[Ben Whittle Investigations 01.0] The Revelation Room

by Mark Tilbury

  Ben begged God for some of that strength Pastor Tom talked about. ‘I’ve already told you. Dad doesn’t want us to call the police. He wouldn’t say so without good reason.’

  ‘What if he’s fallen through another roof? Banged his head?’

  Pastor Tom finished his tea and turned to Maddie. ‘It might be better if we went home. Let these folks have some space.’

  ‘I want Maddie to stay,’ Ben said.

  Tom didn’t look convinced. ‘Anne?’

  ‘It makes no difference to me whether she stays. I just want my husband back.’

  Tom stood up. ‘I’ve got to make tracks. You call me tomorrow, Madeline.’

  Maddie nodded.

  ‘I want you back for Sunday service.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ben showed Pastor Tom out. ‘I appreciate this, Tom.’

  ‘Take care of your mother, son. She’s in shock.’

  Ben didn’t have a clue how a useless geek like him was supposed to look after his mother and rescue his father. ‘We’re all in shock, Tom.’

  ‘God bless you, son. I shall pray for you.’

  Ben closed the door and returned to the front room. His head felt like a block of concrete. Someone was trying to dig up that concrete with a pneumatic drill. Maddie was sitting beside his mother on the sofa, comforting her.

  ‘We’ll find him, Mum.’

  Anne stood up and walked over to the window. She looked left and right several times, putting Ben in mind of a dog waiting for its master to come home. She turned back to face Ben. ‘When did he phone you?’

  Ben looked at his watch. ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘Have you tried to ring him back?’

  ‘Yes. There was no answer.’

  ‘Try him now.’

  Ben did. Same result. He’d also tried his father’s main phone and the cheap pay-as-you-go that his father took on surveillance operations. No answer on those either.

  Anne plucked a fresh tissue from a box of Kleenex on the coffee table and dabbed her eyes. ‘So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Try to find him.’

  ‘And what if this cult captures you as well?’

  Ben shuddered. ‘Why don’t you take some sleeping tablets. Get a good night’s rest, Mum?’

  ‘Perhaps I will. You wake me up straight away if there’s any news.’

  Ben didn’t think there would be any need to wake her. Not unless Tom’s prayers summoned a miracle. ‘Of course.’

  Anne shuffled out of the dining room as if her mind and body were disconnected from one another.

  Ben closed the door behind her. ‘She’ll be out for the count soon.’

  ‘She’s lovely.’

  ‘She can be. Do you want a proper drink? There’s vodka in the cabinet.’

  ‘I’ll stick to tea, thanks. Do you want one?’

  ‘Can I have a coffee? Strong and black. Three sugars.’

  They sat at the dining table drinking coffee. Ben told Maddie how Pastor Tom had helped him after he’d fallen from a conker tree and fractured his knee. ‘I spent most of that summer with your dad. That’s when he introduced me to Old Joe.’

  Maddie looked surprised. ‘I don’t remember you.’

  ‘You were always out. Your dad reckoned you were a boy in disguise.’

  Maddie smiled. ‘I was a bit of a tomboy.’

  ‘Back then you wanted to be an explorer.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘And an astronaut.’

  ‘Funny what we want to do when we’re kids. All those silly dreams and big expectations.’

  ‘I just wanted to be normal,’ Ben said. ‘Normal and left alone.’

  Maddie frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘I used to get picked on.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Just other kids at school. I had a bad stammer. They used to call me Stutter-buck.’

  ‘Kids can be so cruel.’

  Ben shrugged. ‘It’s all in the past. It doesn’t really matter now. Old Joe belonged to your granddad.’

  ‘Granddad John?’

  Ben nodded.

  Maddie took a sip of coffee. ‘Granddad John was great. We used to visit him in Sunnyside Nursing Home. He could still do these amazing card tricks. He was pushing eighty, and he had a girlfriend. Betsy. She had this great big puff of white hair and the kindest eyes you could ever imagine.’

  Ben smiled. ‘Cool.’

  ‘Granddad John died two years ago. Betsy went a few months after. It was so sad.’

  ‘At least they’re together again now.’

  ‘Nana June might have something to say about that! Anyway, why did dad give you Old Joe?’

  ‘To help me overcome my stammer. At the time it was bad, especially when I was under pressure. The more I tried, the worse it got. But your dad taught me the art of ventriloquism. How to control my thoughts. It was weird at first because it was like magic when I spoke through Old Joe. It didn’t take me half an hour to say a simple sentence. Then, bit by bit, I spoke properly without using Old Joe.’

  Maddie grinned. ‘Wow! That’s fantastic.’

  ‘Not that I’m much cop at it. Even Old Joe reckons I’m rubbish.’

  ‘Don’t put yourself down. You’re brilliant with him.’

  ‘It’s all down to your dad, Maddie. He’s a great man.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I can’t ever repay him.’

  ‘You already have.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By turning out to be such a good person.’

  Ben blushed. ‘I wish.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot going for you.’

  ‘Like what? A dead-end job and a missing father?’

  Maddie didn’t respond. ‘You said there’s an appointments book?’

  ‘In the office.’

  He led Maddie through the kitchen and into a small eight-feet-square room that had started life as a brick-built coal shed. He switched on the light. A shiny black desk with a computer and a printer dominated one wall. Next to this, a filing cabinet. Ben unlocked it and took out a black leather-bound book. He put the book on the desk and leafed through it.

  He stopped about halfway and tapped the page. ‘Here we go. Barnaby and Annabelle Hunt, Britannia Bungalow, The Street, Upper Feelham. Girl’s name is Emily Hunt. Missing for two years. Demanding money from her parents. Aged nineteen. There’s a phone number.’

  ‘You need to pay them a visit first thing tomorrow and find out what they know about this cult.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We take it from there.’

  Ben closed the book. He felt like a bird with one wing trying to take off in a high wind.

  5

  Ben stood on the front doorstep of Britannia Bungalow and introduced himself to Annabelle Hunt.

  ‘Is everything all right? Has something happened to Emily?’ The woman’s eyes looked as if they were already in mourning for her daughter.

  ‘No. Emily’s fine as far as I know. Can I come in?’

  She stepped aside and ushered Ben along a narrow hallway into the front room. Her husband, Barnaby, glanced up from his newspaper. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This is Ben. Mr Whittle’s son.’

  Barnaby looked back at his newspaper. ‘Who the blazes is Mr Whittle when he’s at home?’

  ‘The private investigator that’s looking for Emily.’

  Barnaby’s cheeks flared red. ‘What’s happened now? That blasted girl’s been nothing but trouble since the day she was born.’

  ‘Considering you were away playing silly war games for most of Emily’s childhood, you’re not in any position to refer to it.’

  ‘Pie-crust. History seems to have rewritten your memory, woman.’

  Behind the kitchen door, the Hunts’ Yorkshire terrier, Ritzy, yapped as though taking part in the argument.

  ‘It’s you that’s rewritten history. Your brain must have a piece of shrapnel lodged in it.’

  ‘Shrapnel, be damned.�
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  Annabelle sighed. ‘Ignore him, Ben. He’s given to occasional bouts of decency if you stay in his company for long enough.’

  ‘And my wife is given to occasional bouts of honesty.’

  Annabelle rolled her eyes.

  ‘And before you ask, I’ve already coughed up a king’s ransom for no good reason. I’m not parting with a penny more.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to. If you’d just give Mr Whittle a chance to speak.’

  Barnaby put down his paper and looked at Ben as if he were a fly that needed swatting. ‘If you’re not after more money, young man, what do you want?’

  Ben looked at the floor. The spirals in the red and gold Axminster carpet threatened to hypnotise him. To make matters worse, he’d not slept a wink all night. He’d let Maddie have his bed. The sofa had offered no solace to his aching, restless body. ‘My father’s gone missing.’

  Barnaby’s cheeks were now flame-grilled. ‘What do you mean, “missing”?’

  Ben explained the phone call.

  Barnaby seemed in no mood to offer sympathy. ‘All he had to do was find her and take a few pictures. Talk about incompetence.’

  Ben apologised.

  Barnaby wasn’t listening. ‘Imagine if we behaved like that in the army? We’d all be serving under the shadow of the swastika by now.’

  Annabelle stepped in and dismissed her husband. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. We’d all be serving under the swastika if the Yanks hadn’t joined the war. As you well know.’

  Barnaby stood his ground. ‘Our freedom has nothing to do with the Americans. As I recall, all they did was drop an atomic bomb on the Japs.’

  Annabelle tilted her head up. ‘If you insist on mixing fact with fiction and being so damned rude, go to your study and sulk. Or better still, take Ritzy for a walk. The air will do you good.’

  ‘What bloody air? I’m more likely to get poisoned with all the lorries that go thundering through here these days.’

  ‘If only.’

  Barnaby walked into the kitchen and banged the door shut behind him.

  ‘I’m so sorry about him,’ Annabelle said. ‘He’s spent most of his life shouting down subordinates in the army. He doesn’t know how to speak with a civil tongue.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘It’s not. And I apologise for his behaviour. Please take a seat.’

  Ben sat down on a floral two-seater sofa.

  ‘What are you going to do about your father?’

  ‘Try to find him. I was hoping you might know where this cult is based?’

  ‘I haven’t got the faintest idea. That’s why we hired your father.’

  ‘Do you know anything at all about them?’

  Annabelle shook her head. ‘Not very much. She got mixed up with this busker chap in Oxford. From that day on she behaved differently.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She became more and more withdrawn. Impatient. Angry, even. It was terrible. She hated our way of life. She turned on her father, which I suppose you could interpret as standing up to him.’

  ‘Do you know this busker’s name?’

  ‘I should do. I heard it every minute of the day before Emily left home. His name is Marcus.’

  ‘What about a surname?’

  ‘She never mentioned it. It was all Marcus-this and Marcus-that. I assumed it was a passing phase. Rebelling against her upbringing. She even called Barnaby a capitalist pig or something like that.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Serves him right. He’s always tried to treat her like one of his recruits.’

  Ben felt sympathy for Emily. His father and Barnaby Hunt sounded like kindred spirits. He also felt sorry for Annabelle Hunt. Her carefully made-up face and neatly permed grey hair gave her the appearance of a woman in control; her twitching hands and bitten nails suggested otherwise. ‘How old is Emily?’

  ‘Nineteen last birthday.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Not this Christmas, but the one before. She came home and gave me a present.’ Annabelle held out her hand and showed Ben a cheap looking bangle dangling from her skinny wrist. ‘She stayed about an hour. She told me she loved me, and then she left.’

  ‘And she’s not been back?’

  Annabelle sniffed. ‘No. Barnaby was his usual blustery self, following her out into the street and making a show of us. Shouting at the poor girl. Asking her when she was going to get a job. Get a wash. Behave like a civilised human being. He called her an “aimless hippy”.’

  ‘Our records show that Emily was demanding money.’

  ‘Yes. She sent a letter about three months ago asking for money for the Rapture.’

  ‘The Rapture?’

  ‘Some religious nonsense. It’s got something to do with the end of time. A spaceship is supposed to be coming down from Heaven to pick up the good and the great, or some such thing.’

  ‘A spaceship?’

  ‘It’s utter hogwash. The cult is trying to extort money from its members. If you ask me, they’ve all been brainwashed.’

  Ben saw an opening. ‘The money Emily asked for? Where are you supposed to send it?’

  Annabelle pulled at the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘I haven’t got to. They will send someone to pick it up.’

  ‘Was there a postmark on the envelope?’ Ben asked.

  ‘No. It was hand-delivered. Do you want to see it?’

  Ben nodded. ‘If that’s all right.’

  ‘She asks for quite a considerable sum of money. Two hundred thousand pounds.’

  Ben abandoned discretion. ‘Bloody hell! How much?’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch it.’

  Annabelle returned a few minutes later with the letter. She handed it to Ben. ‘I gave her everything, Mr Whittle. All of me. You look too young to have children, but one day you’ll understand. You’ll understand that there is no greater love than the one you have for your child.’

  Ben took the letter from the envelope and read:

  Dear Mother,

  It’s been a while. Hope you are well. I would ask about Father, but I expect him to be floating on his usual bed of cholesterol. It’s been hectic here. We’ve been working hard making preparations for the Rapture. For our glorious union with the Lord Jesus Christ.

  I know Father will dismiss this letter. But I speak the truth. The universal truth of Jesus Christ. I shall pray for Father that he might see the error of his ways. I know that he can’t see what he is. That is one consequence of bigotry. The Lord will judge him accordingly.

  We are The Chosen. We are to meet with the Lord on The Final Day of Reckoning. To help us achieve this glorious dream, we need a vast sum of money to construct a spaceship. All members of The Sons and Daughters of Salvation are being asked to contribute the sum of two hundred thousand pounds. Please don’t tell me you cannot afford this, because I know that you can, with plenty left over to indulge your extravagant lifestyle.

  Please look upon this as my inheritance. What is due. I shall spend it wisely, for there is no greater purpose than serving the Lord. We shall be resurrected as was Jesus after the Crucifixion. The Lord is our salvation. He, and He alone is our keeper.

  A motorcycle courier will collect the money from you on a date which will be specified in my next letter. You are to hand it to him in Daddy’s brown leather briefcase. Please don’t think about having him followed.

  Your loving daughter,

  Emily.

  Ben put the letter on the coffee table. ‘Have you had any more contact with your daughter since this letter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘When did the letter arrive?’

  ‘Easter. We called your father soon after that.’

  Ben recapped. ‘So all you know is that your daughter met a busker in Oxford called Marcus and then she went off and joined this cult?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘What were you going to do if my father located Emily?’

&nb
sp; ‘Barnaby was talking about going and getting her back. Forcibly, if need be. He claims to know people.’

  ‘Have you got a photograph of Emily that I could borrow?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing up to date. Your father took the last school one. Emily hated having her picture taken. I’ll see what I can find.’

  Annabelle returned five minutes later with a six by four photo taken on a beach. ‘Our last family holiday together.’

  Ben took the photo. Emily’s brown eyes looked blank. Her dark hair was scraped back from her forehead and tied in a ponytail. ‘How old is she here, Mrs Hunt?’

  ‘Coming up to sixteen.’

  Ben wrote his mobile number on the back of a business card and handed it to Annabelle. ‘I’ve got to get going. I’d be grateful if you’d contact me if your daughter gets in touch again.’

  Annabelle took the card and promised that she would. She showed him out. ‘Good luck, Mr Whittle.’

  Ben thought it would take a lot more than luck to resolve this mess.

  6

  Ben returned home to find Maddie and his mother looking through an old photo album. His mother was still wearing her pale blue dressing gown. Her hair looked as if it were trying to flee her scalp.

  Maddie looked up and smiled. ‘How’d it go?’

  Ben sat at the dining table. ‘Not too bad.’

  Anne looked at her son with bloodshot eyes. ‘Did you find out where this cult is?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What did the parents say?’ Maddie asked.

  Ben touched the teapot. Cold. ‘Just that the girl started seeing a guy in Oxford. A busker. He got her involved in the cult.’

  ‘That’s a fat lot of help,’ Anne said.

  Ben sighed. ‘Maybe you ought to stay with Aunt Mary for a while.’

  ‘And what should I tell her? That Geoff’s been taken hostage by a load of maniacs in a cult? And then spend the next God knows how long listening to her telling me I married the wrong man. She reckons everyone should marry a bank manager like she has. Sitting there all smug with her mock-Georgian house and mock-me manners.’

  ‘Can’t you tell her that Dad’s away on a case?’

  ‘She won’t believe me. She’ll be suspicious. And then she’ll think he’s having an affair. Or worse still that we’ve split up.’