Dreams of Origami (5 page)

Parapsychology is the scientific and scholarly study of certain unusual events associated with human experience that do not seem to be explainable in terms of our everyday understanding or known scientific principles. Such experiences are often regarded as eerie or unnatural. The strangest, and most interesting, aspect of such phenomena is that they do not appear to be limited by the known boundaries of space or time. In addition, they blur the sharp distinction usually made between mind and matter.

These anomalies fall into general categories: extra-sensory perception (telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance); telekinesis (the interaction between mind and matter, including poltergeist activity); out-of-body experiences (astral projection and near-death experiences); apparitions (ghosts, hauntings); and reincarnation. A number of parapsychologists expect that further research will eventually explain these anomalies in scientific terms, using existing scientific models of perception and memory.

I am not at all convinced that this is so.

Extract from
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield

T
HURSDAY MORNING AND LACEY
moves quietly into her seat on the sidelines of the police handover. The room is hushed, except for the voice of the senior officer and the rustle of Lacey’s notepad. Her pencil clatters to the floor and several pairs of eyes turn in her direction. She cringes, mouths a silent ‘sorry’, then lowers her head, pretending to be diligently taking notes. Drew stayed over last night, and this morning they were still speculating about what might have happened to Matthew Caxton. Consequently, they were both late leaving the house.
It’s all right for Drew,
she thinks,
he can roll up to work whenever he likes.

This morning it’s the usual list of minor infringements plus a few rather more serious events, enough to make Lacey’s presence worthwhile. She takes down details of the more significant incidents, but is eager to hear from Sergeant Wadsworth, who may have some news from Gainsborough Street. There’s a lot of talk about a break-in at a large jeweller’s shop in the city centre and another nasty pile-up on the bypass at about eleven last night. It was on the A14, not far from the Covington turn-off. Thank God Drew stayed with her last night.

Next it’s Wadsworth’s turn to report. He spends a long time talking about an arrest for a serious assault that Lacey covered last week. A man was badly beaten in broad daylight, for no obvious reason. At least they got the bastard who did it. Actually that was near Covington, too, but there is nothing to connect it with the Caxtons. Eventually, he gets round to the missing-person report. Yes, it’s now official, although they have nothing to go on so far. A general alert has been issued, description and photo circulated, hospitals contacted, all the usual procedures. Yesterday, they interviewed all of the neighbours they could find, and they will follow up the rest this morning.

‘At least we’ve established that the husband did exist and was seen by a customer earlier on the morning of his disappearance. No obvious problems with the marriage, no domestic incidents so far as the neighbours are aware. Seem like a nice, ordinary couple. Records are running a trace on their history, but I doubt they’ll find anything.’

‘Nothing from the media release yesterday?’ That’s one of the
detectives speaking; Lacey thinks his name is Fletcher. He indicates that he would like to look at the report.

‘Not a thing.’ Wadsworth passes the sheet across the table. ‘I called in on my way here this morning. Mrs Caxton says there’s been no word from her husband, though I couldn’t get much out of her. The woman who was with her—one of the neighbours, a Miss Audrey Stanton—she says Mrs Caxton’s in quite an emotional state. I think we’re going to have to start taking this one seriously.’

‘Hmm.’ Fletcher scans the form. ‘It’s what? Less than forty-eight hours? And no suspicious circumstances?’

‘No circumstances at all that I can find.’

‘Mind if I take a crack at this one?’ Fletcher looks across at the Chief Inspector.

‘Be my guest,’ the Chief Inspector replies, ‘but don’t be too disappointed if it turns out to be a domestic.’

Shortly after that, the meeting breaks up. Lacey was hoping to have another word with Wadsworth, but he’s talking with Detective Inspector Fletcher, who, she remembers from a previous run-in with him, is not the most approachable of men. What’s more, on that occasion he’d made it quite clear that he didn’t think much of the press in general and female reporters in particular.

On the other side of the city, Gideon is still in his dressing gown. One of the pitfalls of living alone, being self-employed, and of independent means is that life could so easily drift into being disorganized, undisciplined and, therefore, unproductive. Sometimes it is good to take time out and live a bohemian existence for a while. But mostly he has discovered that life is more enjoyable within the boundaries of a flexible structure: a personal routine, a balance of work and pleasure, activity and contemplation. Only, this morning he overslept. And when he did wake, instead of pulling himself out of bed, he lay retracing last night’s dream in his mind while watching the breeze teasing the ivy leaves around his window.

Last night, he’d left the dinner party as early as courtesy would
permit and had taken his charming friend to her home, saying goodnight rather more abruptly than was polite. He was eager to get to his own bed, although at first he thought that sleep would elude him. Then he found himself walking along a beach, maybe the same beach as in the photograph. He saw her in the distance. Her hair rose and fell like a sheet of silk as the wind moved around her, catching the cloth of her skirt and pulling it tight to her legs. She waited as he approached, and she smiled, raising her hand in greeting.

‘Hello, Gideon. You understood my message?’

‘Message?’ He drew close to her.

‘Yes, the newspaper.’ Her English is perfect, although there has always been the slightest trace of an accent. Nothing he can identify.

‘The photograph?’ he said. ‘The man who is missing? Who is he?’

‘Here, take this.’ Her hands held a shape of white, folded paper. It was a horse. She gave it to him, and, as it moved from her hand to his, a vision flashed in his mind. A white mare, long-legged and graceful, a wild creature running, tail flying in the wind.

‘She will be sent to you. A man will ask it as a favour. Please, for my sake, do not dismiss her. I know you are impatient with people sometimes, but, Gideon, this is too important.’

Making no sense of it, he showers and dresses and brews more coffee, then tries to settle down to work. But his thoughts keep drifting back to that beach.

‘So, still no sign of old Matthew, then?’ Drew folds himself into an armchair, holding a mug of tea. ‘Sure you don’t want a drink?’

‘Sure, thanks. I was drowning in coffee when I left the office.’ Lacey stretches her legs out on the sofa, shoes kicked off and hair shaken loose of its tortoiseshell clasp.

‘What are the police doing about it, then?’

‘They’ve circulated his description, made door-to-door enquiries and scoured the area. Nothing much more they can do, so far as I can tell, unless something turns up.’

‘I thought you’d be out there combing the fields, hunting for clues, you being a crime reporter and all.’

‘Oh, shut up and stop taking the piss. This is important. At least, the police are beginning to think so. Have they spoken to you yet? They said they’re interviewing the neighbours.’

‘No, but I’ve hardly been here since yesterday afternoon, have I? Only called in now to collect some rolls of lining paper. You were lucky to catch me.’ He takes a gulp of his tea. He is wearing his favourite jumper, the one with holes in the elbows and the bottom two rows of knitting missing from the front hem. His hair is even messier than usual and flecked with sawdust.

‘Lucky? Is that what you call it?’

‘Now who’s taking the piss?’

‘No, seriously, I think something’s happened to him. You should have seen Triss yesterday, she was in a real state. I wish I could do something more to help.’

‘What’s happened to your professional objectivity?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I thought it was the cardinal rule of journalism? Don’t get personally involved. You can’t wear two hats—either be a reporter or a friend, you can’t be both.’

‘Well, I need to get to know the woman, don’t I? Especially as I’m trying to get her personal angle on it.’

‘Yeah, but I know what you’re like. You start out all slick and business-like, waving your notepad and licking your pencil. Then someone feeds you a sob story and you go all gooey inside, like a cream bun.’

‘Look, I
am
being objective. And I know I’m on to a good story, I can feel it. It’s just that I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor woman. I have this nasty feeling it’s going to end in tragedy one way or another.’

‘Oh, come on, now you’re being melodramatic. Lighten up, for God’s sake. They’ve probably had a row and he’ll come back when he’s cooled off.’ Drew puts his mug down. ‘Right, I’d better get that stuff into the van.’ He uncurls from the chair and heads out of the room. His muffled voice comes from the kitchen. ‘You know what they say: you can never really tell what’s going on behind closed doors.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He comes back, arms loaded with rolls of wallpaper. ‘Open the front door for me, would you? Look, all I’m saying is, you ought to go carefully. You don’t know what you might be getting yourself into.’ He steps out directly onto the pavement, there being no front garden, and another pace takes him to his van parked right outside. ‘Can you open the van before I drop this lot? Keys are in my back pocket.’

As Lacey unlocks the rear door, she can’t resist looking over at the schoolhouse. The street is silent and deserted, as it usually is at this time of day. She imagines seeing the place swarming with police, but that doesn’t happen, not in reality. One private car, not usually seen along here, is parked on the opposite side. It may or may not have something to do with the Caxtons. Drew reaches in and stacks the paper.

‘If Matthew simply walked out on her,’ she whispers over his shoulder, ‘with all the publicity you’d think he’d have got in touch with someone by now.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he replies from the depths of the van. ‘It depends why he left. If he left at all. Perhaps his wife bumped him off.’

‘Oh, Drew, that’s not funny.’ She looks horrified, which only encourages him.

‘The Fens have a strange and mysterious history, you know. It’s the isolation. It gets to people after a while. It’s not surprising if people go mad out here.’ He gives a manic laugh as he jumps out, his hands reaching for her throat.

She thumps him hard on the shoulder. ‘Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. Looking at the area and its history, I mean. I could write an article on it. Do some local research, see what else has happened out here.’

‘Why don’t you talk to Audrey Stanton? You know, the woman in the end cottage. She knows the area, has lived here for years. I think she used to work for the museum as an archivist or something.’

‘Did she? That might be useful. Only, I’m not sure she’d go for it. At the moment she’s acting as guard dog over at the schoolhouse. I’ve already had one run-in with her. I don’t think she approves of the press.’

‘That’s understandable. I get on with her all right. Must be my natural charm.’

Lacey thumps him again. ‘Well, you talk to her then.’

‘Why me?’

‘Oh, go on, please. See if you can fix something up for me. After all, you’re the one with all that natural charm.’

He looms over her, hands like claws, his face contorted in a wicked leer. This time he does get her by the throat. Lacey squeals and digs him in the ribs, and they both fall against the side of the van, laughing.

‘Good morning. Hope we’re not interrupting anything important.’

Lacey squeals again, but this time from surprise. ‘Inspector Fletcher, what are you doing here?’ She and Drew look like a couple of kids caught messing about in the school corridor.

‘Much the same as you, I expect. The missing-person case. Only I’m here as part of an official police investigation.’ Fletcher pulls himself up to his full height, pushing his shoulders back. ‘Mr Andrew Burrows?’ He flashes his identity card. ‘We’re interviewing people in connection with the apparent disappearance of one of your neighbours: Mr Caxton.’

‘Ah, Matthew. Yes, of course.’ Drew straightens himself up.

‘This is Detective Sergeant West.’ Fletcher indicates the other man, who is standing one pace behind him. West nods in greeting, but does not speak.
You can tell who’s in charge,
thinks Lacey. Fletcher’s the one in a suit and tie, whereas West’s wearing jeans and a bomber jacket and looks more like a normal human being. ‘We need to speak to anyone who lives in this area and may have seen him on the day of his disappearance. Someone did call on you several times yesterday,’ Fletcher continues, ‘but apparently you were out.’

‘Yes, sorry about that,’ says Drew.

Why are you apologizing?
thinks Lacey. Though Fletcher did make it sound like an accusation.

‘Yes, well I’m not sure I can tell you anything, but I do live here. Miss Prentice is just visiting, she’s a friend.’

‘So I gather. What about the end cottage over there, next door to the schoolhouse? We haven’t been able to speak to the occupier yet.’

‘That’s old Mr Abercrombie. He’s usually there,’ says Drew, ‘but he’s stone deaf, so you have to go around the back and bang on the door really hard to get his attention.’

‘And the house next door to this one, it’s for sale? I understand that you are the owner. We’d like to take a look inside if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure, no problem, though nobody’s been in there. And those two over the road,’ Drew points to the middle pair of terraced cottages, ‘they’re owned by weekenders. They usually come up from London for the racing, but I haven’t seen them lately. Must be the cold weather keeping them away.’

‘Yes, we’re already looking into that. But it’s you we’d like a word with at the moment. Do you mind if we go inside?’