2015-07-15 12:51:41 +00:00
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<title>Chapter 10</title>
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<div class="section" id="xhtmldocuments">
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<h2>10</h2>
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<p>Night fell abruptly and early. Thick clouds had piled in from
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the north west, swept in on cold winds that had driven down from
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the north of Greenland, threatening snow and dismal hail. They had
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blown by after an hour of darkness and the wind died. Overhead the
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sky was black, frosted with the stars, clear enough to make out the
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twinkling jewels of the seven sisters high over the Langmuir crags.
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There was no moon.</p>
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2015-09-10 00:34:32 +00:00
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<p>The hard frost crystallised out of the cold air to rime the
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2015-07-15 12:51:41 +00:00
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windows and lay mirror-sheets of black ice on the roads out of
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Levenford.</p>
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<p>Jack Fallon was still in College Street station, going over the
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evidence reports again, still trying to knit together a the puzzle
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which was growing in his mind.</p>
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<p>Mickey Haggerty was on his third pint of beer in Mac's Bar, and
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enjoying every mouthful.</p>
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<p>Robbie Cattanach was putting the finishing touches to his report
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on the post mortem he'd carried out on William Simpson, the late
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minister of Castlebank church. He hadn't needed a video cassette to
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tell him what he needed to know. Death was by strangulation. The
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other injuries were mere curiosities as far as he was
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concerned.</p>
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<p>Lorna Breck sat with her feet curled up underneath her on the
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soft sofa in her small living-room down by the estuary, trying to
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read a book, and making heavy weather of it. A small log fire
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flickered in the corner, the embers glowing red and sending out
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enough heat to make her feel comfortable on a cold night, yet she
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felt chilled <em>inside.</em> A sense of apprehension had been
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building up inside her since she'd left the library and crossed the
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old bridge, heading for home. It was vague, but getting stronger
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all the time, and Lorna couldn't shake the sensation of foreboding.
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She turned the page and her eyes followed the words right down to
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the bottom before she realised she hadn't read a word of the story.
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The image of what she'd seen when she'd looked into the shop window
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kept coming back to her, faded not one whit by the passage of three
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days.</p>
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<p>Just after nine o'clock, down on Quay Street, a shape moved
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along the pavement, indistinct at first in the frosty mist floating
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in from the river. In this old part of the town, the council had
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built a small walkway along the edge of the harbour, where an
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ancient boat repair shed had stood for generations until it had
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burned down three years before. During the day, in summertime, the
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clerks from the distillery and mothers with small children, spent a
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sunny hour throwing pieces of bread to the swans on the water, and
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losing most of it to the squadrons of screaming gulls who competed
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for the crumbs. Now, in winter, the swans were gone. The water was
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dark, the sound of its passage along the harbour wall was liquid
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and urgent. It slapped against the small boats moored out in the
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deeper-water midstream and made sucking, burbling noises as it
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swirled, out of sight, round the moorings and the old pier
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stanchions.</p>
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<p>Shona Campbell needed the money. She was twenty one years old
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and had a year-old baby girl. Eighteen months ago she'd had a good
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job in Cameron and Dunn's lawyer's office. Old Cameron had died
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twenty years ago and the practise was run by Roger Dunn, who
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handled most of the criminal work at Levenford Sheriff Court. In
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the old days, anybody banged up on a weekend drunk and disorderly
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would demand of the station sergeant: "Get me Cameron."</p>
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<p>Now they got Dunn, so the joke went, done good and proper.</p>
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<p>That was the position Shona Campbell found herself in, done good
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and proper. Two years before this cold Friday night, she'd had
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another interesting Friday night at a party out by Eastmains, on
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the far edge of town, where she'd met Craig Campbell known for some
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forgotten reason as Bunnet. He had looked good in his leathers, and
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better on the back of his big black Yamaha, and she'd agreed to let
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him take her home on the back of the purring machine. He was a
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barrel-pusher in Castlebank distillery, the immense four-square
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building that loomed beside the curve of the river. She should have
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known better when he'd taken the half bottle of crystal-clear
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overproof spirit out of his inside pocket and taken a large
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swallow. She'd tried some, just a sip, and had shivered with
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distaste. He'd laughed, his fair hair falling over his brow, and
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his strong teeth white in the night, and he'd slipped a casual arm
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around her shoulder to kiss her goodnight. She'd gone out with him
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four times, once to the pictures and three times roaring round the
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back roads on the big bike, and then he'd let the bike idle
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silently down the hill to Fetter Farm where he'd sneaked her into
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the hayloft. She'd gone along with it, apprehensively at first, but
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when his cold hand had slid against the skin under her brassiere,
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she'd been unable to say no. He'd laid her down, taken off most of
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her clothes and some of his and then she'd come with such intensity
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that she gouged two stuttering furrows in the back of his leather
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Jacket.</p>
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<p>Six months later, they were married in a small ceremony
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conducted by the same Rev William Simpson whose filleted and
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eviscerated remains were now glacial and blue in a cold storage
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drawer in the old mortuary. A few months after little Kelly was
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born, Shona came quickly to the conclusion that Bunnet Campbell was
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a drunk and a waster, and by that time it was too late. They'd got
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a small, dingy apartment three up in a huddle of old tenements just
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off Quay Street and Shona settled down to watch the rest of her
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life drift by in a dismal haze of need and faded dreams.</p>
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<p>She came round the corner onto the walkway. Ahead of her, a
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globe of light was haloed by the frosted mist. She could feel the
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icy air catch in the back of her throat, clean and sharp, and she
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drew the shawl tightly around the sleeping baby at her
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shoulder.</p>
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<p>Here the walkway passed two low bench seats which had been there
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since the promenade was built and were already cross-hatched by
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initials and gang slogans. To the right, there was a high wall,
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punctuated by gateways which led into the alleys and back courts of
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the River Street shops. She passed the light, walking on quickly,
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her shoes clacking on the cold paving stones. About fifty yards on,
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Rock Lane pulled off up towards the main street, bisected by Barley
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Cobble, an ancient pathway which had once been the route of the old
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grain barrows when the distillery had been a family enterprise. At
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the end of this long, twisting and narrow alley, the Castlegate
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Bar, the oldest, and the dingiest drinking house in town, would be
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alive with noise and laughter and the occasional sound of snarling
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drunk men. This was a Friday night and that's where Shona was
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headed. Bunnet Campbell would be up against the bar, most likely
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sprawled across it. Friday night was still pay night in the
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distillery. The men had threatened to walk out when the company
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suggested paying their wages direct into bank accounts, for two
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reasons. Firstly, few of them had bank accounts. But the main
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reason was that few of them, under any circumstances, wanted any
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evidence of how much they were paid for their week's work. The
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difference between their take-home pay and what actually
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<em>got</em> home was immense.</p>
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<p>It had become a Friday night ritual, a race against the drink
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and the devil, a bid to get some of the money before Tam Finch, the
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Castlegate's beefy owner, got the lot. Already, they were five
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weeks behind with the rent. Shona owed another two months on the
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hired television set, and there was a mountain of debt piling up,
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most of it to the Housemarket catalogue collector.</p>
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<p>As Shona scurried quickly past the long wall, she thought about
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the good job she'd had in the lawyer's office and once again
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thought she'd been done. Good and proper.</p>
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<p>Her shadow lengthened in front of her as she hurried, eyes
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smarting from the cold, until she got midway to the next street
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lamp. Beside her, an open gateway yawned, a dark blot of
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lightlessness. She was about to move on when a low moan came
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soughing out of the dark. The girl stopped and turned
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simultaneously, clutching her baby tightly against herself, feeling
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the child give a start at the sudden jar. The moan came again and
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Shona peered in to the blank space, nervous lest something should
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leap out from the shadows. A shape moved, and the girl took a step
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back with a little intake of breath, but nothing leapt out. The
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gloom diminished a little as her eyes grew accustomed to it and
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finally Shona could make out the huddle against the swung-back
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gate. The low noise came again. A man moaning.</p>
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<p>Shona took two steps forward and peered again. The man was lying
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in the shadows, back against the wall, beside a tumbled clutter of
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super-strength lager cans, the kind that were left there by the
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handful of drunks who hung around the quayside during the day.</p>
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<p>"Are you alright?" she asked.</p>
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<p>The shape stirred and a pale face swung upwards. Shona couldn't
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make out the features. She leaned closer and saw a thin man, one
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leg sprawled out in front of his, both hands up to the side of his
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face.</p>
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<p>"Do you need some help?" the girl asked again. On her shoulder,
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the baby made a little mewling sound and she automatically patted
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it to silence.</p>
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<p>The man looked drunk. There was a rip in his trousers, a pale
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stripe against the rest of his leg. The young mother leaned forward
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down and the man looked at her, or through her. He made the moaning
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noise again and some saliva dribbled down from slack lips.</p>
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<p>His eyes were wide and vacant, mouth slack. Shona wondered
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whether to call an ambulance or a doctor or something. It was
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freezing down here and the sprawled, slumped man was only wearing
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trousers and jacket, no heavy winter coat. She began to straighten
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up, torn between her need to get round to try to snatch some of her
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husband's wages and her inability to let someone lie and die in the
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cold. Just then, the man gave a little jolt, as if she'd
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awoken.</p>
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<p>"Go," he said, very clearly.</p>
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<p>"What?"</p>
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<p>"Go. Gone. Go. Get." The words came in a slobbery jumble, as if
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the man had little control over her mouth.</p>
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<p>He raised herself up from the wall and stretched out a hand, so
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quickly Shona thought she had tried to strike at her. The girl
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pulled back, holding her baby even tighter.</p>
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<p>"Go." the man said, her face looming pale up from the shadows.
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"Get out. Out of here. Go. <em>Get you</em>!"</p>
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<p>He tried to heave himself to her feet, the one hand still
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outstretched towards Shona. He looked more than drunk. He looked
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<em>mad</em>, the girl thought. She backed away out of the gate.
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The shape loomed, then fell back with a crumping sound, a flaccid
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weight hitting the wall.</p>
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<p>Shona hesitated again, wondering what to do, then the voice came
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out from the shadows, now more a shout than a moan.</p>
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<p>"<em>Get you</em>!" This time it sounded like a threat.</p>
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<p>That was enough for the girl. She turned quickly and clattered
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up the narrow end of Quay Street, turned at River Lane and then
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jinked to the left along the alley that would take her to Barley
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Cobble.</p>
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<p>Here the mist from the river had no breeze at all to dissipate
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its thick pallid tendrils. They curled around the corners and
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scraped against the crumbling sandstone walls looming in on either
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side. High on the stonework, old fashioned lamps glowed dimly from
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within their orange halos. On her shoulder, the baby whimpered
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again and Shona clapped it lightly, drawing it in close to her body
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heat. The man in the yard had scared her. She shouldn't have
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stopped, she told herself, not to be threatened by some disgusting
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drunk.</p>
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<p>She reached the cobbled alley and turned along it, through the
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swirling mist. Past a doorway she caught a glimpse of someone
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standing in the shadows and she jerked around, staring, breath
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caught. There was a dim shape there. At first she thought it was a
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girl of her own height, but then she twisted her head and the
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shadows resolved themselves into the shape of the old peeling door.
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There was no-one there. She walked on for ten paces, not quite
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scared, but wanting to be out of the mist and home in her own
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little house, which, no matter how dingy and ill kept, was warm on
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a winter's night.</p>
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<p>There was a noise above her. Still walking, she looked
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upwards.</p>
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<p>A shadow came swooping out of the mist curling above her head
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and slammed her to the ground.</p>
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<p>The blow was such a stunner that Shona Campbell's arm snapped
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just above the elbow. She hit the cobbled alley with a thud. Out of
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the corner of her eye, something black whipped backwards, lunged at
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her again. A searing pain screamed in her neck as her head was
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smacked to the side and above her, the orange light becamea two
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whirling fuzzy globes as her vision doubled. She rolled with the
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force of the blow, scraped her knee on a stone kerb, then fetched
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against the wall with a thump which socked her breath out in one
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loud, bewildered grunt.</p>
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<p>Despite the pain and the shock, Shona kept little Kelly clasped
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tight against her with her left arm. She turned, gasping for
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breath, still unable to comprehend what had happened. Her vision
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was still swimming and she blinked back tears. Darkness wavered in
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front of her and she twisted away from it. The dark stretched out
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and grabbed the baby in one vicious snatch. The child wailed and
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Shona screamed. Her hand flew out and caught on to the trailing
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edge of the shawl, fingers hooked in the wide crochet stitching and
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she was dragged, wailing like a banshee for several yards.</p>
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<p>The tugging stopped and Shona managed to get to one knee, just
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at the corner of the alley where it gave into a small unlit back
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yard.</p>
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<p>"My baby," she screamed. "<em>Give her back</em>!"</p>
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<p>She crawled, lurching to her feet. Just ahead of her, in the
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dark, she could make out the pale fluttering of the shawl and
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reached out.</p>
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<p>Her fingers touched something cold and hard and rough. It moved
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under her fingers. She blinked again and her eyes cleared. Just
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above her head height, a snorting, rasping sound grated, like
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crumbling stone and a foul stench of rot came wafting towards
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her.</p>
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<p>"You bastard," she bawled. "Give her back to me. "</p>
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<p>Under her fingers, something gave a wrench.</p>
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<p>"Oh help! Somebody <em>help</em> me. It's got my baby." Shona
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screamed. Off to the right, a lamp blinked on, sending a long
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rhombus of light through the mist.</p>
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<p>"What in the name's going on down there," a querulous old voice
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demanded to know.</p>
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<p>"Oh help me mister. It's my baby," Shona screeched incoherently.
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She grabbed at the movement, still unable to see anything in the
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darkness. She was wailing and screaming, scratching and scrabbling
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at the shadowy shape when the black expanded again. Her arm was
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flung off with almost enough force to dislocate her shoulder.
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Something loomed in at her and she got a glimpse of two orange
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globes as a head swivelled towards her. There was a movement just
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above her. Her head snapped up, turning and then the dark flicked
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out and hit her right down the side of her temple.</p>
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<p>Her cry was cut off instantly. She smacked the ground with a wet
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<em>crump</em>.</p>
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<p>There was a pain in her right elbow and a tight, ripping throb
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in her neck, but they started to fade almost immediately. There was
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no feeling down the left side of her face which was now pressed
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against the cold cobbles. She tried to move, but her hands were
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shivering and she couldn't get them to stop. There was a wet
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feeling on her neck and a thick coppery smell. Her eye swivelled.
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automatically following a shadowy movement that scuttled and
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flowed, liquid yet spidery, up the wall close to her head. Her
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other eye wouldn't move at all and that gave her an odd doubling of
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vision which was confusing.</p>
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<p>Shona's mouth opened and she managed a small croak. There was a
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warm smell of butcher shops and Shona didn't know why she was lying
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in Barley Cobble. Very vaguely she thought she might have left the
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potato pot still bubbling on the old cooker and wondered if dinner
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would be burned before she got back again. She hoped little Kelly
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would be alright until then and she hoped the man lying in the dark
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behind the gate hadn't sneaked up to her flat and crept up beside
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Kelly's little cot. She wondered mistily about the darkness that
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had climbed up the wall with the fluttering white thing trailing
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behind it.</p>
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<p>Her hands and arms and legs would not stop shaking. She tried to
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turn her head and managed to make it move. There was a wet, sucking
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sound as her face came away from the cobbles and the metal smell
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came warm again, clogging her throat.</p>
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<p>The mist was getting thicker, crowding in on twists of gauzy
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white and everything began to get cold. Her one good eye rolled and
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she saw a girl standing there in the alley, watching her. The girl
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was trying to say something and Shona tried to say something back,
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but she forgot what she was going to say and the girl started to
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fade away into the mist.</p>
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<p>The corner of River Lane and Barley Cobble was silent for some
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time. Round the corner, less than fifty yards away, Bunnet Campbell
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was flopped over the bar, mumbling to Doug Mitchell who was equally
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drunk, about the fact that his stupid wife couldn't run a piss-up
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in a brewery. It was another half an hour before Shona Campbell was
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found lying in a pool of blood, limbs already frozen stiff, her
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face a ruin of sinew and bone. Of little Kelly Campbell, there was
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no sign, and it was not until the following morning that the baby's
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father sobered up enough to report her missing.</p>
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<p>On that same Friday night, Jack Fallon was huddled over his
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kitchen table which was littered with books and scraps of paper. He
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had cooked two pork chops, burned both of them but ignored the
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blackened bits and wolfed the lot, then he had made a pot of coffee
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and sat down at the table. He was on his fourth cup, which he knew
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was probably a mistake, because it guaranteed him little sleep that
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|
night. He almost smiled at the thought. Nothing guaranteed much
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sleep these days.</p>
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<p>He'd got through a lot of work since he'd finished at the
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office. Robbie Cattanach's post mortem on Simpson would arrive on
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his desk in the morning and he expected no surprises. It was
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possible, he told himself, that the autopsy might reveal an exotic
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|
substance, like LSD or crack, or magic mushrooms or any other
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hallucinogenic substance, but Jack didn't think the minister was a
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likely candidate for turning on and dropping out.</p>
|
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<p>He shook his head wryly. He had to stop pigeonholing people.
|
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|
Simpson did not seem a likely candidate for attending seances. He
|
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|
hadn't seemed the kind of man who would make a video recording of
|
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|
|
his own gruesome death.</p>
|
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|
<p>There was no pigeon hole for that kind of thing, and that caused
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|
Jack more problems.</p>
|
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|
<p>Oh, Angus McNicol had been pleased, not only at getting a name
|
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|
|
for Marta Herkik's murderer, but he also delighted in
|
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|
|
Superintendent Cowie's embarrassed fury. Cowie had been an elder of
|
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|
|
Castlebank Church. He'd been a lodge-fellow of the dead and
|
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|
|
dangling man who was now a twitching star of the small screen. Now
|
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|
|
the policeman was trying to dissociate himself from the
|
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|
minister.</p>
|
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|
<p>"There was always something odd about him," he declared to Jack
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|
|
and Angus. "I could never put my finger on it."</p>
|
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|
<p>"That's why I went very carefully," Jack said, trying to keep
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|
his face straight. Angus winked at him over the top of his whisky
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|
glass.</p>
|
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|
<p>Cowie glared at him.</p>
|
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|
<p>The big chief superintendent offered Jack another drink. He
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|
shook his head.</p>
|
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|
<p>"No thanks. I've stacks of paperwork to get through."</p>
|
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|
<p>"No urgency now, is there?"</p>
|
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|
<p>"I don't know."</p>
|
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|
<p>"What do you mean?" Cowie asked. "I've released the name to the
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|
press. Told them our inquiries are at an end."</p>
|
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|
<p>"Yes, I saw that on the news," Angus said gruffly.</p>
|
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|
<p>"Might be a bit premature," Jack said evenly.</p>
|
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|
<p>"Nonsense. We've tied him in to the Herkik place <em>and</em>
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|
|
Latta Court. What more do we need."</p>
|
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|
<p>"I don't know about you, but <em>I</em> need just a little bit
|
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|
|
more than circumstantial evidence."</p>
|
|
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|
<p>"Come on, Fallon. Simpson did it, and that's an end to it."</p>
|
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|
<p>"Well, I hope you're right. But so far, we haven't got a body
|
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|
|
for the Doyle kid. And we've no motive for either. And the one
|
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|
person I would like to speak to is in the middle of a post mortem.
|
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|
|
On the receiving end, as we speak."</p>
|
|
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|
<p>"Well, that's hardly here nor there. We've got Simpson's prints
|
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|
|
from the Lanark case, and those photographs. That shows he was a
|
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|
|
killer in the first place."</p>
|
|
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|
<p>"It does tend to point that way. But I have to consider the near
|
|
|
|
|
certainty that there were several people at Marta Herkik's house on
|
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|
|
the night she died. I don't know how many. I'd like to speak to
|
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|
|
them all."</p>
|
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|
<p>"To what end?" Angus asked.</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"To make sure this wasn't a group effort. I don't mind nailing
|
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|
|
this to Simpson's door. The man was a walking shit-house. But if he
|
|
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|
|
wasn't the only one involved, then we could have a problem. Just
|
|
|
|
|
think what the headlines will say if we close the file and then
|
|
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|
|
something else happens? I'd just like to make sure."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Cowie turned to Angus McNicol, his eyebrows arched.</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"Seems a waste of time, effort and public money to me," he said
|
|
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|
|
stiffly."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Angus sat back, steepled his fingers, looking thoughtful.</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"Oh, I don't see any harm in Jack here tying up loose ends if he
|
|
|
|
|
can. I mean, it could have taken a long time to get Simpson anyway,
|
|
|
|
|
so I think we're ahead on points. For the time being."</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>He finished his whisky and leaned over the desk.</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"Another couple of days Jack. Just so we're sure."</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"Thanks," Jack said. Cowie left in an indignant bustle. When the
|
|
|
|
|
door had closed, Angus asked him what he'd been getting at.</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"Just what I said. There's something about this that doesn't sit
|
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|
|
square with me."</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"It would be better all round, propaganda wise and from an admin
|
|
|
|
|
point of view if we could leave it all with Simpson. It's neat
|
|
|
|
|
enough for me."</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"But if it wasn't just Simpson, it could happen again. I don't
|
|
|
|
|
think anybody wants that. We'll get egg all over."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack had spend a full morning talking to the dead minister's
|
|
|
|
|
wife. She did not know about the video and he had no plans to tell
|
|
|
|
|
her just yet.</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Her daughter Fiona was lying sedated in an upstairs bedroom of
|
|
|
|
|
the handsome red-sandstone manse. Betty Simpson had refused all
|
|
|
|
|
medication.</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>She offered Jack a sherry in a tiny cut-crystal glass, which he
|
|
|
|
|
accepted. It was very bitter.</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"I suppose you want to ask me some questions," she'd said as
|
|
|
|
|
soon as she'd poured a glass for herself.</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"Yes," Jack agreed. "I do have a few questions."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"About him. My husband." The corners of her mouth turned down as
|
|
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|
|
she said it. It made her look as if she'd smelled something rotting
|
|
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|
|
in a corner.</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"I've known for years," she said. Jack stopped in the act of
|
|
|
|
|
raising the glass to his mouth. He put it slowly down on the
|
|
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|
|
table.</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"Known what?"</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"About him. About what he does."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"And what does he do. Or did do," he corrected.</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"Girls. Young ones. He couldn't keep himself away from them.
|
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|
|
That's why my other daughters don't live here. Now he'd dead I can
|
|
|
|
|
say it. He <em>interfered</em>.</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"What, with your daughters?"</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"With anybody's daughters. He was <em>sick</em>. But I couldn't
|
|
|
|
|
stop him. I had to stay, to protect Fiona. To make sure he didn't
|
|
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|
|
go near her. He <em>was</em> sick, you know, and I hated him for
|
|
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|
|
it. I didn't know when we got married, but then I found
|
|
|
|
|
<em>things</em>." Again she made the disgusted twist of her
|
|
|
|
|
mouth.</p>
|
|
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|
|
<p>"Things?"</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"Pictures. He'd taken them himself. Little girls, sometimes
|
|
|
|
|
boys, but mostly girls. Disgusting pictures. And there were others.
|
|
|
|
|
They must have come in the post. He never let me open any of his
|
|
|
|
|
letters. Filthy pictures, but not as bad as the ones he'd taken by
|
|
|
|
|
himself."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"And did you ever tell him you knew?"</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"I didn't have to. He knew I did. When that little girl was
|
|
|
|
|
found in Lanark, I <em>knew</em>."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"So why didn't you say anything?"</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>The minister's widow gave a little laugh. "And who would have
|
|
|
|
|
believed me? And if they <em>had</em> I would have brought shame on
|
|
|
|
|
my daughters. No. I said nothing for their sake, but now it's over,
|
|
|
|
|
and he can't hurt them any more. He can't touch them any more, and
|
|
|
|
|
I'm glad."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>She raised her head and looked at Jack, pale blue eyes
|
|
|
|
|
glittering like ice. "I hope he burns in hell."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>The final word came out like a spit. The grey-haired woman
|
|
|
|
|
smacked her hand down on the polished coffee-table and the thin
|
|
|
|
|
stem of the sherry glass broke. Blood immediately dripped from the
|
|
|
|
|
centre of her palm where the jagged edge had dug into the skin, but
|
|
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|
|
she hardly seemed to notice the pain. She wrapped a small
|
|
|
|
|
handkerchief around her hand and continued to talk as if nothing
|
|
|
|
|
had happened.</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"I'd told him that if he touched me or the girls ever again,
|
|
|
|
|
then I'd kill him. He never touched any of us after that. That was
|
|
|
|
|
good enough for me. I just didn't think he'd go so far again, now
|
|
|
|
|
that he was older."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack said back, listening to the stream of loathing from the
|
|
|
|
|
small woman.</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"Tell me. Why would he go to a seance?"</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>She looked at him, failing to understand.</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"He was at a spiritualist meeting last week. A medium."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"I don't know. He never said, but he never told me
|
|
|
|
|
anything."</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"Did he keep a diary?"</p>
|
|
|
|
|
<p>"You can check his desk if you like. I couldn't say. Take
|
|
|
|
|
everything away if you want. I never want to see any of it ever
|
|
|
|
|
again."</p>
|
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|
</div>
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</div>
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</body>
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</html>
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