘And she’s been feeling so down about everything…’

  ‘Does she know about Peter’s suspicions?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘What if she found out? Could it have anything to do with her disappearing?’

  ‘Oh God,’ Olivia said. ‘Do you think she overheard me talking to Mark?’

  ‘Peter’s brother?’

  ‘Yes, I asked him about it.’ She clawed at her knotted hair. ‘It was just before she disappeared. But I was sure she was in the shower. Do you think she heard? If she googled it. Oh Jesus…’

  ‘Have you heard from Kate Webster?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘We’re having trouble locating her too.’

  Olivia brightened a little. ‘She’s a doctor, isn’t she? Do you think Rosie contacted her to ask about the Huntington’s and then they’ve gone off somewhere together?’

  I decided not to share Kate’s new status as Prime Suspect.

  Chapter 37

 
; I sat in the car at the end of Olivia’s lane and called Jai. ‘Any sign of Rosie?’

  ‘No, we’re combing the area.’ I could hardly hear him above the noise of the rain smacking on the roof of the car. ‘But Meg, I’m not supposed to be talking to you. Have a rest.’

  ‘I don’t want a rest, Jai. Listen, I think Peter might have had Huntington’s Disease. And that means Rosie could have it too, if she is his daughter. Just get them to look at her laptop – was she googling Huntington’s? What if she guessed that she has it?’

  ‘You think it’s relevant?’

  ‘If she found out she had a terminal disease? Of course it’s relevant. She’s had no help or counselling or anything. She’ll be feeling utterly desperate. And, Jai, Felix is abusive. Olivia could be in danger from him.’

  I hung up, unsure whether Jai had listened to any of that, or had dismissed it as the deranged ramblings of a madwoman. For once, I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself or my family. This was so much worse. If Peter had developed the early stages of Huntington’s, his behaviour started to make sense – taking the experimental drugs, setting up the permanent health insurance, losing his judgement at work, even reading Stoic philosophy. If he knew he was dying, could it have also made him want to come clean about the boy on the roof in Cambridge? And what about the Rosie situation? He must have seen her having problems. I could only imagine the horrific realisation that she might be his child and could have the condition. But it still didn’t explain why he was found dead in a cave, or where Rosie was.

  I wiped my face with the back of my hand and stuck the car in gear. I knew who I needed to talk to.

  It looked like Jai had been right about the storm. As I headed north, the wind buffeted the tiny car and rain came down in sheets, obscuring the hills. The effort of staying on the road filled my brain.

  Twenty minutes later, I parked outside Peter’s father’s house and ran to the door, hair flying.

  Mrs Brown let me in and muttered about the shocking weather while she led me through to the gloomy living room.

  Laurence didn’t even look up. His head was slumped forward onto his chest. The rats were in the cage this time, digging holes in their sawdust.