Sister Veronica stayed still, her mind disintegrating with worry and fear, feeling like she was on the escalator to hell. Melissa paced the room, tears running down her face.
A few minutes later, DI Harding returned.
‘I’ve spoken to my colleagues at the Met and they’ve confirmed they haven’t found Mona yet. So it could be her who took Hope, but we need to keep all our options open. Anyone else that you can think of?’
Sister Veronica explained about Celeste, their visit to her earlier that day, her surprise at being an aunt, her connections with New Avalon. DI Harding’s face darkened when she heard the name of the commune.
‘Right, so they could be involved. That lot are bad news. They’ve been on my radar for a while.’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence,’ Melissa said to her, ‘that we visited Celeste in Goddess World, and now it’s burning down and her niece has gone? I mean, I don’t know how those things can be connected but it just seems too close to be a complete accident.’
‘We are going to look into all leads as thoroughly as possible,’ DI Harding said. ‘I can’t give you an answer about that at the moment, but we will be investigating all possible connections. Can you think of any other relevant information you can tell me?’
Sister Veronica explained that the men she’d spoken to in Soho had told her about someone shouting up at Mona’s flat, asking for Lance, who they believed to be Mona’s new partner.
‘Is Lance the father of the baby?’ DI Harding said.
‘We’re not sure,’ Melissa said. ‘It seems Mona led a very complicated life. No one seems to know who Hope’s father is.’
DI Harding took them through the events leading up to Hope’s disappearance in great detail, making notes all the time. Asking if Hope had any noticeable marks on her body that would help identify her if they found a baby – Sister Veronica told her about the island-shaped birthmark on the baby’s thigh. Melissa told her about the green-and-yellow outfit Hope had worn all that day. Then they spoke about Celeste in more detail, about how they’d ended up in The Chocolate Berry, how by chance they’d met an ex-member of New Avalon, Carter, who’d been able to give them much more information about Mona and the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of their leader – the apparently returned King Arthur.
‘I’ll build a list of everyone who was at The Chocolate Berry while you were,’ she said when they’d finished. ‘If Hope was lying sleeping in her pram right next to the fence, and you were distracted, chatting and drinking – what was it?’
‘Elderflower champagne.’ Melissa looked down. Why oh why had they drunk it? They’d been too relaxed, taken their eye off the ball, and now look what had happened. Could Carter and his friends have been getting them drunk on purpose, could it have been them who had taken Hope? Yes, she thought. That was a definite possibility.
‘Ah yes, elderflower champagne,’ DI Harding said. ‘Then someone seems to have taken advantage of the darkening evening, leaned over, and removed the baby from the pram without you or anyone else noticing. From what you’ve told me, there’s several people of interest we need to speak to, particularly Carter and his friends. And I’ll be phoning your convent too, Sister, to see if anyone there knows anything, or has heard anything. We need to cover all bases very thoroughly.’
Sister Veronica’s already ragged, broken heart plummeted further down.
‘Of course,’ she said. This would be the end of her, and quite right too, she reflected. Mother Superior would never forgive her. It was entirely her fault; what had she been thinking, swanning off to Glastonbury with the baby, drinking champagne, for goodness’ sake, and not checking enough on Hope? And to think, her stupidity had caused such an awful thing to happen. Sick with guilt, she could barely meet the detective’s gaze.
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ DI Harding said, as though she was a mind reader. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Sister. And you are doing everything in your power now to help us find Hope, working with me and telling me everything helpful that you know. What you really need to do is go and get some rest, go back to your guest house now and try and get some sleep. Trust that my colleagues and I will be doing everything in our powers to find the little girl while you’re there. I’ve got Melissa’s number and I’ll get in contact with you the minute we hear something.’
But as Sister Veronica and Melissa left the police station – that was nestled in a cul-de-sac at the bottom of Glastonbury High Street – their shoulders sagging, the pram now taken by the police as evidence, Sister Veronica stopped and shook her head.
‘There’s no way I can go back to the guest house and sleep now,’ she said, her voice dull and monotone. ‘You go, Melissa, you look tired. I’m going to carry on searching for Hope.’
‘Are you bloody joking?’ Melissa wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Do you really think I could sleep knowing the baby’s gone? I know I haven’t spent as much time with Hope as you, but I really care about that child. I’m going to keep looking too. Maybe we should split up, we can cover more ground that way?’
Sister Veronica nodded. They agreed that Melissa would search the back roads around Glastonbury town centre, the ones full of terraced and semi-detached houses with tie-dye drapes and wind chimes in their windows, and Sister Veronica would concentrate on the main streets – or as much of them as she could get to, given the calamity of the fire that had destroyed Goddess World. It was worth looking in the most unlikely places, they decided. In bins, doorways, cars, porches, anywhere and everywhere that may be big enough to hold or hide a baby.
Sister Veronica trudged back up the hill, past shops and cafés still glowing in the light of the dying fire. She went slowly, stopping to examine even the smallest object in detail, staring distrustfully at anyone she saw, trying to establish whether they were hiding anything.
What if we never find her? she reflected, torturing herself. She stopped walking, feeling hysteria rise within her. No, Veronica, she shouted at herself. You will NOT do this now, allow your stupid emotions to hamper your search for Hope. Stop it, stop it now. And carry on looking for as long as it takes. This is your fault, so you can fix it without giving in to a maudlin frenzy.
Steadying herself for a moment or two, waving black smoke from in front of her face, Sister Veronica walked on. She would stay awake for a night, a week, do whatever was necessary. She was going to make things right. She was going to find Hope.
22
Gareth Pendragon, alone in his hut, pulled his khaki rucksack from under his camp bed. Into it went clean underwear and socks, a jumper, T-shirt, trousers, his best knife, a bottle of water, his wallet, phone, charger and laptop. He now knew what he needed to do, and he needed to start it right away.
He hadn’t meant to overhear his father’s phone conversation with the hospital; he’d actually been going to Art’s study to see if they could discuss his ideas about the new webpage. Gareth loved technology and had taught himself to use some new software he thought would really make a difference; help present New Avalon in a much more modern, appealing way. His father seemed to have forgiven him for his transgressions, and Gareth was now allowing his arm to heal. But as he’d approached the closed study door in his father’s large hut – the grandest on site – he’d heard his father talking on the phone. Creeping closer until he was right next to the door, he held his breath, his ear close to the door. He’d discovered many titbits of information in the same way over the years.
‘So Lancelot died from an accidental drug overdose?’ His father’s voice sounded calm. Almost relieved. Hearing those words caused dizziness to overtake Gareth but he knew if he made a sound and was discovered Art would make sure his life wasn’t worth living. ‘Are you sure?’
There was a pause.
‘Okay, okay,’ his father said a minute or two later. ‘Thank you for letting me know the cause of death.’
Gareth stole a
way, having heard enough. His beloved, traitorous brother was dead. And he hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye or make things right after Lance’s sudden departure from home. His father had made sure he hadn’t, he was good at that sort of thing; the one time Gareth made it to London, his father had found out and been furious.
But now he was going to make Art proud, he was going to do something that would help soothe his father’s pain.
The truth was that he had a secret that not even King Arthur knew about. And now, hearing about Lance, he found he suddenly had enough wild energy to see it through.
A splinter of fear dug into his insides and he chastised himself for being a wimp and a coward. No, that was the old Gareth, he told himself. The new one was as brave as the knight he really was. Acting fast would quell the ounce of dread in him, he thought, the weak side of him he’d always allowed to rule his choices before. When Lance had lived at New Avalon he’d always been the daredevil out of the two of them, always ready to be spontaneous and take chances. Gareth remembered the time when Lance climbed onto the roof of the Great Hall when his father was up at the town. ‘Come up here and join me,’ he’d shouted down to his brother. ‘Come on, you’ll love it.’ But Gareth had smiled and shook his head, fearing the fall. Well, no more. He was ready to be spontaneous and take chances now. He imagined Lance’s spirit egging him on. ‘Come on, Gareth, you can do it. Don’t be a chicken.’
‘I am going to do it,’ Gareth said out loud.
He pulled the drawstring on his bag tight, rammed his hat down over his ears, threw on his coat and put his torch in his pocket. He stepped out into the crisp September night air, looked around, and made his way quietly to the hole in the compound fence.
23
‘I can’t find her anywhere, Art,’ Bedivere was saying, his voice sounding strained and tired. He and the rest of the New Knights at New Avalon had spent the night and day searching for Celeste. Art had shouted at them, ranted, hit people – he’d smacked Bedivere on the jaw so hard it was now red and swollen – thrown things around, but still his favourite mistress, his obsession, had not, and could not, be found. Bedivere knew they had a low chance of finding her if him and his group went out again, but contradicting his incensed king right now would be tantamount to suicide.
‘It was a bad fire,’ Morgana soothed. ‘I went up and saw the remains of Goddess World today while I was looking for her, it’s all gone, just a ruin now. Still smoking. She’s probably just upset, Art. Her workplace has just burned down and you know she doesn’t do well with trauma. Remember how she used to go and hide in places after her mother died – it took her nearly a year to start joining in with life here again. She nearly stopped speaking at one point. To be honest, I reckon Celeste’s probably gone off somewhere to clear her head.’ She was surprised at the strength of her king’s reaction. She knew he adored the girl, but his current fury was on another level; it was primal, it was like watching a lion go mad and destroy its habitat. It had been a surprise to her when the girl had vanished, totally unexpected and out of character. But if need be, Morgana had ways and means of finding people; research was what she excelled at. She would just need some time.
‘I want her here now,’ Art roared. ‘Find her, you useless bunch of lazy bastards. Don’t tell me you’ve already looked for her, I know what you’re like. You just want to go to bed, you’re being selfish and unhelpful, the lot of you. GO NOW AND DON’T COME BACK UNTIL YOU’VE FOUND HER OR GOD WILL SMITE YOU ALL.’ Art’s world was spiralling out of control. First Lance died, his poor, stupid son – he’d still only told Morgana about him – and now Celeste couldn’t be found. This, in many ways, was worse than Lance’s demise because Celeste had been his. He’d made sure of it. He’d wanted her so badly and he’d got her, shaped her, moulded her into how he wanted her to be. She was such a good girl, always willing to please, and her eyes. Oh how he melted when she looked at him sometimes. She was exciting, different from the other more chilled-out women at the compound, who seemed happy to get on with domestic life quietly. But Celeste wasn’t like that, she had more spark. And her heart belonged to him. And she’d always been faithful and loyal, always. She’d never disappeared before. She knew he needed to know where she was at all times and she’d honoured that in the past. He owned her, she owed her life to him. He’d looked after her well after her mother died, treated her like a princess, made sure she’d wanted for nothing. But where the hell was she now? Why would she go anywhere? Why would she need to? She loved New Avalon almost as much as he did. It just didn’t make sense. Maybe she had been caught in the fire? Maybe something horrific had happened to her? That was an awful thing to contemplate. Feeling powerless made Art enraged, helplessness was not a feeling he could deal with, it could not be tolerated on any level. He’d structured his life to limit that happening. But now this. He roared again.
Bedivere’s shoulders were drooping, his eyes smarting with exhaustion. Since Celeste had failed to come home after her day’s work, Art had ordered him to head up the search for her so he’d personally looked in every hut on the compound, had teams out searching the woodland, orchards and fields. He’d gone to all the places he thought Celeste might like, driven one of the compound’s communal cars around for hours until it was running on fumes. But no luck. The girl had apparently vanished, or maybe didn’t want to be found. He personally didn’t really see what the big deal was, she’d probably come back when she was ready. He’d sent a separate group to retrace Celeste’s steps in Glastonbury Town with instructions to be as thorough as possible, leave no stone unturned and all that. But, of course, when they’d got there they’d found they couldn’t reach Goddess World itself, because by then the high street was totally blocked at both ends. It had been chaos by all accounts, police cars, fire engines and ambulances all over the place. So, instead, the group had stayed staring at the inferno of flames tearing up into the sky, calling Art on his mobile to report on matters, and fearing the worst about Celeste, before going back to face the wrath of their leader.
Knowing from experience that resistance to Art’s instructions was pointless, Bedivere turned and indicated to the group of hollow-eyed knights to turn and leave the hall, which they did without protest. Morgana was the only one who didn’t move.
For a moment she looked as though she was about to say something, then she paused.
‘Can I give you a hug?’ she said a few seconds later, opening her arms invitingly to Art. ‘If I’m honest you look like you need one.’
‘NO, you cannot give me a FUCKING HUG.’ Art’s face was red as he spun towards her, a vein throbbing at the side of his forehead, sweat stains on his tunic. ‘If you want to help me, go and find CELESTE, woman. For God’s sake stop pissing about in here wasting my time. Go and be useful for once in your life.’
Morgana turned and headed for the door. Even in her absence, all he thought about was that bloody girl, she thought. How was she supposed to know where Celeste had gone? She’d always done her best to atone to Art’s wishes that she act like a mother figure to Celeste, and also to Mona when she was still at New Avalon. So Morgana had done her best, taught them the principles of Art’s manifesto – loyalty, honour and integrity – brought them up to be the best New Knights that she could. They’d called her Auntie Morgs. She’d failed with Mona, but Celeste had always shone like a jewel, loved by everybody at the compound. She was light where her sister was dark. She was a bit too conceited, in Morgana’s opinion, a bit too aware of her own beauty and feminine wiles to be truly attractive. And the spell she’d cast on Art was sickening to behold. Who would have thought he would take news of her absence in such a way? Morgana shut the door behind her more loudly than she normally would.
Art picked up a chair and hurled it across the room. It hit the bookcase, causing many of the remaining items that hadn’t already been thrown across the room to come crashing down. Volumes of socialist ranting, stacks of old video tapes – he loved to watch himself pontificating to a cro
wd – all sorts of presents and mementoes from his New Knights, a photo of Celeste looking ravishing in her golden dress, pots full of pens and pencils, unposted letters to MPs and other prominent figures, and several papers full of his writings soon littered his floor. He stamped across the debris, uncaring.
Why was this happening to him? Why was God punishing him? Surely he’d shown his loyalty to the Almighty, followed the dreams and visions he’d had to the best of his ability?
Insane thoughts swirled through Art’s mind. Someone was behind all this. Punishment was being brought upon New Avalon because someone in the compound was unclean, and was up to no good. Someone had fallen so far from grace that the Almighty had stepped in and was trying to warn Art before anything else happened. That somebody needed to be cleansed and purified right away, to save New Avalon. And suddenly, with absolute clarity, God planted that person’s name in his head: Lucan. Lucan Butler.
24
Sister Veronica and Melissa collected their drinks from the side of the counter, and sank onto the hard bistro-style chairs. Neither of them had slept, and Hope was still nowhere to be found. Today they’d chosen The Blue Gecko café for sustenance. It was a small establishment, and more of a run-of-the-mill type café inside rather than the fairy-tale experience created by The Chocolate Berry, but one of the only places still open – the fire had caused a great deal of the high street’s trading places to remain shut and off limits.
Melissa had started smoking again, and she’d got through one and a half packets already since the previous night. Two of her fingers were already stained a faint yellow from the nicotine, which Sister Veronica considered to be a most ghastly sight. ‘It’s the stress,’ Melissa had explained. ‘I can’t handle it, Sister.’ Of course, she didn’t blame her friend at all for the smoking, and found she actually didn’t care. The only all-consuming thing on her mind was finding the baby.
The Disciple: a gripping psychological mystery (The Sister Veronica Mysteries Book 2) Page 10
