Esther was redirected to his voicemail.
“Hi Peter, its Esther. I’m at Maria Jameson’s house, the lady you’re coming to see next week. Sorry to call you out of hours, but I would appreciate your advice. Listen to this.”
Esther walked to Christopher’s room and held her phone next to him.
“I hope you could hear that, it’s Christopher Jameson, he’s chanting something new.”
She walked out of his room with the phone to her ear.
“I would appreciate some advice, please call me, thanks.”
She ended the call and turned to Maria who was back in the lounge with two mugs of coffee.
“Hopefully he’ll call.”
They sat in awkward silence. It wasn’t easy to make small talk when a thirteen month old child was speaking like an adult in the room next door.
Maria opened her mouth to say something in an attempt to break the difficult moment, but stopped as Esther’s phone rang.
“Peter, thank you for calling.”
Maria listened to Esther’s side of the conversation which was mainly made up of a series of ‘yes’ and ‘I understand’ and lots of ‘OKs’. Maria tried to work out how the conversation was going, but gave up and waited patiently for Esther to finish the call.
“I’ll ask her and get back to you ASAP, thanks Peter.”
Esther ended the call, and turned to Maria who was perched on the edge of the settee.
“First of all Peter has confirmed that we shouldn’t wake him. Just let him carry on. The likelihood is high that Christopher is oblivious to what is going on and waking him is very likely to cause unnecessary upset.”
Maria nodded.
“Peter wishes he could be here to see firsthand what is happening. He’s extremely keen to be involved and wants to find out what’s causing Christopher to do this.”
Esther paused as she wrote notes in her pocketbook.
“Maria, could you and Christopher spend a week in London next week?”
“London?”
“Yes, London. Peter doesn’t think his visit next week will be particularly useful and wants to know if you could come to London instead so he can arrange some tests.”
“Tests, what kind of tests?”
Maria wasn’t happy with the thought of Christopher undergoing tests.
“Don’t worry, he’s not talking about invasive tests, he’s talking about a brain scan.”
Maria was agitated.
“A brain scan? I’m not sure.”
Esther explained that the process would take place when Christopher was sleeping, so he probably wouldn’t know the tests were happening. She continued to describe what would happen during the test, which would involve Christopher wearing little sensors on his head.
“Why would it take a whole week?” asked Maria.
“Only because Christopher doesn’t seem to head bang and talk every night. If he stayed over for a few days then the chances of Peter getting some useful results would be much better.”
Maria slowly nodded and Esther continued.
“If Christopher chants and bangs his head during the first night, I would imagine Peter would be happy for you to go home the next day.”
“Oh, and Peter said he would cover your expenses.”
Maria thought about what Esther had just told her. She knew it made sense and she should accept Peter’s offer.
“Peter has some very important business in the West Country next week and he is willing to rearrange everything in order to help you.”
“OK, let’s do it,” said Maria.
Esther smiled.
“I’m going to have to arrange a week away from work at very short notice and my boss won’t be pleased.”
“I can call him if it will help,” suggested Esther.
“Thanks, but I’m sure I can talk to him on my own, I’m a big girl now.”
Esther smiled again.
Eventually the small talk flowed and they happily chatted until they noticed that Christopher had stopped chanting.
Christopher lay peacefully in his cot and Esther took the opportunity to take his temperature and pulse which were perfectly normal.
“Are you sure you’ll be OK?” asked Esther, as she zipped up her fleece jacket.
“Honestly, I’ll be fine. You need to get home.”
Esther put her arms around Maria and hugged her.
“Call me after you‘ve spoken with your boss and we’ll get the London thing going.”
Maria nodded, said goodnight and then shut and deadlocked the door.
Chapter sixty nine
Newquay, Cornwall
11.37am
Thursday 20th October
Daniel Boyd walked across Fistral Beach. Even out of season the place was busy. Surfers were taking on the big waves, dogs were chasing balls and rolling in the sand and families were flying kites and enjoying the sea air.
Daniel pulled up the collar of his coat to keep the wind from whistling around his ears.
It was a brisk October morning and the wind was blowing a sand devil towards the shore. The sky was blue and cloudless and the sun was bright. It was thirteen degrees, but the wind made it if feel less than ten.
The smell of the coast had hit him the moment he stepped off the bus on Monday. It instantly took him back to his childhood, and to times when he was happier.
As soon as he arrived he had booked into a cheap bed and breakfast and paid to stay for two weeks.
His polythene bag of money was depleting faster than he’d thought. The bed and breakfast had cost him over £250, even with a discount for paying with cash. He’d bought a warm coat, waterproof shoes and fresh underwear. Although he was living off sandwiches he seemed to be spending a fortune on food.
He found a sheltered spot by some rocks and counted his money. He had just over one thousand pounds. A strong gust blew, and even though he was sheltered by the rocks, the wind picked up a wad of notes. He had been counting his money in wads of fifties and he’d placed each pile of fifty on the sand with a pebble on top to stop the notes from blowing away. He’d almost finished packing the cash back into his rucksack when the strong gust of wind whipped the last pile of notes from under the pebble and into the air and across the beach. He zipped his ruck sack and raced across the beach in a hopeless effort to grab the money. The notes blew high into the air and twirled towards the sea. The wind dropped and he watched them flutter into the water, to be enveloped by a breaking wave. He patrolled the shoreline for half an hour hoping to retrieve the soggy cash but eventually gave up, admitting defeat. He cursed at the top of his lungs, but no one heard him as the wind carried his words out to sea.
He trudged back to the town. He needed to find work and soon.
He knew he could only work for cash. He didn’t want anyone to know where he was and didn’t want to be located by his National Insurance number. He avoided the Jobcentreplus. He hated the place because he’d spent most of his adult life there back in Bristol. Instead, he knocked on doors of pubs and restaurants, looking for washing up work. He asked builders if they had any labouring jobs. There were plenty of coffee vending huts near the beach, but most of them were boarded up for the winter, and the ones which were open were struggling for business and weren’t looking to take on new staff.
By Friday he’d walked around the town ten times over looking for work and had found nothing. Boyd wasn’t the most appealing looking potential employee. He trudged around Newquay wearing dirty trousers, his new coat was already looking disheveled and his spotty white skin contrasted against his greasy unkempt black hair. His personal hygiene wasn’t good and he stank of cigarettes.
He walked past a boarded up petrol station where two men were having an argument. One man was Cornish and his loud drawl was echoing around the forecourt. The other man was foreign. Boyd was useless at recognising accents. The man sounded European, but he definitely wasn’t French or German.
He watched from the other side of road
as the foreign man took off his high visibility jacket, threw it to the floor and marched away towards Boyd.
“Fuck off back to Bulgaria!” shouted the Cornish man.
The Bulgarian pushed passed Boyd and cursed in his own language.
The Cornish man walked across the forecourt and disappeared into a temporary building. On the side of the little grey office was a badly painted sign.
‘Wash and Go’
Hand Car Wash from £5
Boyd straightened his coat, pushed his hands through his hair and with an air of confidence, marched to the shabby office building. He knocked on the door and entered.
The sparse ten by eight office was a mess. The desk was covered in paperwork and newspapers. A recently boiled kettle was steaming in the corner next to a carton of milk and tray of dirty mugs. A Pirelli calendar was hanging from a nail on the wall.
The Cornish man was sitting in a shabby office chair with a phone to his ear. Hearing Boyd knocking he spun around in his chair and ended the call.
“Can I help you son?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for a job.”
“Can you wash a car?”
Boyd nodded.
“When can you start?”
“Whenever you want me.”
The man pointed to the high visibility jacket lying on the forecourt.
“Put on the jacket, you start today.”
Boyd nodded, walked over to the bright yellow waterproof coat, picked it up and put it on.
“Oh, and by the way. I pay cash only. It’s up to you to pay your taxes.”
Boyd smiled.
“Perfect,” he said under his breath.
“My name’s Mudge, what’s yours?” asked the Cornish man, holding out his hand.
Boyd was failing at the first hurdle. He didn’t want to give his real name and hadn’t considered what he should call himself.
A combination of first names and surnames buzzed around his head and then he thought of Stanley, the only person who seemed to care about him.
After what seemed like an eternity Boyd shook Mudge’s hand.
“I’m Stanley,” said Boyd in an unconvincing tone.
“Do you have another name?” asked Mudge.
“What do you mean, another name?” asked Boyd warily.
“Do you have a surname?”
Boyd had another blank moment. He’d never known Stanley’s surname and was stumped as to what to say.
“Jarrett,” he eventually blurted out.
“I’m Stanley Jarrett.”
Mudge told Boyd what the job involved, which was basically cleaning cars by hand. Even Boyd couldn’t get that wrong.
“I’ll pay you thirty pounds a day and you’ll work six days a week. I close on Sunday.”
Boyd‘s tiny mind was trying to compute how much he’d be paid for the whole week, luckily Mudge helped him out.
“When you finish work on Saturday night, I’ll give you a little brown envelope with thirty pounds and a pay slip for every day you’ve worked, so if you’re here all week you’ll get £180 and if you’re not you won’t.”
Boyd nodded.
“I’ll need an invoice from you.”
“An invoice, for what?”
“Listen, I run a legitimate business and you’re self-employed, I want an invoice from you each week to balance my books. As I said, it’s up to you to pay your own taxes.”
Boyd was trying to work out how much he’d have left after he’d paid for bed and breakfast each week.
“Where are you staying son? I guess from your accent you’re not from around here.”
“I’m staying at a B&B up the hill.”
“Jesus Stanley! That’s gonna cost you a fortune.”
“It’s not cheap.”
“I’ll tell you what son, see that building there.”
Mudge pointed to another temporary building which looked shabbier than the office.
“You can stay there if you like. It’s another office, but I don’t use it. There’s a bed, a sink and a little cooker and there are public toilets just around the corner.”
Mudge unlocked the door and Boyd looked inside. The building was cold and smelt damp.
“How much do you want?” asked Boyd.
“Thirty pounds a week and I’ll knock it off your wages.”
“If this is your spare office, why’s there a bed?”
“I used to kip here sometimes if I’d had a row with the wife.”
“Where are you going to go if you have a row with your wife and I’m there?” asked Boyd.
“I’m not married any more. Best decision I ever made.”
Boyd smiled.
“I’ll take it.”
They shook hands on the agreement.
Don Mudge was a big man in his early fifties. His strong Cornish accent was sometimes hard even for other Cornish people to understand. He’d tried his hand at a multitude of failed businesses including an antiques dealer, which failed as he knew nothing about antiques.
He’d had a building company which lost so much money he’d almost lost his own house.
He’d also run a driving school, but his tolerance of nervous drivers was so low and his temper was so volatile, word soon got around to avoid learning to drive with ‘Don’s Modern School of Motoring’.
So here he was. Scraping a living washing cars.
To be fair, during the summer he was flat out. From May to September cars were queuing to be cleaned. But now, the season was over and it was quieter, but still busy enough to need a helping hand.
“What happened to the foreign guy?”
“Who, Toma?” replied Mudge.
Boyd nodded.
“I had to get rid of him. He was flakey, you know, turned up late, wanted to leave early. He had to go. Anyway Stanley, his loss, your gain.”
Boyd liked Mudge. There was something about his abrupt no nonsense style that he admired.
“Come on son, let’s have a brew while it’s quiet.”
Boyd followed Mudge back to the office and shut the door behind him.
“So what’s your story?”
Boyd shrugged his shoulders.
“Where are you from, you sound Bristolian?”
Boyd nodded.
“I just wanted to go somewhere different, you know, see something new.”
“So, out of all the places you could have gone, you came to Newquay.” Mudge laughed as he poured the tea.
“Well, I suppose it could be worse, you could have ended up in Bodmin.”
They chatted for a while and Boyd told him he’d split from his girlfriend and just wanted to disappear for a while.
“It’s your choice son, just as long as you haven’t murdered anyone,” laughed Mudge as he dunked a biscuit into his dirty mug of tea.
Boyd said nothing.
A car pulled onto the forecourt and the driver sounded the horn.
“Come on son, put down your drink, here’s your first customer.”
Boyd followed Mudge onto the forecourt.
Bristol seemed a million miles away. For the first time since he could remember he was feeling untroubled, almost happy.
Chapter seventy
The Portland Hospital
London
4.50pm
Monday 24th October
Maria sat in the reception of the plush private hospital waiting for Peter Phelps to arrive.
Phelps had rescheduled his diary to spend the week with Christopher Jameson.
Christopher was bumbling around the reception area and had found a corner where there was a selection of toys. He’d been enticed by a large yellow plastic dumper truck and was happily pushing it backwards and forwards.
Maria had one eye on Christopher whilst watching the flat screen television on the wall, when a short round man with a bald head marched confidently up to the reception desk.
Maria watched as the man spoke with the receptionist, signed a form and was given an ID badge. The receptionist po
inted the man in the direction of Maria.
The short bald-headed man walked up to Maria and held out his hand.
“Hello Maria, I’m Peter, Peter Phelps.”
Maria nervously shook his hand.
“Hello Dr Phelps, thank you for seeing us.”
“Oh, drop the doctor nonsense, just call me Peter.”
Maria smiled.
“Anyway Maria, it should be me thanking you. You’ve come a long way to see me.”
Phelps looked around.
“Where’s Christopher?”
Christopher had somehow wedged himself under a red plastic child’s table and was happily fumbling with a wooden building block. He attempted to crawl from under the table and ended up dragging it across the floor, which made him look like a tortoise with his smiley face beaming out from its shell.
Christopher made his way slowly towards Maria and Phelps, hauling the table which was firmly stuck to his back. The selection of plastic toys which had been on the table were strewn behind and left in his wake.
This was the perfect icebreaker. Phelps and Maria laughed as Christopher stopped at their feet, looked up from beneath the table and smiled.
Phelps gracelessly got down to Christopher’s level.
“Hello little man, how are you?”
Christopher chatted and gurgled.
Maria lifted the plastic table from his back and picked him up from the floor.
Phelps awkwardly climbed to his feet.
“Christopher, say hello to Peter.”
“Ayo, ayo, ayo.”
Phelps smiled as Christopher attempted to speak.
“You’ve got a happy little boy,” he said as he held Christopher’s hand.
“He is happy, very happy. You wouldn’t think any of this night time stuff was happening.”
Maria paused as she kissed Christopher on the top of his head.
“He becomes a different boy when he’s sleeping.”
Christopher reached out to Phelps and Maria passed her son to him. Phelps walked to a chair and sat down with Christopher on his lap.
Maria watched him bobbing her son on his knee. Phelps was a funny character. When she looked at him she saw Danny Devito, but when he spoke she heard Crocodile Dundee.
He handed Christopher back to Maria.
“Follow me, I’ll take you to your room”.
The Hill - Ben’s Story (Book One).: A Paranormal Murder Mystery Thriller. (Book One). Page 26
