Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  He turned around and started racing down the stairs. But as he approached the first landing, the lift whine ceased and was replaced by a juddering sound as the cage reached the ground floor. He would not make it in time. He stopped, breathless, and leaned out over the balustrade, looking down the well and straining to catch a glimpse of the occupant.

  He heard the door open. A shaft of light fell across the floor. The merest hint of a black wool coat. Light steps. The next moment he heard the muted whoosh of the revolving glass doors in the front hall. Silence.

  Well, so much for that, then. He straightened, feeling disappointed and almost angry.

  The front door of his apartment was closed and locked. But even as he turned the key, he knew that someone had been inside.

  Not that there were any clear signs of disturbance. The papers on his desk were still neatly stacked. As far as he could see, nothing was taken. The data on his computer was what concerned him most but, fortunately, he had been carrying his notebook around with him all day and had not had the chance to set it up again before he went for his run. It was still in his satchel inside the safe and the combination lock was fast. His CDs were out of harm’s way inside a beautiful eighteenth-century fruitwood cabinet with a very sophisticated twenty-first-century lock.

  But there were signs, nevertheless. The broom cupboard in the kitchen could not be closed unless you deliberately pushed against the door and he never did that because, once closed, the door was murder to open again. He had once ruined two perfectly good table knives trying to get in and ever since then he had never forced it. He had been meaning to get the locking mechanism fixed but hadn’t got round to it yet.

  The door was immobile. He pulled on the knob but it stayed closed. Someone had walked past this cupboard and instinctively pushed the door shut, not realising it would be a dead giveaway that an intruder had been inside.

  The second sign was in the bedroom. Before setting out for his run, he had changed his day clothes for his running shorts and a T-shirt and had simply dropped jacket and trousers on the bed without bothering to put them away. The clothes were still where he had left them. He had also dropped his long-sleeved shirt into the open laundry basket and the shirt was inside the laundry basket; all as it should be. But on top of the shirt were two socks and that was wrong. When he had taken them off, he had, as usual, tried to throw his socks into the basket. He averaged a 98 per cent success rate but today his aim was off and one of them had ended up outside the basket. He remembered feeling annoyed about it. When he left, one sock had been inside the basket. One outside. No longer.

  The footsteps in the front hall had been unmistakably those of a woman. And only a woman would tidy up a stray sock. And then there was the Babbaloo menu in the bin downstairs. Taken together, the signs gave him a pretty clear indication as to in which direction he should be looking.

  He had never invited the sisters to his apartment: it was as though he realised that he needed to keep that part of his life separate. But tonight one of them had paid him a visit.

  Both sisters were interested in transformation and alchemy. But only one had stepped over into darkness. Magic was amoral, his tattooed friend of this morning had assured him. It was the intent of the practitioner that was key. So who had been inside his apartment tonight? The good witch, or the witch with evil intent? He smiled, grimly amused that he now seemed to be able to use the word ‘witch’ without any sense of irony.

  A thought suddenly entered his mind and he went cold. The picture of Robert Whittington and the two women on Hampstead Heath. The one he had stolen during his very first visit to the house. Where was it?

  He walked swiftly to his bookcase and pulled down the heavy volume of the Oxford English Dictionary. Placing his thumb on the tab marked R, he opened the pages.

  The picture was still there, along with the head-shot of the boy Frankie had given him. He gave a deep sigh of relief. His secret was safe.

  Which still left the main question unanswered. Who had entered his apartment tonight: his love or his adversary?

  And what if they were one and the same?

  • • •

  He was still standing there, the dictionary heavy in his hand, when the phone rang.

  Gabriel recognised the voice immediately. He tried to keep his own voice cool.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Whittington?’

  ‘I would like to meet with you at my house, Gabriel. Tonight, if possible.’

  Oh, no. The last thing he felt like doing was talking to a dying man about his dead son.

  When he didn’t answer, Whittington continued, ‘Please. It will just be you and me. Cecily will be at a charity dinner.’

  Well, at least he wouldn’t have to face Frankie. He hadn’t seen her since their argument three days ago in Isidore’s house. He and Isidore were back on speaking terms although relations between them were still strained. But Frankie… the disappointment in her eyes had been bad enough. Worse, though, had been the resignation he had read on her face—as though she had hoped he wouldn’t fail her but was not really that surprised that he had.

  ‘Please,’ Whittington repeated. ‘Around eight. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The butler who opened the door of the Whittington residence for him wore an expression of long-suffering patience mixed with faint nausea.

  ‘Mr Whittington is expecting you,’ he said, managing to inject an inflection of pained surprise into his voice. ‘If you would come this way.’

  Gabriel followed silently, even though he felt like kicking the man’s imperious arse. Who still employed butlers anyway? Hadn’t they gone the way of the dodo?

  They passed through the impressively domed entrance hall, which smelled of furniture polish, and entered a room that was obviously used as a study. It had a very masculine feel to it, all leather club chairs, hunting prints and tooled calfskin books.

  Set within the bay window was a gigantic kneehole desk. A gilt-framed photograph sat in the extreme right-hand corner. The back of the photograph was facing the room and he was unable to see who or what it depicted. Hanging above the fireplace was a life-sized oil painting of Frankie. It was an excellent rendition: the artist had managed to capture the essence of his sitter. The painted eyes were lifelike and reflected her level-headedness, compassion and humour.

  Gabriel turned to the butler, who was looking down his nose at him. For a moment he thought the man was going to tell him not to touch anything but all he said was, ‘Please wait here. Mr Whittington will be with you shortly.’

  Gabriel sat down in one of the club chairs and crossed his ankles, trying to relax.

  A sound at the door made him look up. William Whittington had entered the room and once more Gabriel was aware of the force of his personality. It wasn’t the in-your-face arrogance of the typical corporate alpha male—it was far more subtle than that. But there was no mistaking that this was a big, big jungle cat, even if it walked softly.

  ‘Gabriel. Thank you for coming.’ Whittington held out his hand and as Gabriel took it he noticed the raised blue veins under the skin. And did he imagine it, or was his grip less firm than the first time they had met?

  ‘Can I fix you a drink?’ Whittington approached a glass-fronted bookcase and placed his hand against the door. It swung open to reveal a bar area with a mirror, glasses and several rows of bottles.

  ‘Whisky, thank you.’

  ‘Bourbon or Scotch?’

  ‘Scotch will be good.’

  After handing Gabriel his drink, Whittington sat down in the swivel chair behind his desk. A grimace of pain flitted across his face and Gabriel felt a stab of pity. Not that Whittington was the kind of man who would welcome his concern.

  Whittington raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Gabriel took a sip of the smoothest whisky he had ever tasted. He glanced over at the bottle. The label was unknown to him, some unpronounceable Scottish name. Probably at leas
t ten pounds a shot.

  ‘First,’ Whittington looked steadily at Gabriel, ‘I’d like to thank you.’

  Gabriel moved his shoulders uncomfortably. ‘I haven’t been very successful so far.’

  ‘You’ve brought us much closer to the truth than anyone else. That’s more than the police and private investigators I’ve hired have been able to do. At least we now know where the evil lies. In Monk House.’

  Gabriel was jarred. Evil? When he thought of Monk House he thought of flowers, laughter, beautiful music and friendship.

  Whittington was watching him keenly. ‘They’re fascinating women.’

  Gabriel made a noncommittal sound.

  ‘Someone once said, “Everything that deceives may be said to enchant”.’

  ‘Plato, actually.’ He could be erudite too.

  Whittington smiled faintly. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Mr Whittington—’

  ‘William, please.’

  ‘William. I wish I had more to give you but I can’t really tell you all that much.’ Gabriel suddenly realised he had a headache. It had come from nowhere but it was now pulsing just behind his eyes.

  ‘Tell me this. Is my son still alive?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so or you know so?’

  ‘I know so.’

  It was very quiet in the room. Whittington sat in his chair with extraordinary stillness. Gabriel looked away, unwilling to witness the grief in the eyes of the man opposite him. His gaze went past Whittington’s shoulder and out the curved bay window and came to rest on the spotlit statue of a naked female. She was standing inside a niche in the garden wall and had flowing hair curling coyly round her hips, only barely concealing the mons veneris. Her breasts were full and her shoulders beautifully rounded. But her features were weathered and pitted, the eyes shallow indentations in a blank face.

  When Whittington spoke again his voice sounded exhausted. ‘Frankie tells me Robert might have been drowned.’

  ‘Yes. The impression I got during my ride was of death by drowning.’

  ‘My son was an excellent swimmer. He loved water.’

  ‘I know. Frankie told me. But something happened to your son before he drowned. Something that affected his brain and which induced partial paralysis of his body. What, I don’t know. But I think that was why he was unable to defend himself. I’m not going to lie to you. At the moment everything is a muddle. I don’t see clearly at all. The only thing I am convinced of is that your son is no longer alive. I’m sorry—I wish I could say otherwise.’

  Whittington inclined his head. ‘Frankie has been trying to prepare me but I needed to hear it from you myself. Thank you for your honesty.’ He reached out to the photograph on his desk and as he pulled it towards him Gabriel had a glimpse of the picture. It was a copy of the one Frankie had given him when she first visited the loft. Robert Whittington. Smiling.

  Alive.

  Whittington touched the picture with his thumb. He looked up and the expression in his eyes was no longer one of sadness but one of determination.

  ‘Now I want to ask you something else. Will you be able to find out what happened?’

  Some things are better left to mystery. The words popped into his mind unbidden and for one horrified moment Gabriel thought he had actually uttered them out loud.

  But Whittington was no fool. ‘You think it best to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘No.’ Gabriel pressed his fingertips against the spot above the bridge of his nose where his headache had settled. Man, he felt knackered. And he was aware of an unheard sound vibrating through his skull, faint but insistent. It was as though… as though something was scratching at his mind, trying to get in.

  ‘Gabriel?’ Whittington’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  He looked at Whittington where he was sitting behind his desk and was surprised to find that he had trouble focusing. ‘I won’t stop searching. You have my word. As long as you want me to keep looking, I will. I’ll only stop if you tell me to.’

  ‘I’ll never give up,’ Whittington said. ‘Not as long as I have breath in my body.’

  His words might have come across as overly dramatic, but for the fact that Gabriel knew he was looking at a dying man. With things as they were, they sounded poignant. And for one disconcerting moment, as he looked into the other man’s face, he thought he glimpsed the stark sheen of Whittington’s skull glowing through his skin like a premonitory hologram.

  Whittington opened his mouth and said something else but Gabriel was unable to concentrate on his words because for a fleeting moment the image of a spider flitted across the transom of his mind and a fragrance of musk and frangipani stirred a memory…

  NO! He slammed down on his inner eye and a massive bolt of pain shot through his head. It was so shocking that he almost let go, but then he clamped down even tighter, shutting out the intrusive presence that was probing his brain. A burst of heavy fragrance—the musk and frangipani smell now almost unbearably intense—exploded in his mind as the intruder withdrew with an almost audible squeal. He was bathed in sweat and wanted to throw up.

  ‘Gabriel?’ Whittington had moved out from behind his desk and was standing beside his chair, a glass of water in his hand. ‘Drink this. Are you all right? Shall I call a doctor?’

  ‘No.’ He pushed Whittington’s hand away. ‘I’ll be OK. I just need to get home.’ He felt very sick and for a moment he thought he might vomit onto the priceless Tabriz carpet. He gulped several deep breaths, trying to settle his pitching stomach.

  ‘I’ll ask Flannery to call you a cab.’ Whittington went out of the room and a few moments later Gabriel could hear him talking to someone in the entrance hall. As he waited, he closed his eyes. His head was throbbing wildly. He didn’t want to look at this room in which the light now seemed acid-bright and the furniture horribly lopsided. His overriding desire was to get to his bed and pull the covers over his head. He opened his eyes briefly and for one awful moment it seemed as though Frankie was trying to step out of the heavy gilt frame above the fireplace and into the room, her painted figure elongated and strange. Hurriedly, he closed his eyes again.

  When the taxi arrived, Whittington accompanied him into the street. As he shut the cab door on Gabriel, he leaned through the open window. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  Gabriel nodded, then winced. Nodding was definitely not on the cards yet. ‘Don’t worry.’ He tried to smile. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He hesitated, searching for words. ‘And I’ll keep my promise. You have my word. I won’t stop searching for your son until you do.’

  Whittington stepped back. He lifted his hand in a gesture of thanks or farewell, Gabriel couldn’t tell. And then the cab pulled away from the kerb leaving the tall thin figure behind.

  • • •

  His brain felt battered. There was no other word for it. As though someone had taken a swing at it with a blunt object.

  Gabriel lay in his bed watching the play of shadows on the ceiling. Light from outside filtered in through the half-open curtains. He had left the window open even though the wind was fresh. It blew into the room at irregular intervals, chilling his face and exposed shoulders.

  The alarm clock next to his bed blinked crimson seconds. 2 A.M.

  The first thing he had done upon his return to the apartment was check the diary in the hope that the writer had added an entry tonight, which might give him a clue as to what had happened to him at Whittington’s house. But there was nothing new. He had checked again half an hour ago. Still nothing. The last entry was keyed in fully three days ago. She was not in the mood to write.

  Again and again he relived his visit to William Whittington’s house and the moment he had realised he was being viewed remotely. It had been a very skilled scan. It had started out so gently, he had almost missed it. The remote viewer was testing the terrain, but what had started out as a kind of scouting expedition had turne
d into an assault as soon as Gabriel tried to get the intruder out of his mind. The RV who had accessed him did not like to be denied entry.

  For a moment he thought back to his years at Eyestorm and the scans remote viewers had run on each other. Sometimes the exercise was conducted in stealth mode—the idea being that the scan should be done without the other viewer knowing about it. But he had always been able to sense immediately when he was being accessed and he never had the slightest trouble shutting the scan down. But tonight he had almost missed the signals—the scan had indeed been spider-like, the viewer leaving hardly any prints behind. Only that signature of musk and frangipani. And when he did finally cotton on and tried to clamp down, it had felt like trying to shut the door on an avalanche. And it hurt.

  Who was it?

  Someone with truly extraordinary remote viewing skills. Rivalling his own. No, surpassing them. He had never before encountered an RV who could wield his talent like a weapon, inflicting physical pain on the subject who was being viewed. He certainly wasn’t able to do so.

  Uneasily he remembered the agonising pain that had shot through his head when he had clamped down. His overwhelming impulse had been to let go, to allow the scan to continue. Anything to stop the pain. What if, next time, he wasn’t able to hold on?

  Stop being a wimp. No one had ever bested him before. And next time he’d be prepared.

  But it was an odd feeling, knowing he might have met his match. At Eyestorm no one had been even remotely in his league. What had Frankie called him? Mr Super Remote Viewer.

  Ah, Frankie. Suddenly he missed her fiercely. Among all the weirdness, she had always been the sane voice. He wondered what she was doing at the moment. Had she returned from her event yet? Was she sleeping? He remembered how, when she slept, there was always the hint of a frown between her eyes. It had amused him when they were still together, the way in which she would seem to be concentrating even while in the land of nod. ‘It’s as though sleep is an activity for you,’ he’d tease her. ‘Not a release.’ And he had pressed his lips to the little frown between her eyebrows, smoothing out the lines with a kiss.