To Find Him and Love Him Again (Volume 1): Book Ten (1) in the Tyack & Frayne Mystery Series

by Harper Fox

  Maybe they’d act differently when it was real. Maybe like Gideon they’d just blaze across open ground, getting picked off like idiots in their turn. He was stupid too. But this had been Spargo. Jenny was the officer down.

  Not real, not real. By the time the footsteps scraped again—and the first time they had been nothing, only the rasp of tarmac and dust heating up in the sun—Gideon was hunched on a step a couple of yards away from the bags. He tried to stop drawing breath in rattling, freaked-out backward moans, but he’d left it too late, and Spargo paused once in her easy stride, glanced around for trouble—already a better CID guy than Gideon—and belted over to his side. “Gid? What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” He coughed, wiped a sleeve across his mouth, lurched upright. “Nothing. I thought I saw something, that’s all.”

  “You look terrible. Not a case of roadside-caff revenge, I hope.”

  “No, no.” His sarnie, which had briefly threatened a return, settled back, and the red sparks faded from across his visual field. In their absence Jenny Spargo looked so good to him, such a perfect piece of living, breathing existence. A fucking miracle. “I’m fine.”

  “We should get some pictures around here, you know. I think the place is empty, but it’s bloody weird, not like any kind of school I’ve ever seen. There’s not much equipment left, but these bags are everywhere—sand, I thought, but it looks like some kind of mix that would set once the outer skin’s pierced. They’re all full of these weird looking holes.”

  “Yeah. Get pictures. Take some video footage, too, of the...” He fell silent, pressing his fists to his hips. What did he want her to capture—the desolate vibe of the place? A replay of her own fall? No reason for him to be giving her orders, either; it had been years since he’d outranked her. Spargo didn’t care about things like that, though, provided she was dealt with courteously. “Just film around,” he went on, voice still rough. “Get the layout and anything that looks disordered, as if there might have been a struggle. Please.”

  She was already loading up her phone cam. “No problem. I don’t think anyone stormed the joint, though, Gid. Just looks like they closed it down.”

  “Right. Er, Jenny?”

  She spared him a glance. “What?”

  He couldn’t tell her, not in words. Instead he took her, camera and vest and peaked cap and all, into his arms. She emitted a squawk. Briefly she stiffened, and then some hormonal, deep-brain message reached her, beyond gender or rank or the daily restrictions of their lives, the awkward shells of their protective gear. She rested her head on his shoulder, put her arms around him in return and patted him. “There,” she said unsteadily, as if to a lost kid she’d plucked out of a fairground crowd. “What’s all this about? There, now. You old softie, Gid!”

  ***

  Lawrence had left for the day by the time Gideon got back to HQ. His normal shift hours were almost over too, but his mountain of paperwork was threatening a landslide, so he took off his cap and utility kit and sat down behind his desk with a half pint of coffee.

  His mug had Tamsyn’s baby footprint immortalised in paint on the side. The big modern office space was quiet, the night crew not yet mustered. Paperwork was a misnomer: Gid’s backlog lay in wait for him on his desktop PC. That was good, environmentally sound and all that, but the screen’s pallid gleam wasn’t the light he wanted. Made him feel hot and scratchy inside, for all the open-plan and glass walls.

  He’d brought it on himself. So Spargo had said when he’d stopped to drop her off to meet her boyfriend. Sergeants who stayed on top of their admin could go romping around the glamorous streets and restaurants of Bodmin town, she’d reminded him, slapping him on the arm as she got out of the truck. She hadn’t questioned his distracted clamber behind the wheel on their way back from Bowithick. Neither of them had talked much, and the cabin had filled with their subtly freaked-out hush. In Bodmin he’d watched her in his rearview, pretending to wait for a gap in the traffic, enjoying the prosaic living sight of her striding away down the kerb with Steve.

  He’d offered to write up a report about Rawle’s school. That could be the tip of his iceberg tonight, he decided, and he set about it briskly. There wasn’t much to say. Police reports were not creative essays, and over the years he’d developed a terse copper’s style that got the job done with clarity. No speculations, no questions. Just the facts, thank you, Sergeant. That was fine with him. The site appears to have been abandoned. All buildings are secure. Some unusual equipment is extant; see photos and video footage separately logged. He added an eyes-only email for Lawrence. Recommend you make that call to Ofsted, ma’am. If Bowithick was ever registered, there’ll be records of the children who attended. I’d like to think they went quietly back to their local schools and colleges, but it would be good to know that for sure.

  The email brought Gideon to the borderline of his remit as a beat copper. Further investigation would be work for Lawrence’s CID team and admin liaisons. If something about the place, or the heat, or the state of Gideon’s rippling, hypersensitised, air-sniffing innards had served him up a bloody hallucination, that was his own problem.

  Oh, great. He was having another. His mate Peter Briggs had just walked in, and he was wearing a silver balloon for a crown.

  Halloween pranking was a long way off yet. Briefly it skimmed Gideon’s awareness that midsummer was rising, Granny Ragwen’s blasted gate presumably swinging wide, but he and Lee had spent their last two solstices in calm domestic bliss, barely noticing the dates as they came round. Bill raised a hand in cheerful greeting. “Still here, big man? Your lad’ll be waiting behind the door with a rolling pin for you.”

  His voice faded off into the wind-rush of Gideon’s blood. He wasn’t wearing a crown, of course. Gideon had lost a nameless, irrecoverable tranche of time in the nauseous computer light. It was half past nine, and a bright full moon had risen behind Pete’s head. Getting up, Gideon snagged the car keys off the desk. He retrieved his jacket and shrugged into it, even took a moment to put on and straighten his cap.

  Pete, like Jenny, spent long hours at the gym without making much headway against the pasties and sausage rolls. He was one of Gideon’s best friends. Just now he was only fifteen stone of obstacle between Gid and the moon.

  He gaped as Gideon took him beneath the arms. If he cried out—yelled, swore, broke into laughter—Gideon didn’t know. He’d gone deaf to all but the moon-beat in his ears. That was the light he wanted. Effortlessly he lifted Briggs off his feet and set him aside.

  He ran down the stairs, taking five at a time, dropping round the turns with barely a touch to the rail. His hearing prickled back into hyperfunctionality and he became aware of his own silence. Of the armour-plated rustle of a woodlouse on the stairwell wall. The squeaking, silvery pop of a daisy bud in the turf between the HQ building and the car park. He opened up the Rover and climbed in, his breathing deep and easy, lungs and mind filling up and flooding with sacred light. He turned right on Priory Road and began his journey home.

  Chapter Six

  Into the Heart of the Night

  The golden apples of the sun. Lee had been dreaming of sunlight. He liked his Yeats, and for the first minute of waking lay still, recalling what he knew of the words. Though I am old with wandering // Through hollow lands and hilly lands... Yes, he could imagine such a time. The fogous and barrow graves and tors, or just the hollow or high places of the heart—yes, he would come to an end of them one day.

  Peace still lay along his bones. He never had feared journey’s end, and since he’d met Gid, he’d known he’d never have to get there alone. I will find out where she has gone // And kiss her lips and take her hands // And walk among long dappled grass // And pluck till time and times are done... Lee’s orchard spirit was a sturdy he, and never had anything less ethereal charged through the trees than Gid in pursuit of his child or the dog. Apple blossom in his hair for sure, but only because he was so tall that he knocked it down. Lee shifted in the
deckchair, smiling.

  God, it was damp, though! He came to surface with a choked-off gasp. His whole body clenched in a shiver. The golden apples of the sun... No, no. Silver apples of the moon, clustered over his head in mystical profusion, like clustering orbs in a graveyard, invisible to everyone but him. It was dark. Night had come down in the garden. He’d fallen asleep, abandoned his work and his plans and his duty, his household tasks and...

  His child. Lee catapulted out of the deckchair and stood swaying in the moonlight, grabbed a low branch to keep from falling. His limbs were sluggish, one arm—he’d had it tucked behind his head, for God knew how many hours—numb and useless, first pins and needles trickling into his hand. “Shit,” he got out, voice like sandpaper. “Tamsyn.”

  He ran for the house. Scenarios flashed at him. The best was social services, a verdict of neglect, utter disgrace. The worst was that headmistress Prynne had waited with his girl after school, turned her back to deal with some other crisis and lost sight of her. The worst was Tamsyn alone on the moors.

  He skidded across the dew-damp lawn and onto the drive. Cornering, he saw that lights were on in the kitchen. Christ, perhaps all he had to deal with was Gideon, and somehow that was worst of all—his husband, his first and most sacred trust, coming home to find an empty house, his daughter lost and betrayed. A sob scoured Lee’s throat. Oh, not that. No.

  No. Tamsyn was comfortably seated at the kitchen table. Way past her bedtime, but someone had washed her, brushed her hair and put her into her pyjamas. Lee scrambled to a halt, hands on the window ledge. Home-alone scenarios flashed through his head, where the poor kid had done it all for herself, but then another figure appeared in the lamplight, a reassuring shape in floral skirt and pink pullover. Last year’s M&S, he thought irrelevantly, but the idea skimmed off the surface of his waking mind. The old lady placed a glass of milk in front of Tamsyn, then settled on a chair beside her. Both turned their attention back to a huge book lying open on the table. “Oh,” Lee said. “Mrs Coulter. Thank God.”

  He let himself in through the back door and scullery, hands clumsy on the latches. Before he could open his mouth, the old lady raised tranquil eyes to him. “Ah, there you are,” she said. “Don’t be afraid. You can see all’s well here.”

  “I... Yes.” He stopped short against the cabinets. He wanted to run to his child, but he felt as if he’d forfeited the right. “I can see that. I’m so...” His voice faded off in a croak, and he tried again. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why, now? You needed the sleep. Tamsyn and I came to see you when I brought her back here after school. Didn’t we, girl?”

  Tamsyn nodded enthusiastically. She slithered down off the pile of cushions on her kitchen chair and met him with her usual joyous tackle-hug. “Did, Lee. Had my supper, had my bath. Reading with Ganny.”

  He swept her up. “That’s Mrs Coulter, love, but you’re a very good girl. And she’s extremely kind to look after you. I’m sorry I left you alone.”

  “Not alone.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up, when you found me asleep in my chair?”

  “Did try. Ganny said Lee was Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Well, she was half right.”

  “Buy a hose!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mrs C began to chuckle. “Briar Rose, child. What a card you are! You really mustn’t worry, Lee - we’ve been fine.”

  “Next time just tip me out of the chair.”

  “No, no. We thought your Prince Charming might get back in time to do the job. Speaking of which, you’ll need to keep your strength up. I made a little chicken broth for Tamsyn, and there’s plenty left. Come and sit down.”

  Lee did as he was bidden. He was deeply shaken, at being invited to sit and eat in his own house, at the necessity, his own incomprehensible neglect. “What on earth time is it? Where’s Gid?”

  “On his way. Here, eat this up, dear, and drink this glass of milk.”

  This was ridiculous. What next—cookies, and pyjamas of his own? Before he could protest, Tamsyn snuggled contentedly deeper onto his lap. She planted one forefinger on the open page of the book, which was richly illustrated and adorned with what looked like original handwritten notes. “Pentacle!”

  “Pentacle?” Lee reached around her and drew the book closer to him. He turned a few pages, careful with their ink-laden fragility. Amusement reached him despite his guilt. “Mrs Coulter? Comparative religion is one thing, but this... this is a grimoire.”

  She reappeared at his shoulder. “Oh! Here, let me just set these things down.” She deposited a glass of milk and a bowl of savoury soup in front of Lee, then dealt the book a sharp thump with her fist. “Grimoire? Glamour! There, now. Look again, dear—just a lovely book of herbs.”

  Lee gave it up. He had enough on his plate, or at least in his bowl. Mrs C had whipped up a delicious brew in his cauldron—or a broth in his kitchen; he couldn’t remember and it didn’t seem to matter. He dug in gratefully. “Did you have to go shopping for any of this? Do I owe you anything?”

  “Heavens, no. Everything I needed was here. Let that warm the damp out of your bones, and...” She took up a seat opposite him, laid her hands palm-up on the table. “Let me take the child home with me tonight.”

  “What? No. Why?”

  “Because he is on his way, your fine man. And he’s been good as gold lately, hasn’t he? But a full moon this close to solstice will test his reserves to the limit.”

  Lee met a lot of nutcases in the course of his work. He was tolerant on the whole, but he had limits of his own. He forgot the absurdity of the whole conversation—forgot the grimoire now gleaming with innocent berries and leaves—and answered Mrs C on her own terms. “If you’re saying he’d harm Tamsyn, I’d rather you just left now.”

  “Harm her?” She gave a caw of incredulous laughter. “Of course not. But she needs her sleep as much as you did today, and she won’t get it here tonight. Will she?”

  Cupping his hands around the bowl, Lee conjured a vision of the night to come—of Gideon with used-up reserves of goodness and self-control. “We never disturb her,” he said, barely meaning to speak the words aloud. “Her room’s off down the corridor, and... I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  “Because your husband’s coming home, and you have to serve him and save him, and the sounds of that will waken her, even in a great wolf’s lair such as this. You meant to send her off to Sarah Kemp’s for... What is it you call that weekend?”

  Lee chuckled richly, pointed at the child in his lap, who pointed merrily back at him. “Not something I can say in front of her.”

  “Well, never mind. It’s always the one nearest full moon, you make sure of that. I’ll have her home before your husband wakes up in the morning. He’ll never know she was gone.”

  “As if I wouldn’t tell him! I... I tell him everything. No, Mrs Coulter. We don’t even know where you live.”

  “Ah, you do. Think about it.”

  “I don’t.” Lee gave the last spoonful of broth a swirl around the bowl, and then in an abandonment of his table manners lifted it and drank the dregs off. “Wait, yes. Of course I do. Pellar Street, in Granny Ragwen’s old house... No, that’s ridiculous. Madge lives there now.”

  “Madgie has her flat above the betting shop in Liskeard. Prefers the bustle and bright lights, she does. Let the child come with me now, dear. It’s almost time, and, you know, she’s...” Mrs C paused, rapped her knuckles off the table-top, coughed hollowly. “Glamour! She’s done it many times before.”

  Of course she had. Suddenly Lee couldn’t work out why he was making such a fuss. “Sorry,” he said, and looked down at the smiling little girl in his lap. “You love your nights with Mrs C, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Lee.” Her expression became tender, reminding him oddly of Gideon’s. “Do love.”

  “I’ll make you up a backpack, then.”

  She pointed at the floor. Her overnight bag was standi
ng open, her favourite plush toy—the one Ezekiel had given her years ago, half-bald with cherishing but still recognisably a little planet Earth—ready on top, together with the basic two-button phone loaded up with her home number, Zeke’s, and the family mobiles. “But she’s in her pyjamas,” Lee said, in a last attempt at objection. “It’s way past time she was in bed.”

  “And so she will be, the moment I get her home. My car’s just outside—did you think I was going to march her down the lane in her slippers? I have a child seat. Many children come to me for shelter.”

  “She doesn’t need... This is her shelter, right here.”

  “I know. And I know you’re tired and scared, and you don’t want to hear about the damn solstice door. But you’re part of the Frayne brood now, Locryn. Mind it’s not you who falls through.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will. You can understand without thinking. You can hear without listening. Hear now.”

  Lee sat still. The moon had risen, sudden and vast, squarely framed in the southeastern window. If he let go of the ordinary noises of the night, placed his senses beyond them, he could detect...

  Yes, an engine. He hadn’t known that he could pick out the note of the police truck from every other car in the village, and certainly not at this distance. He knew, surely as if he’d been a hawk on a thermal above the moor, that Gideon had just passed the St Cleer turn-off and was five minutes from home.

  He grabbed Tamsyn in one arm, her backpack with his free hand. He hustled and herded Mrs Coulter to the door, suddenly assisted by Isolde, who’d trotted in from business of her own in the garden and was wide-eyed, hackles raised, looking anxiously over her shoulder through the open door. “Will you take the dog too?”