by C. D. Neill
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Copyright
“Every man of genius sees the world at a different
angle from his fellows, and there is his tragedy.”
Henry Havelock Ellis. The Dance of Life 1923
This book is dedicated to all those loved ones whom are out of sight, but never out of mind. x
Prologue
He was tempted to turn back in response to her call, but he knew if he showed the slightest recognition, there would be no turning back. He would have to acknowledge his familiarity with her and be a willing participant to a conversation. Inevitably, she would ask him what he had been doing since they last met. She would be genuinely interested and he knew that it would be impossible to be evasive. He couldn’t risk it. So he strode on purposely, bowing his head until he heard her voice calling his name no longer. When he turned the corner, he relaxed in the shadows of the office building. It was unlikely she would pursue him. No doubt she would be confused. He hoped she wouldn’t be hurt, but rather question whether it had been him she had seen. After all, it had been at least eighteen years since they had last seen each other. Intimate and intense though their relationship had been, it was still possible that she had mistaken someone else for him.
He stood there for ten minutes, allowing his breathing to become more regular. It was true he had been panicked when he saw her, but also pleasantly surprised. She didn’t look any different from those earlier days when they had spent every day together. Her hair had darkened slightly but still retained the reddish tinge that he had admired when it shone brightly in the sun. Her face with its flawless vanilla cream complexion and neck scattered with the freckles that he had once laughingly called breadcrumbs. Her body still lean and willowy under the long coat that she had wrapped tightly against the September chill as she had waited at the pedestrian crossing. He had seen her on the other side, close enough to have recognised her instantly when their eyes had met. Surprise was registered on her face within a second and then delight. The delight he himself had felt before the green man on the pedestrian lights began blinking, and then it had been panic. He had turned away instantly, walking against the tide of people surging towards the pavements edge before the lights turned red. Elbowing himself away as aggressively as he was able, he ignored the angered responses and then walked as fast as he could. Then she had called him. His name rang so clearly and tugged at his conscience but he couldn’t have stopped, much as he would have liked too.
He stepped away from the building and entered the park alongside Vicarage Lane, looking furtively around him but also trying to look casual. There was a chance she would have come here, perhaps to clear her head of confusion. Or maybe she had shrugged and forgotten it as quickly as the moment of recognition that had taken place minutes ago. He hoped so but doubted it. She had always been sensitive. It was one of her more enduring qualities, and was instrumental in her being able to show empathy for anyone. He had used to tease her when she cried seeing a dead animal. But another part of him had wished that he was able to care about others as much as she did. Even then, part of him was dead. She had been the one thing that had helped him to feel alive. But that was then. Life was much different now.
He continued his way towards the International Station Arrivals confident she wasn’t following him. Seeing her had shaken him but he couldn’t allow it to distract him from the purpose of being there. He fingered the photograph in his pocket and tried to memorise every detail of his charges’ face. The boy looked younger than twelve which could cause problems with Immigration. However, the child would have a letter from their parents so it was more likely the questioning would take place at Border control in Brussels and wouldn’t involve him. Nonetheless, it was important he did not make a mistake when they met. It helped to have information on what clothes they would wear but often this could change at the last moment. One time, the child had wet themselves and had changed during the journey almost causing him to approach the wrong one. Mistaken identity in this job could be detrimental for everyone concerned. The thought made him lick his upper lip nervously. The monitor screen positioned above him showed him that the train from Brussels had arrived. He waited at the coffee bar behind a pillar that obscured him from the CCTV camera watching a family come through the revolving doors and head towards check in. The father, a tall man with a heavy build was trying to push a luggage trolley overburdened with suitcases that wobbled precariously as one of the turned wheels turned back on itself and caused the trolley to stop without warning. The mother, a slim woman in her late twenties held the hand of her young daughter, who chattered excitedly in an undecipherable language, her eyes fixated on the Euro-Disney posters. Occasionally she would point a finger at Mickey Mouse and make skipping movements that shot her forward a step leaving one foot suspended in mid air as she was restrained by her Mother’s gait. He watched their flurried activity until they disappeared through passport control, their voices fading away until any memory of them disappeared as quickly as they had arrived. The speakers above him politely reminded all passengers not to leave any baggage unattended and repeated the message in alternate languages. He waited still and silent; the core in a tornado of activity. The alternating rhythms of hurried feet and squeaking trolleys, the laughter in greetings and the quieter farewells. And then the boy arrived. He recognised a small dark face with wide eyes looked searchingly for the man they expected to see. He approached from the side of the turnstiles and made an effort to open his arms in a welcoming embrace so that his mouth was against the boy’s ear. “Who saw you off?” He whispered.
The child looked up at him and gestured a lack of understanding. He took the boy’s backpack from him and searched through the front pocket until he found his charge’s passport. Smiling as if with joy at a reunion, he pocketed the passport in his jeans before handing back the backpack. They headed toward the escalator that lead to the domestic stations entrance, the boy walking silently beside him.
The boy sat quietly looking out of the window of the bus as it navigated its way out of town. He handed the boy a bottle of water and a tablet which he motioned the boy to swallow. The boy did as he was bidden. He guessed the boy had been sedated before his train journey from Brussels but it would be necessary to ensure the boy was co-operative during the handover. Neither talked, the pretence was over now. It wasn’t necessary to talk to the boy or act out a relationship for the benefit of other travellers. Experience had taught him that people didn’t care one way or other if they saw a child seated next to a single man on a bus, even when the child had been distressed and wailing in foreign languages, it would more likely cause embarrassmen
t to his fellow passengers who would pretend they couldn’t hear.
The bus left them at the corner stop six miles away from the town. He gestured again for the boy to follow him as he crossed over a foot-style into a field of long grass still wet from the previous day’s downpour. Within minutes of wading through the pasture his jeans and trainers were soaked. The boy followed, still silent despite the discomfort, clutching his small backpack against him as he attempted to match the older man’s stride. A gate swung open on rusted hinges as they made their way toward the cottage in the corner of the field ducking underneath two large conifers that brushed against the boy’s face as he passed. The boy hadn’t uttered a word but seeing the door, he suddenly grabbed his companion’s hand and tried to pull him in the opposite direction. This was a common occurrence so he had learnt to ignore the signs of last minute panic. He figured the cottage was to blame for their fear, it looked dark and dingy with the windows boarded up. He pulled his hand away and strode purposely toward the door. He knocked twice, and ignored the boy’s frantic attempt to cling to his leg as the door opened. He recognised the elegant woman who hesitantly opened the door and pushed the boy toward her, handing her the passport that he had taken earlier and waited as she compared the photograph to the boy who was now in distress. Without speaking, she ushered the boy in the door and slammed the door shut. He heard the sounds of bolts sliding shut as he retraced his steps back towards the field and the bus home.
It was almost dark by the time he reached his flat in Queens Street. He pushed open the main door with his foot whilst scrambling in his jeans pocket for his door key. But then stopped. His door above the short flight of steps was already open, only a crack, but enough to know someone was there. He stood for a minute, hovering on the top step, confused. Normally his visitor would come to his flat on the first day of every month. The visits would be short; long enough to be handed an envelope with cash for groceries, utility bills and rent and the usual instructions. The plan had never been changed. Until now.
Discreet noises of activity were heard before the shadow of a large figure moved towards the door from inside his flat. He recognised the lumbering movements of his only visitor, but the unusual activity within the flat made him uneasy. At this moment he made a decision and ran back down the stairs two at a time. He sprinted southbound toward Elwick Road, narrowly missing an oncoming car that sounded its horn in indignation. A seagull flew above him, squawking at his recklessness. He continued running until he reached the subway entrance that lead to the train station and then crouched down on his haunches wheezing. His mind was playing tricks on him; maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe it had been necessary to change his delegated tasks. But if so, why not have slipped the instructions under the door? Why enter the flat?
It was possible that he had mistaken the identity of his surprise guest. It was doubtful burglars had broken in; there was nothing to attract them and certainly nothing to steal. Unless…the unthinkable had happened. He was sure he hadn’t been followed from the International Station, he had been careful. Surely, if he had been followed, they would have arrested him after he had delivered the boy? Maybe his visitor was there for an entirely different reason. His use had expired. He shook his head as if to rid himself of such paranoid thoughts and tried to reason with himself. He had been so careful. Every instruction had been fulfilled to the letter, he had never made a mistake, there would be no reason to doubt his value. Without him the whole project would be rendered inoperative.
He slapped his palm flat against his forehead in an attempt to control the thoughts that were flooding into his consciousness. He wished he had kept the tablets; he needed to be still in mind. His fingers scratched at the lining of his pockets in a desperate hope that there would be one nestling in the folds. His search was futile. His consciousness was now overwhelmed by a tsunami of paranoia. He retraced his steps during the day. The only difference between this day and any other was that he had seen her. Was she part of it? Why had he seen her? If only he had spoken to her, had waited for her at the lights. She would have hooked her arm through his just like she used to. The two of them behaving like no time had passed. He whimpered as he rocked himself. He hadn’t spoken to her because he was scared, regardless of whether his fear may be unjustified. It was difficult to tell when he had real cause for alarm, his mind played tricks on him all the time. He couldn’t cope with change; especially if it was unexpected. For that reason alone, he knew they would have prepared him for a change in plans. Not because they would be compassionate to his situation but because he would be useless otherwise. So why visit him now, without warning? His instinct, clouded though it was, gnawed at him, he suspected he wasn’t the first to have received an unexpected visit. The others had warned him this would happen someday. Over the last year he had lost contact with the others. One by one they had faded away, no explanation had been offered, just the order to continue as before. It was possible that they had got away. He envied them, knowing he would never find the courage to do the same.
He became aware of a taxi driver watching him. He met the man’s eyes and stared him down. It never occurred to him that the driver was watching him wondering whether he should help the skinny man who was crouched down amongst the pigeon filth, cradling his head in a gesture of despair.
Time had passed unnoticed by the time he had controlled his thoughts and returned to his flat. The light had been switched off and the door closed. He entered the flat and fumbled his way towards the light switch, hoping no-one was waiting for him in the dark. The light blinkered on and focused his attention to the items on the table. An envelope with instructions had been left with a few coins. He read the instructions and frowned. It didn’t make sense.
“Purchase parcel tape with money provided. Retain receipt and change. Wait to be contacted.”
The residue of his earlier panic bubbled up in the form of a short laugh, he had been paranoid. There was nothing to fear, although the note was ridiculous. Usually the instructions would include a photograph of his proposed charge, their arrival times on a given flight, train or ferry and a delivery address. But this...this was simply a chore. He picked up the coins and left the apartment.
“Every person of genius is in some degree at once man, woman and child.”
Henry Havelock Ellis. The Dance of Life 1923.
CHAPTER ONE
Detective Inspector Wallace Hammond’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest. Instead of breathing he was gasping for air like a man drowning. He had been jogging for thirty minutes and was now convinced that he was dying. It was his second day on his new healthy lifestyle plan and he felt anything but healthy as a result. Yesterday he had done well resisting the temptation of biscuits with his coffee, had even reduced his sugar down to two spoonfuls instead of the usual three. His evening meal of supermarket bought ready-made three bean casserole had boasted only 430 calories. But now he was craving a bacon sandwich and the muesli he had tentatively eaten two hours ago did nothing but assure him that he deserved better.
He limped towards the park bench and allowed himself to fall back onto it rather than endure the further discomfort of trying to bend his legs first. He allowed his head to fall back and remained slumped. One arm dangling over the side of the bench, the other stretched out sideways on the back rest. He knew he looked ridiculous but at that moment didn’t care. The sweat patches under his arms had spread towards an identical stain from under the elasticated waistband of his jogging trousers. His back felt clammy and the sweatshirt clung to his ample body. His greying but thick hair which didn’t look great on the best of days was now sticking up at remarkable angles as if it were a bunch of flowers reaching towards the sun. He felt nauseous and decided that jogging was not for him. He had lived fifty two years without choosing to run around a park in the early hours of the morning so he was sure that living the remainder of his years without doing so wouldn’t make much of a difference.
The clouds he wa
s staring at were moving fast to make room for the larger grey promise of rain. He decided it was time to move and heaved himself out of the bench. “You sad excuse for a man” he reprimanded himself out loud as he limped towards the park exit.
It was raining heavily by the time Hammond let himself into the house. He kicked his new trainers off dismissively under the coat rack that was over burdened with everything but coats; empty carrier bags, umbrellas of all sizes and colours, clean shirts that were waiting to be ironed, a few tea towels from the occasions when he had answered the door whilst drying up and quickly flung onto the hook before opening the door. A library book, long past its return date teetered precariously between the two hooks on which it rested. He mused, as he shuffled past in his socks, that coat rack hides a multitude of sins. Now, like the many other forgotten objects hidden under the bundles, his new trainers will also be lost. Not a bad thing he winced as the newly formed blisters paid homage to the now abandoned footwear.
Hammond paused to check call minder on the phone before climbing the stairs. The tone alternated between high and low tones indicating he had messages. He sat amongst a pile of folded clean laundry on the bottom stair as he dialled 1571. He had three messages, one was from the sports shop on the high-street telling him that his treadmill will be delivered sometime between 10am and six pm on Friday the sixth of December, he noted to call them back and cancel the order. The second message was from Paul, his twenty-four year old son, asking for some money, the third message more surprising. “Wallace, its Lloyd, Lloyd Harris. I would like to talk to you when you are not in the office so give me a call. Perhaps come down to the club. Speak soon.” the message beeped to the end. Hammond pressed two to save the last message. Lloyd Harris. He hadn’t seen him since his retirement four years previously and there hadn’t been much opportunity to talk due to all the many well wishers competing for Harris’ attention. The last time he had enjoyed a real conversation with Harris must be at least six years ago, he remembered. Harris had come round for a meal when he was still married to Lyn. It had been around the time when Lyn had moved into the spare room. Hammond wondered if Harris had noticed the tension that hung in the air of the house. It had been a difficult time. He expressed his regrets in a long drawn out sigh and phoned Paul’s mobile which rang for several seconds, left a message saying he would transfer money into Paul’s account and pulled himself up the stairs towards the bathroom.
