Dreams of Origami (19 page)

‘Has he gone?’ Triss’s voice comes out of the shadows, and Lacey swings around to see Triss standing by the workshop door.

‘Yes. They took him away. What the hell happened? Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ Triss nods and steps over the debris. ‘Yes, I think so. A bit shaky, that’s all.’

‘Here, come and sit down.’ Gideon rights one of the chairs and attempts to pull the table straight.

‘Did Fletcher do this?’ Lacey puts a glass of water into Triss’s hand.

Triss nods again and takes a sip. ‘He tried to strangle me.’

‘He did
what?’

Triss’s hand goes to her throat where a red mark is flaring up. ‘West stopped him, and he started smashing everything. Went absolutely berserk. He kept shouting, something about me stealing his life away. Like a thief in the night, that’s what he kept saying. It didn’t make any sense.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it did.’ Gideon slides into a chair next to her. ‘So, what happened then?’

‘His sergeant tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. In the end, West had to hit him. I think he nearly knocked him out, but he had to or God knows what he might have done. Then he called the station for help. Fletcher was curled up in that corner, and West stood over him until the other policeman arrived. It could only have been a few minutes, but it seemed like ages. He kept apologizing—Sergeant West, I mean, not Fletcher. Poor man, I felt quite sorry for him. After all, it wasn’t his fault.’

‘Well, it’s all right now.’ Lacey puts an arm around her.

Gideon looks around at the mess. ‘Have you any idea what might have provoked him?’

‘No. He was in a strange mood when he arrived, all red-faced and angry. He looked as if he’d just had an argument with someone. West looked uncomfortable as soon as they got here, you could see he wasn’t happy with the situation. I’m sure he knew all along that Fletcher wasn’t doing enough, but of course being only a sergeant he couldn’t really say anything. And when Fletcher kept firing questions at me, accusing me of…well, I’m not sure what. Whatever I said he wouldn’t listen, and I was beginning to think he couldn’t hear me. He was standing over me and yelling, and then, all of a sudden, he swept his arm across the table and all the birds went crashing down. That’s when he grabbed my neck and West had to pull him off. It all happened so quickly. It was the waiting for help to arrive that seemed to take so long.’

‘Well, Fletcher’s gone now and I doubt he’ll be back,’ says Lacey. ‘Obviously he’ll be taken off the case.’
One bright ray of sunshine at least,
she thinks. ‘You might want to press charges. You’ve a right, you know: he assaulted you and damaged your property.’

‘I just want them to look for Matthew.’

‘Yes, well perhaps now they’ll start taking it a bit more seriously.’

‘What in God’s name has been going on here?’ Audrey is standing in the doorway.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ says Lacey, ‘though, on second
thoughts, perhaps you might.’ Lacey recounts the events, occasionally looking to Triss for confirmation.

‘Well, I’ll be damned. A detective inspector, no less. Who do you trust these days, eh?’

‘And what about you, Audrey?’ asks Gideon. ‘How did you get on?’

‘We got a look at the letter—it might be something or nothing. However, that can wait. I think Triss has had enough to deal with for one morning.’

‘What I don’t understand is: why us?’ Triss gets up from the table. ‘We thought we were doing all the right things, moving here, making a new start. When we bought this house, we thought it would give us a second chance. Instead, it’s turned into a nightmare.’

Gideon takes her hand. ‘Look, hang in there, Triss. Just a little while longer. I think we’re nearly through this. We’ll find out something soon.’

‘Well, I hope you’re right.’ Audrey gives him a sharp look. ‘What she doesn’t need right now is false promises. A lie-down might be more helpful, and one of those pills the doctor left her.’

‘What about all this?’ Triss looks at the mess that was once her tidy kitchen.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll clean this up, won’t we?’ Lacey includes Gideon.

‘Sure. Audrey’s quite right. You go and get some rest.’

‘And we’ll field off any more police officers who don’t pass the sanity test.’ Lacey smiles and is rewarded by a slight grin from Triss.

They search around for brooms and plastic bin liners. Flour puffs up in miniature clouds with every sweep. Lacey winces at the sound of clinking china as she scoops it into the dustpan.

‘God, what a mess.’ Gideon wipes a hand over his face, leaving a smudge of flour.

‘What, the stuff on the floor or Fletcher losing his marbles?’ They are both able to smile. ‘I suppose it explains a lot. It’s a week since Matthew went—about this time of day in fact—and they’ve come up with nothing. Even if he’s done a runner, he should have left some
sort of trail. At least they might start looking properly now.’

‘Yes, but that’s not the way to find him.’ Gideon’s feeling suddenly uneasy. That humming sound has increased, and he is aware of energy tingling down his hands like running water. ‘I think Triss is right; Matthew’s not far away.’ The words feel forced from him, but as he speaks he is certain they are true. ‘And I do still feel hopeful.’

‘Do you think it’s getting colder in here?’ Lacey shivers and rubs her arms. ‘The temperature seems to have dropped suddenly.’

But whatever Gideon feels is left unsaid. He stands rigid, his gaze locked onto the alcove where the old cooking range must have once stood.

She is standing with her back almost to them, a wooden spoon in her hand. Her hair is caught up in an elaborate twist and held in place by numerous pins. Small, unruly hairs have escaped and hang in curls at the back of her neck. Her dress is long and patterned with sprigs of flowers, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, straight skirt almost down to her laced shoes. She turns towards them, tapping the spoon, as if attending to something on an invisible stove. They can see her skin, the fine down on her arms, and a red mark on her wrist, as if she has recently burned herself while cooking. As she lays the spoon down, it disappears. She looks up without seeing them, turns and walks to the foot of the stairs, pausing before placing a foot on the bottom step. Gideon and Lacey watch motionless as she ascends into the shadows and out of sight.

‘What the hell?’ Lacey’s voice is barely a whisper. ‘Did you see that?’

‘Yes.’ Gideon mouths the word.

Lacey is already on the stairs and running up two at a time.

‘I don’t think you’ll find anyone up there.’ But he stands at the foot of the staircase, ensuring that no one can come down undetected, while all his senses reach out to search the building. Yes, it’s all over the room, like a zing of electricity. And that smell again: ozone. ‘Can you smell anything?’ he shouts up to Lacey, who appears again on the landing.

‘There’s no one. She’s gone. Can I what?’

‘Smell anything?’

Lacey sniffs the air. ‘What? Like Yarmouth on a bad day? Yes, it’s weird.’ She comes down to the kitchen, white-faced, her hands now visibly shaking. ‘Did we just see a ghost?’

‘Yes, I think we very probably did. But don’t worry, I don’t think she saw us.’

‘I need to sit down for a moment.’ She pulls a chair out from the table.

‘There was a charge in the room just before she appeared, and you noticed how cold it felt. But it all seems to have quietened down now.’

‘I think I can smell ozone again.’

‘Yes, I think you’re quite sensitive to the atmosphere. Although you don’t seem to be negatively affected by it. Not so far, anyway.’

‘Not like poor Inspector Fletcher. I can’t help feeling sorry for him, you know. After all, he didn’t know what he was getting into, did he?’ Lacey looks up at Gideon.

‘Well I don’t, I’m afraid.’ says Gideon. ‘I firmly believe that under that hard, official exterior lurks one very sick, twisted bastard.’

We know the body is capable of running on autopilot. During a large percentage of sleeptime, consciousness appears to be absent. We speak of someone being ‘un-conscious’ when they are under anaesthetic, or of being knocked ‘un-conscious’ due to some physical trauma. Does it switch off? Or does it go somewhere else?

Out-of-body experiences (O.B.E.) during sleep (astral projection), and spontaneous projection during illness or under anaesthetic are situations in which the conscious mind appears to travel away from the body, sometimes great distances. The returning person is subsequently able to report events which are accurate, verifiable and supposedly impossible to witness without the presence of their functioning physical senses.

There are enough accounts of O.B.E. to fill a whole library. Granted, these are largely anecdotal, but they have existed throughout every age, and in every culture and civilization. Their very volume and persistence should be enough to have scientists sitting up and taking notice.

Extract from
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield

L
ACEY NEEDS TO GET
back to work, so leaves Gideon to finish the cleaning up. There’s still no sign of the police officer they said they would send out to Triss. It must be over twenty minutes now since Fletcher was taken away. Still, they’d have to find someone with the right authority and people skills; this is not a mission for P.C. Plod. And no sign of Drew, either. She’ll ring him on her mobile, then get over to the Law Courts where they’re expecting the verdict on an assault case. Gideon said he would stay at the schoolhouse for a while. All looks quiet over at Audrey’s place.

As she walks down the garden path, she finds herself feeling a bit shaky. It’s all happened so quickly and now it seems unreal. No, that’s not it—if anything, it was
too
real. The woman looked too much like a woman, too solid, too ordinary, but surely nothing to be afraid of. A housewife, that’s all she was, cooking dinner while waiting for her husband to come home. And then she walked up the stairs, just like anyone would. Lacey remembers the old rhyme, whispering it under her breath: ‘Yesterday upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today…’ Until now she’s never realized just how sinister it sounds. She stops and holds on to the gatepost, gasps deeply and steadies herself.

A car glides alongside the kerb and stops in front of her. She watches a woman step out, then reach for her briefcase. She’s a few years older than Lacey, slim, with severely bobbed hair and wearing a dark suit. They both look across the car roof, each recognizing the other and mentally searching for an identity. Lacey gets there first.

‘Detective Inspector Langthorn?’

‘That’s right. And you’re from the
Fenland Herald?
I’m sorry, I can’t recall your name.’

Lacey pulls her shoulders back. ‘Prentice. I expect you’re looking for Mrs Caxton?’ Her voice is edged with contempt. ‘Well, she’s over at her friend’s house waiting for a doctor to come and assess her injuries.’

‘Injuries?’ For a brief moment Langthorn’s self-possession is broken by a look of alarm. ‘I hadn’t been informed of any injuries.’

The bit about the doctor is a lie, although Triss is obviously shaken and Lacey isn’t going to let the police off lightly. ‘Your fellow officer—
you know, the one who was supposed to be finding her husband—he tried to strangle her. She’s been advised to get medical evidence and not to talk to the police without a solicitor present. So, if you’ve come for another interrogation, you’ll find you’re wasting your time.’

D.I. Langthorn closes her eyes momentarily, then looks directly at Lacey. ‘The reason I am here is to apologize for Inspector Fletcher’s behaviour.’ Her voice is quiet. ‘And to apologize on behalf of his superiors for the situation developing as it has. They’d no idea…He’s had some sort of breakdown. Naturally, Fletcher’s been taken off the case and I’ve been asked to take over from him. Of course, a full, official apology will be given by someone in the highest authority.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Lacey feels a little deflated, but the words ‘damage control’ spring into her mind.
They’re quick,
she thinks,
I’ll give them that.
But with a crime reporter at the scene as witness, they’ll need all the speed and diplomacy they can grab at short notice. ‘So, what do you want with her now?’

‘Our main concern at this moment is to make sure that Mrs Caxton is all right.’

‘And I think Mrs Caxton’s only concern is finding her husband.’

‘Yes, I understand that.’ Langthorn walks around the car and steps onto the pavement, closing the distance between them. ‘And I want to assure Mrs Caxton, and the press and public, that despite D.I. Fletcher’s illness, all the correct procedures have been carried out. We have been, and still are, doing all we can.’

Yes,
thinks Lacey,
diplomatic, sensitive, and from what I remember, bloody good at her job. This might not be such a bad move.
‘It’s been a week now. Triss Caxton’s terrified and half-crazy with grief.’

‘I know. And unfortunately, so far there have been no leads. But I do assure you that, despite what happened earlier, full attention has been given to the case. The problem is that we have had absolutely nothing to go on. But I will personally make certain that everything possible has been and will be done.’

‘Good. Then let’s hope you’re not too late.’ With that parting shot Lacey gets into her own car, leaving D.I. Langthorn to find Triss on her own.

Gideon is sitting at the kitchen table. He watched through the window as Lacey walked down the path, saw the car pull up and guessed who the woman was and the general outline of the conversation. After Lacey drove off, the newcomer went over to Audrey’s cottage, leaving Gideon in the silence of the schoolhouse. Not that it is ever truly quiet. Behind the ticking of the clock there is that incessant low-pitched droning, and all around him the whirlpool of energy from which it seems to arise. It permeates the very fabric of the building, and now the air is thick with it. Even those without Gideon’s heightened senses would be able to feel that something is not quite right about the place.

Lacey is developing an awareness. It’s good to have someone like her around; sensitive enough to register abnormal events, yet with her consciousness rooted firmly in the mundane world. But, no matter how stable she may appear to be, he must be careful not to expose her to too much too quickly. She saw the ghost and handled it well. Not exactly a ghost, though, not in his understanding of the word. The woman was not a lost soul or a conscious entity seeking to communicate. Most likely a playback, an impression stored in the aether. Or some sort of time warp.

But why? And what does it have to do with Matthew Caxton and the folding of paper?

He’d found a pile of unused computer paper in the back office and picked some up with the intention of making a few notes. The sheets are now spread in front of him, fanned out over the table. As he touches their edges, his thoughts move from Fletcher to Lacey and to the night sky alive with green light. He picks up one of the sheets, turning it distractedly as if its blank, white face should tell him something. On impulse, he folds it into a lotus. A simple shape, only suggestive of a flower, not a true representation. So when he unfolds it there are not many creases in the page. They remind him of the map and the ley lines. Could there be a connection? No, he feels that’s not quite right, and yet there is some clue here…maybe.

He folds a bird. Again a simple shape, so simple that when he unfolds and smoothes it against the flat surface of the table, it is possible to distinguish the lines of the bird from those of the flower. Two shapes occupying the same space, their lines crossing, intersecting. It is to the points of intersection that his vision is drawn. If he were able to move closer, sink down into the fabric of the paper itself, he would experience the lines as distortions in the intermeshing of the fibres. Lines of stress. And where the lines crossed, that’s where the greatest stress would be. Yes, that’s it! The areas of greatest stress! The place where the fabric is weakest. Even though he still does not understand what it is he is looking at, it is as if, at the back of his mind, a floodlight has been switched on.

Jack looks up as Lacey comes into the office. ‘You look tired. Maybe long weekends don’t suit you.’

‘Yes, well, this one certainly didn’t. I could use a holiday to get over it.’

‘Why? What’ve you been up to?’

‘Oh, it’s complicated. Anything exciting happening here?’

‘Nothing mind-blowing, no. There are some messages on your desk, a couple of house break-ins you might want to follow up.’

‘Right. I’ll just grab a coffee. Want one?’ Lacey searches for clean mugs, gives up and collects several used ones from around the room, filling the sink with hot water. ‘It’s quiet here. Where is everyone?’

‘Grant’s having a wet lunch with a local MP. Don’t suppose we’ll see him this side of tomorrow. Don’t know about the others. How was your morning? I haven’t seen any more copy on the Caxton story. What happened about that psychic chap? Did he come up with any mystic revelations?’

Lacey has been trying to avoid this very conversation. What’s been happening over the past four days is far too unbelievable to report to her boss, even if he is signing her expense chits. Perhaps, eventually, the promised feature series will come out of it, but for now it’s too
up-close-and-personal to be chewed to bits by the sceptical Jack Fraser. Fortunately, his desk phone rings and diverts his attention.

Lacey’s half-listening to the phone conversation, something about an attack and a knife wound—Jack repeats the information aloud as he scribbles it down. But his next words send the mug slipping from Lacey’s hands: ‘Gainsborough Street’. The mug hits the sink and shatters. For a moment she stares at the pieces, an echo of the shards of Triss’s birds, then she’s at Jack’s desk, almost snatching the telephone from him as he hangs up.

‘What’s happened? Is someone hurt? Is it Drew?’

‘Drew? Why should—of course your chap, he lives there doesn’t he? No, nothing to do with him. Police went out to an ambulance call. A woman said her husband got knifed, but she was a bit incoherent, so they’re not sure what happened. They’re on the way to the hospital now.’ He hands her his notepad. ‘Here, you might want to follow it up. If you leave now, you could get there before the ambulance.’

Addenbrooke’s Hospital is five minutes or half an hour away from the
Herald
office, depending on the time of day and the traffic. Thankfully, it’s too early for the rush hour, so Lacey arrives outside A and E in time to see Mr Tiverton being wheeled in, followed by his wife and two uniformed police officers. Lacey parks her car in a short-stay bay a few yards from the door—definitely a tow-away area—and slaps her press identity badge on the window, praying she won’t get caught.

At the desk, she asks which way Mr Tiverton went. The receptionist directs her to a treatment room off a side corridor.

‘Thank you.’ Lacey catches her breath. ‘How is he? Is he badly hurt?’

‘The doctors are assessing him now. You are…?’

‘A friend of the family.’

‘His wife’s very distressed. There’s a police officer with her, but perhaps a friendly face…’

‘Yes, of course.’

Outside the treatment room, Mrs Tiverton is sitting on a bench, a policeman squatting down beside her. Lacey stops abruptly, turns and pretends to study a noticeboard. She’s just close enough to overhear the conversation without drawing attention.

‘I do understand. Naturally you want to be with him, but we’d only be in the way.’ It’s the officer speaking. ‘Let them do their job. Sergeant Wadsworth’s in there with him, he’ll let us know the moment there’s any change.’ This brings a renewed wave of sobs from the woman. He looks around, embarrassed. He’s very young. ‘I’ll tell you what, there’s a machine over there. The tea’s probably lousy, but…’

Mrs Tiverton nods, biting her lip. The constable gets to his feet and moves away to the vending machine while the woman curls into herself, rocking her body in silent misery. Her face is streaked with mascara, her neat business suit smeared with what must be blood. Lacey slides onto the bench beside her. ‘You don’t know me,’ she whispers. ‘I’m from the
Fenland Herald.
Could you tell me what happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ the woman murmurs under her breath, more to herself than to Lacey. ‘It’s all a mess.’

‘Were you arguing, is that what it was?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. That’s how it’s been lately. He said things, but they weren’t true. I know him better than that.’

‘So you did it? You stabbed your husband? Is that what you told the police?’

‘Yes. No! No, I didn’t tell them anything.’ She tugs on a handkerchief, mangling it in her hands. ‘Everything’s gone wrong and I don’t understand why. We didn’t mean any of it.’

‘Did you see anything strange, or hear anything—’

‘Excuse me, Miss. Do you know this lady, Mrs Tiverton?’

Lacey looks up at the constable bearing down on her with two plastic cups of hospital tea.

‘It’s OK. I’m a neighbour from over the road. I heard there was a problem. What happened?’

‘Too early to say. I think—’

‘Afternoon, Constable. How is he?’ Inspector Langthorn’s voice is crisp and efficient.

‘Ah, ma’am.’ He looks around at the woman striding down the corridor towards them.

Lacey turns away, trying to look invisible.

‘They’re working on him now, ma’am.’ He nods towards the treatment room. ‘Wadsworth’s in there. They reckon it’s serious but not life-threatening.’

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘And the wife?’

‘This is Mrs Tiverton.’ The constable steps back, allowing Langthorn’s cold gaze to sweep over the distraught woman with Lacey sitting beside her.

‘Didn’t take you long to get here, Miss, er, Prentice, isn’t it?’

Mrs Tiverton looks up at Langthorn and then at Lacey. For once, Lacey can’t think of anything to say.

‘We’ll be issuing an official statement after the scene-of-crime officers have submitted their report. For now, I think it would be better if you leave us to do our job.’