by Jane Adams
Mike sighed.
Life must go on, as they say. Even Mr Cassidy had escaped this morning, gone to put in a few hours at Top Farm, leaving Mrs Cassidy to work her way through her own notion of normality. Mike felt so helpless in the face of their grief. He was aware too, that everyone else involved in this, from his own officers to the most hard bitten of the journalists who plagued his every move, were affected, deeply, by the disappearance of Sara Jane Cassidy.
The thought of the child — if she was by some miracle still alive — maybe terrified and hurt, tore into him. If it had been Stevie . . .
Realistically, he was well on the way to admitting that Sara was likely to be every bit as dead as Stevie was. His son had died quickly. The doctors all agreed that he’d probably not even known what hit him. Mike clung to that belief like a talisman, but what of Sara? The thought that she might have died in pain, scared, crying for comfort . . . he pushed the thoughts from his mind.
How could any of them even function with images like that flooding their consciousness?
Resolutely, he turned back to the messages received. Most were crank calls or from those who thought they’d seen the child. False or not, every one would have to be checked. He could now well understand Tynan’s obsession with the Ashmore case, his feeling that he could never let go, never give up. There were moments when he felt himself drowning, not just in the emotional floodwaters of the case but also in the sheer weight of trivia that might, but probably wouldn’t, lead to some solid conclusion.
He’d set John Tynan the task of reviewing the Ashmore case once again. Tynan had the freedom to go and talk to people unofficially that Mike’s position did not give him.
From Tynan too, Mike had learnt more about the child, Cassie. Learnt to pity her. That worried him. He’d asked himself again if Cassie could have been directly involved either time. Tynan had spoken of treatment for depression. His layman’s mind had immediately taken leaps it shouldn’t have. He’d reminded himself abruptly that his ex-wife had also had treatment for severe depression following the birth of their son. It was hardly a reason for assuming Cassie Maltham to be some kind of psychopath, magically abducting children at twenty-year intervals.
No, there were going to be no clear answers to this one. That, if nothing else, was certain.
* * *
It was late when Mike arrived at Tynan’s cottage. The day had ended with a difficult interview with Superintendent Flint and an equally difficult update for the press. Flint had not been impressed by Mike’s efforts so far (predictable), had, however, made no useful suggestions for revising Mike’s methodology (also predictable) and made his usual statements about the public expecting swift results. Mike was, not for the first time, left wondering about the truth in the rumour that they rewarded ineptness by promotion, thus getting the thinking-abouts out of the way of the doers.
Tynan greeted him at the door. He looked as tired as Mike felt. In the background, the kettle had begun to whistle. Tynan almost fled to the kitchen to rescue them both from the piercing scream about to follow. Mike followed him.
‘Bill might be along later. I’ve told him to spend some time with Rose, he’s scarcely been home in the last three days.’
Tynan nodded. ‘Anything new?’
Mike leaned against the door jamb, peering at the tiny, neatly set out kitchen. Why couldn’t he keep his flat this tidy? ‘Nothing very significant. Thought you might like to see this though.’
He reached into an inner pocket, removed a copy of the drawing the police artist had produced. The photocopy had, as usual, reduced the shading to mere echoes of the original intent, lost the finer details, but it was close enough.
‘Familiar?’ he asked.
Tynan shook his head. ‘Can’t say that she is. Who is she?’
Mike sighed. It had been too much to hope that Tynan would recognize the woman as someone involved with Suzie Ashmore.
‘Truth is, it could be anyone.’
‘So, if she could be anyone, why have you wasted the expensive and limited time of one of the divisional’s portraitists?’ He was smiling. Encouraging. Mike had been asked an almost identical question by his superior a few hours earlier, though the encouraging smile had been significant by its absence.
Tynan picked up the tea tray. The pot, Mike noted, was decorated with a bright green cosy topped off with a bunch of what looked like red cherries. Tynan saw him looking, laughed, half fondness, half embarrassment.
‘Grace used to knit them for church fetes, that sort of thing. Seems we always ended up with the ones no one wanted to buy.’ Again that self-deprecating smile Mike was beginning to know so well. ‘Old habits and all that.’ He ushered Mike through to the sitting room.
Tynan listened attentively while Mike explained about the ‘Portrait of an unknown woman’, made no comment as Mike related Fergus’s interpretation, then looked again at the face.
The woman looked to be in her late-forties, round-faced, hair that looked as though it should have been straight, but curled artificially.
‘Doesn’t look permed,’ Tynan commented.
Mike smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what it makes me think of — when my sister was little, she had hair straight as pumpwater, always wanted curls, our mother said she was too young to use tongs or whatever else, so our great aunt taught her how to tie it in rags. She bound it damp and twisted it somehow.’ He grinned. ‘I forget the technical details, but it came out looking like that, sort of old-fashioned and softly frizzy.’
Tynan nodded. ‘I didn’t think anyone did that any more, but yes, I know what you mean.’
He continued to gaze into the woman’s face. ‘Blue eyes?’
‘So Cassie Maltham seems to think, and what she described as fading blonde hair.’
The hair was soft, slightly limp, fluffed out around the face but with no appearance of solidity. It gave a childish look to the face, which itself had a blankness, an emptiness, though, of course, that could be simply the artist’s interpretation. It was somehow not a modem face, it would have looked more at home in some stiffly posed daguerreotype, where you knew the sitter had been braced at neck and waist against any sudden urge to move.
Tynan shook his head again. ‘No, Mike, I don’t know her, but I’ll take this with me. It’s just possible she might jog a memory somewhere.’
Mike leaned back in the chair, bone weary, he could have slept where he was. He’d toyed with the idea of handing the picture over to the pressmen at the evening’s update but Flint wouldn’t hear of it. He’d not pressed the point, instead he’d held the idea in reserve for the time, inevitably to be reached very soon, when Flint would be glad of anything he could hand out that looked as if progress was being made. He closed his eyes, dimly heard John suggesting that there was a spare bed upstairs only in need of sheets and, equally dimly, his own voice accepting. Anything was better than the drive back to his empty flat. Wearily, he pushed himself to his feet, picked up the tray and headed slowly for the kitchen.
‘I’ll see to the pots,’ he said. ‘Earn my keep.’
Tynan laughed and headed off to find the sheets.
Chapter 10
The dream came to her again, but this time it was different. Cassie no longer tried to run, allowed herself instead, to drift, as though carried by some invisible, intangible force towards Tan’s hill.
The woman waited for her, blue dress swirling around her, arms outstretched as though welcoming. Cassie turned from the Greenway and began to climb the hill. This time, she didn’t fight to reach the top. She seemed able, by sheer force of will, to rise easily and effortlessly up the slope. In her head, she could hear a voice calling to her.
‘Cassie! Caa-ssie!’
For an instant Cassie tried to hurry, felt the resistance return and forced herself to relax, to give in to the strange current drifting her slowly towards her destination.
She could see the woman clearly now, though she stood with her back to Cassie,
face turned away. Cassie approached, reached out towards her. ‘I’m here.’
The woman turned, outstretched arms ready to embrace, fingers extended as though she couldn’t move from that spot, couldn’t quite reach out far enough to draw Cassie to her.
‘Cassie . . .’ The voice was soft, whispering inside her head. Cassie reached out again, longing to touch, to make that last effort to contact but her feet seemed to be sliding backwards. Looking down, she saw her body, her legs being extended, stretched, as though something pulled her down from the hill but her will to be there kept her hands reaching, her upper body still and untouched. For a moment, Cassie found herself examining this strange phenomenon. Some part of herself knew she was dreaming, wondered which particular cartoon this ridiculous effect was from. Some other part of her mind railed against the distraction it offered, ordered her to look back at this strange woman, reach out that little bit further, hold tight.
A slight gasp made her turn. She stared, horrified as the woman, mouth open now in some parody of a scream, hands thrown abruptly above her head, was sucked down, swallowed whole and alive into the hill itself.
There were seconds when Cassie could not act, she fell forward as though drawn by the other’s momentum. Then, as though someone at the other end of herself, that part where her feet disappeared down the hill, had given a sudden jerk, she felt herself retracting rapidly. Body and legs compressing, squashing back into their original form. Cassie hung on, trying to dig her fingers into the grassy slope, but there was no purchase. The dew-dampened grass came away in her hands. Her nails dug into the earth, only to be tom away again by the urgent pulling on her ankles.
Cassie woke with a sudden jolt as though falling from a great height. She lay still, trying not to waken Fergus, then on a sudden impulse, held her hands in front of her face, inspecting them closely. Somehow, she was not surprised to find still damp mud caked beneath her fingernails.
* * *
Mike had slept well, better perhaps than for weeks previously. He lay still for a time, enjoying the feeling of waking actually rested and the small sounds that told him John Tynan was already up and about. Reluctantly, he hauled himself out of bed and made his way to the tiny bathroom. By the time he had dressed and gone downstairs, remembering from last night’s painful experience to duck his head when the stairs changed direction and the ceiling lowered unexpectedly, Tynan had the tea made and breakfast almost cooked.
Mike’s stomach protested. He rarely ate breakfast, the smell of cooking that early in the morning was slightly nauseating. He took a few sips of tea, steeled himself for the ordeal, aware of Tynan’s amused smile and found, much to his surprise, that after the first mouthful it tasted OK. After the second, he gave in and admitted that he was actually hungry.
Both men ate without really speaking, the silence companionable, both so used to their own company that absence of conversation was normal rather than disturbing.
Finally, Tynan poured them both more tea and asked Mike if he had slept well.
‘Thank you. Yes, I did.’
John Tynan nodded thoughtfully. ‘Thought I’d follow the coast road today, out towards Eccles.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mmm, it occurs to me that if Fergus Maltham’s right, well, it stands to reason this woman’s actually staying in the area. She’s not likely to want to get too close, most likely pick one of the bigger tourist places to stay in or maybe one of the bed and breakfasts. God knows there are enough to choose from. There’s a chance someone might recognize the picture.’
Mike nodded, it was reasonable enough. ‘As you like,’ he said, ‘but you may want to hold off. I’ll like as not be posting that to the press corps late today or tomorrow.’
‘I’ll do it none the less, I know I won’t cover as much ground but I’m going to aim for a particular market.’
‘Oh?’ Mike said again. What was it about people round here? He’d thought Bill Enfield was bad enough, delivering, as he did, everything in instalments. Now Tynan was doing the same.
‘Local knowledge,’ Tynan said. ‘There’s quite a few businesses round here been in the family for a long time. People who come this way regular like, they tend to use the same hotel, same boarding house year in year out.’
‘It’s a bit much though, isn’t it, John, to expect that this woman’s a regular? We don’t even know she exists.’
Tynan sighed. ‘You want to tell me one thing in this case that isn’t a bit much? Mike, if you can come up with one theory that isn’t held together with sticky tape, one set of events that isn’t choked with coincidences, then I want to know about it. First, there’s Cassie Maltham being here again. Two, there’s the disappearance of a kid from the same place. Three, it happened at almost the same time of day and practically in full view of others.’
‘Full view is pushing it a bit, both times round,’ Mike objected.
‘Yes, well, maybe, I’ll give you that one. Four, the kids even look similar — blonde hair, blue eyes, little bit on the plump side.’
‘The ages are different.’
‘All right, the ages are different. Five, there’s no logical way either child could have left the Greenway except by going back the way they’d come or by going the full length and coming out close to the estate in full view of half a dozen windows.’
‘People don’t notice kids, they come and go all the time.’
‘They notice, even if it’s after the event, especially if that child isn’t there any more. They remember. No, Mike, you can play devil’s advocate all you like, but you can’t deny the coincidences.’
Mike shook his head. ‘I’m not trying. I’m just frustrated by them. Well, if you want to give it a go, hawk the picture round and see if you can come up with someone, memory the size of an elephant who remembers the woman now and twenty years ago. I’m willing to look at anything.’ He laughed. ‘Though I guess you’ve noticed that already.’
He pushed his chair back, took his plate and cup over to the sink.
‘Leave it, Mike. I’ll sort them out later, you’ll want to be off’
Mike nodded. ‘Thanks then. I’ll catch up with you later.’
Tynan remained at the table, listening to Mike organize his departure and drive off, He took the picture from where he’d folded it inside his jacket, looked long and hard at the image. Yes, he’d thought so last night but not wanted to say anything that might mislead. There was something, something familiar about the face. Try as he might though, he couldn’t place it.
* * *
Mike found himself driving out of the village once more, choosing not to stop off at the incident room but go instead to the place where the Greenway branched away from the main road.
The police cordon was still up, red and white stretched across the gap, a young constable on duty. Mike had been tempted to remove the permanent police presence from the scene. It served little purpose and the officer, left there feeling useless, could be better used elsewhere. But Flint had insisted . . .
He got out of the car, exchanged a few words with the officer and continued up the path.
It was an odd sort of place. Banks and hedges rising high on either side, blocking any view of the adjoining fields. The hedges, properly made, plashed and braided at the base, were impassable for anything larger than a cat. He walked on, reaching that point at which the path divided. The old Greenway led on, straight up the hill. The newer path, made a few centuries before for the convenience of the local farmers, veered off, emerging after a hundred yards or so onto another road and facing the small council estate where Suzie Ashmore had lived.
Mike turned, took the old pathway, following its curve up the side of the hill.
What the hell was she doing here!
Mike’s first thought was anger that the young policeman he’d just spoken to had made no mention of Cassie Maltham, never mind that he’d taken it upon himself to let her past.
At first he just stared at her, bemused by her actions.
>
It was as though she was looking for something, pacing back and forth in some small, defined area, dropping to the ground, feeling her way as though she searched for some hidden door. He watched as, still kneeling, she raised her fists, hammered at the ground. She seemed to pause, look up and around her, head tilting this way and that as though to define the origin of some sound Mike could not hear.
She’s nuts, he thought. All of this has pushed her too far and she’s flipped over the edge. She hadn’t even noticed him, so preoccupied was she with this mysterious search of hers.
He hesitated, wondering if he should expect violence from her when he tried to intervene, or if she was in some sleepwalking state. Was it really dangerous to wake sleepwalkers? He didn’t know.
He was almost upon her now, dropped down slowly to crouch just a few feet from her. She was sobbing quietly, desperately. Mike frowned. ‘Cassie? Cassie what are you doing?’
The sobbing continued but she paid him no attention.
‘Cassie.’ This time he reached out and touched her. She cried out as though he’d caused her pain, leapt away from him, but finally looked his way.
‘Cassie. What are you doing here?’
‘What?’ She was looking around her now as though just awaking from some dream state. He wondered if she even knew where she was.
‘Can’t you hear her?’ Cassie looked around, frowning. ‘Can’t you? Oh, but she’s gone now . . .’ Then, angrily, ‘Did you make her go? Did you? Did you?’
Mike rose and took an instinctive pace backward. Then stood his ground, kept his voice as normal as he could and asked, ‘Did you hear someone, Cassie?’
For a moment she didn’t answer him. Her mouth hung slack, hands moved but with no real purpose.
‘I heard her.’ She sounded hurt, confused and childlike now.
‘Heard who, Cassie?’
Her shoulders sagged now, she looked utterly defeated, too tired to move or care any more.
‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘I dreamed it, must have. Thought I heard Suzie.’
