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<h2>17</h2>
<p>Annie Eastwood saw her dead daughter again, and the familiar
wrench of barren guilt and delusive hope twisted inside her. Since
the night in Marta Herkik's house, since she had heard Angela's
voice coming from the wrinkled mouth of the old woman, she had seen
her daughter's face in glimpses and flashes, in reflections in shop
windows, in faces in the lunchtime crowds on River Street, in the
shadows behind the flaking gaunt tombstones in old Clydeshore
Cemetery.</p>
<p>She'd gone there many times since the bleak burial, but after
the dreadful night in the old woman's apartment, when the walls had
frosted and run with stone-sweat and the flawed crystal had spun on
its own on the polished table, she'd come to the graveyard every
day, dreading to see her girl's name etched on the new polished
granite, the words gleaming in the lights from the street just over
the wall.</p>
<p><em>Angela Eastwood. Aged sixteen.</em></p>
<p>Her girl's life in four words cut on stone.</p>
<p><em>Make me some hot donuts mummy.</em> The high clear voice of
a little girl. It had frozen Annie's heart, chilled her soul. And
the words the stone had spelled out, nudging each letter with dread
certainty. <em>Cold. Dark. Hurt.</em> They had riven her like
shards of ice.</p>
<p>Clydeshore Cemetery was cold and dark. Annie could recall the
funeral, though she'd been so deadened by the drugs it had been
days before the memory had risen to the surface of conscious
thought. She'd been moving in a dream, in a nightmare. Since the
seance at Marta Herkik's, when the cold breath had shivered through
her, filling the empty place in her soul, she felt she'd been
thrown back into that nightmare.</p>
<p>The dreams had started that first night, and they had tormented
her every night since. Fearful dreams of dark and shadows, familiar
places seen from unfamiliar perspectives. She awoke hands shaking,
mouth agape, with the feeling she'd been seeing her dreams though
the eyes of someone else. In the daytime, slugged with
sleeplessness, she'd find herself staring at some object for
minutes on end, while the memory of her daughter's plaintive voice
would be ringing in her ears. Annie Eastwood had not slept in the
dark for more than a week. She kept on the bedside light every
night. But still, in the small hours of the morning, the dreams
still stole up on her, stole through her.</p>
<p>The cemetery was old and cold and dark. Even the place where
Angie was buried had been reclaimed from a cleared section close to
the river where a bar of old hoary trees had been excised after
they'd died of dutch elm disease. The small secluded patch of
ground was punctuated by a handful of small, modern stone slabs
which had been milled in Kirkland Quarry. To an extent, they were
less eerie, less ominous, than the old Victorian monoliths which
stood ponderous around the perimeter, half-hidden behind dark
juniper and yew. The new-style stones, the kind decreed tasteful by
the council, were typically bland and featureless, epitaphs more to
the junk-food, tupperware era than to a human being's life. Hoar
frost sheened the north sides of the old tombstones. Great grey
blocks, mottled with lichen, names scoured almost flat by the
decades of wind and rain; etched endorsements from days when
god-fearing meant just that.</p>
<p><em>Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust. The Lord Taketh</em>. <em>Yeah
tho' I walk in the valley of the shadow of death.</em></p>
<p>Old stones bore urns draped with heavy stone-carved cloth,
Celtic crosses from a bygone day, carven angels, blind eyes glaring
forever behind snail-trail fungus. In this ancient part of the
graveyard, death stood bare and cold and final.</p>
<p>And yet as Annie Eastwood walked, shivering, through the
wrought-iron gate, she could still hear the echo of her dead
daughter's voice, clamouring for life in her memory. She slowly
made her way up Keelyard Road and over the bridge. Below the stone
arches the river tumbled black over the weir and already the
haar-mist was beginning to creep ghostly over the lip of the
harbour. The town was still busy, but most of the shops were
preparing to close, and most of the passers-by were heading home
from day-shift at the distillery or from the oil-rig yard. She
turned on College Street corner, up past the maze of vennels and
alleys and came out by the little park where the cenotaph to the
hundreds of dead in both wars and a few other skirmishes pointed at
the cobalt sky. Here, the old bandstand sheltered in the lee of a
thick patch of rhododendrons which had trapped most of the fallen
leaves from the weeping ash trees. They rustled and whispered in
the night breeze.</p>
<p>Annie's breath plumed in front of her as she walked past the
bushes, heading into a small rectangle of darkness where the stand
and the thick foliage cut off the street lamp.</p>
<p>It was there, in that little dead area, that she heard the dry
whisper.</p>
<p>"<em>I'm cold, mummy.</em>"</p>
<p>She stopped abruptly, freezing as motionless as one of the
dead-eyed angels. The thin nebula of breath dissipated like a
wraith. Annie turned slightly, still without breathing, ears
suddenly straining against the rubbery sound of the rhododendron
foliage and the far-off traffic. Her eyes had instantly widened and
she stared straight ahead at the black shadow in front. In the
corner of her vision, the bushes shivered with a life of their own,
as if something flitted through them.</p>
<p>"<em>Cold mummy.</em>"</p>
<p>The whisper was like the rustle of dead leaves. It came from the
gloom where the bush pushed forward onto the path, leaving a slight
hollow where no light pierced. Annie's breath heaved and she felt
the dream-like panic begin to swell inside her.</p>
<p>"<em>I'm here mummy. I need you.</em> "</p>
<p>The voice was no longer a whisper. It had gained in intensity,
an echoing childlike sound which seemed to come from a distance, as
if it were down a well, or in a cave. The wretched appeal was
overlaid by that dry, rustling susuration of wind through a
thicket.</p>
<p>Annie said nothing. There were no words to say, none that she
was able to speak. Fright lurched inside her. She tried to pull
herself away, to get towards the light. She had heard her
daughter's voice only moments before she'd fled in abject terror
from the suddenly menacing room in Cairn House. She had gone there
in hope, wanting to find peace. And since that night, she'd had no
peace of mind, only a gaping and cold emptiness in her soul and
fear in her heart.</p>
<p>She tried to turn, tried to catch her breath properly, when
something came out of the shadows. Annie reacted as if a black dog
had leapt for her throat. She gave a strangled gasp and threw one
hand out in front of her.</p>
<p>"<em>Mummy. I need you</em>." Her daughter's echoing voice came
clearly across the three yards of darkness. A small shape came
walking soundlessly towards her. Annie's vision swam as hear heart
fought to cope with the sudden pressure of the surge of dread. In
that watery vision she got a glimpse of a pale face and fair hair
streaming out. Two small hands reached for her. Despite her fear,
she reached reflexively for them. Something cold touched her skin,
moved towards her, came into her embrace. She smelled the scent of
soap, felt the silk of hair, and the wild <em>need</em> soared in
her heart. Her daughter's face wavered in the shadows as Annie
brought her in to hug her tightly, to cuddle the dead cold from the
thin form. Yearning mother-love smothered her confusion and fear.
Then the scent of soap and familiar girl-scent turned sour, became
a septic stench which flooded her nose and mouth and the freezing
cold flowed onto her, penetrating her pores, filling the empty
space that had creaked open the night of Marta Herkik's seance. The
abysmal chill invaded her. For a fleeting second, Annie Eastwood
was overwhelmed by a ghastly sensation of violation and then the
cold numbed her, froze her, stole the hurt and the sense and the
self.</p>
<p>A short while later, Annie Eastwood emerged from the dark space
behind the rhododendron patch, and moved on the path beside the
bandstand, avoiding the light as much as she could, keeping to the
shadowed places. On the strips of lane and alley where she had to
come close to a street light, she twitched and averted her face.
Down on College Path, a woman she'd been at school with and
sometimes chatted to if they met while shopping, said hello and
asked her how she was keeping. Annie Eastwood seemed not to have
noticed, although, the woman thought, she couldn't have failed to
hear her. The woman watched her wander off until she was lost to
sight.</p>
<hr />
<p>Jack met Lorna Breck in the chemist's shop just opposite the
health centre. He'd been given, as he'd expected, a prescription
for antibiotics. He'd had tonsilitis once, as a teenager and he
remembered the scary moment when, after the pain had built to an
extent that swallowing even water was impossible, he'd stood in
front of a mirror, opened his mouth, and saw the fungus-like
growths almost completely blocking his throat. As he stood, hands
in pockets, waiting for the pretty assistant to measure out the
pills, he grinned wryly at the memory. He'd thought, with rising
panic, that he'd had a tumour. Those grey-green mottled swellings
were just how he'd imagined a malignant carcinoma would appear. The
penicillin had shrunk them to nubbins in one short night. He knew
now he'd feel better in the morning and he was grateful he was not
allergic to antibiotics, otherwise the ache in his throat would
continue for weeks.</p>
<p>He looked around, nostalgically appreciating the fact that
Burnett's apothecary had changed little since his childhood,
defying the trend to become one of the plastic shopping mall
drug-stores where drugs were the least available commodity. The
walls were lined with crafted display cases crowded with
oddly-shaped bottles and jars filled with mysterious, tantalising
liquids and powders. Most of them looked as if they'd been there
since the beginning of the century, and possibly had. Most of them,
Jack thought, were probably deadly poison.</p>
<p>Just then the door opened and the little bell over the lintel
jangled tunelessly. Jack turned and saw the girl come in. He
recognised her immediately. Her face was pale enough to make the
smattering of freckles stand out like sepia ink-spots, framed by
chestnut hair cut in a neat bob which curled like parenthesis on
her cheeks. She was looking down at the slip of paper when she
walked in, absently letting the door swing closed. The other girl
behind the counter reached for the prescription and took it from
her without a word. It was only then that she realised she was not
alone in the shop. She turned, looked up, saw Jack, and gave a
visible start, as if she'd seen something grotesque.</p>
<p>"Something I said?" Jack asked lightly, though his voice had
taken on a hoarse, hardened quality.</p>
<p>The girl looked up at him, eyes widening for a brief moment,
then looked away. She gave a tiny shake of her head, and very
quickly glanced over the counter to where the assistant was
counting out Jack's capsules onto a scale. She looked scared and
worried and uncomfortable all at once. Both hands fidgeted with the
large black shoulder bag. Jack got the impression she would rather
be anywhere than standing close to him.</p>
<p>"I hope you're keeping a bit better," he tried again, just as
gently.</p>
<p>The girl nodded, a jerky, mouse-like motion that was almost a
tremble, but she kept her eyes down. There was something wrong with
her, Jack could see that plainly enough. She looked as if she was
held in so tight she was vibrating with the tension. He'd seen that
often enough, sat with too many ravished women, bereaved mothers of
newly dead children, the casual victims of an increasingly callous
and careless society. He took in the contours of her face with the
ease of long practise. She wasn't as small as she looked at first,
nor as thin. It was just the clenched, nervous stance, shoulders
drawn in, knuckles standing out white that made her look frail,
even gaunt. She was, he gauged, nineteen or so, had the elfin face
of a Renoir model, an innocent look which would have been unlined
but for the worried frown and the way she had clamped her lips
together in a tight line. Jack wondered what she would look like in
repose. He imagined she might be quite lovely if she relaxed. With
the dark rings under her eyes, she looked bloodless and ill.</p>
<p>The teenager in the white coat called out his name and he moved
across to the desk, handing over enough for the antibiotics and a
box of throat pastilles. The assistant smiled as she gave him
change and a quick measuring look, taking in his height and his
hair and the presence of a ring on his finger in one sweep. Jack
returned the smile and took his medicine, turned from the desk and
almost bumped into the slight girl.</p>
<p>"Sorry," he said automatically, and equally reflexively taking
her elbow in his hand. Again she made that startled motion. He
could feel the tenseness sing under his fingers.</p>
<p>"<em>Who's done what to you</em>?" he wondered, letting go
almost as quickly as he had taken her arm.</p>
<p>The other assistant, this one older, fatter, and myopic called
the girl's name just as Jack moved away, heading for the door.</p>
<p>"Lorna Breck."</p>
<p>Something clicked in Jack's mind. He'd heard the name before. He
pulled on the handle, wincing from the clang of the bell just above
his ear, and let it swing back on its pneumatic absorber. Outside,
in the cold, he scanned his mental file, trying to dredge up the
memory. There was a familiarity that danced away as he reached for
it, but he knew it would come if he gave it time. The years of
police work had honed his memory. The name would be in there
somewhere. He pocketed the pills, opened the pastilles and stuck
one in his mouth. The fruity juices watered under his tongue and
eased the back of his throat. He sucked gratefully and walked along
the edge of the small open space to where the car was parked under
a winter-stark alder.</p>
<p>Behind him the bell clanged again. He didn't turn round, but
kept walking. Footsteps tapped behind him, faster than his own. He
was only yards from the car when he heard her speak.</p>
<p>"Excuse me."</p>
<p>Jack took another couple of steps.</p>
<p>"Excuse me. Please."</p>
<p>He stopped, turned. She came walking quickly towards him.</p>
<p>Jack raised his eyebrows, still saying nothing. She looked as if
she would take off like a roe fawn in the gorse at the merest hint
of reproof.</p>
<p>"You're Mr Fallon. The policeman?" She had a light, lilted way
of speaking, every word clearly enunciated. She wasn't from around
Levenford. From the highlands or islands, going by the accent.</p>
<p>"That's me."</p>
<p>The girl looked left and right. She took a step forward, then
another step back, as if considering an escape.</p>
<p>"You're in charge of..." she stopped, bringing the bag close up
to her body like a shield. "In charge of what's happening
here."</p>
<p>"The very same. And you're Lorna Breck, am I right?"</p>
<p>"How did you know that?" A guilty look opened her face up. She
had great grey eyes that widened appealingly.</p>
<p>Jack laughed, though it cost him a scrape of pain in his
gullet.</p>
<p>"I heard the girl call it out in there," he said, nodding back
towards the chemists. "Don't worry. You're not on my files."</p>
<p>But she was, he knew. He was still riffling through his mental
notebook, trying to place the name. It still wouldn't come.</p>
<p>"Oh," the girl said. She dropped her eyes again, then just as
quickly looked up at him, spearing him with the intensity of her
gaze.</p>
<p>"I," she said, and stopped abruptly. "What I mean is..."</p>
<p>"Take it easy," Jack said. "I've got plenty of time."</p>
<p>"It's what's happening. I mean in this place." The girl swept
her eyes around the car park.</p>
<p>"This place?"</p>
<p>"The town. Levenford."</p>
<p>He raised his eyebrows again, willing her on.</p>
<p>"I need to talk to you. I have to talk to someone. I know...I
mean I <em>see</em> things."</p>
<p>Jack took a step towards her, hands in his pockets.</p>
<p>"See things?"</p>
<p>She clenched the bag even tighter, hands pure white against the
black, opened her mouth as if trying to speak, and then she burst
into tears. It happened so quickly Jack was taken aback. She hardly
made a sound, but huge droplets filled her eyes and spilled over
and down her cheeks while her shoulders hitched up and down
spasmodically. Her face was a picture of pure misery.</p>
<p>"Hey. Hold on," Jack said uselessly. He went towards her, put
his arm round her shoulder. She was shivering like a trapped bird.
As soon as he touched her, she fell against him and all he could do
was hold on to her while she quivered. He felt as awkward and
gauche.</p>
<p>It took a couple of minutes for the spasm of silent sobbing to
subside. When it did, she tried to pull away, sniffing wetly, but
he kept his arm around her shoulder until he was sure she wouldn't
fall. Finally, he eased his grip. She snapped open the bag and drew
out a wad of tissues and jabbed them in her eyes.</p>
<p>"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, snuffling all the while, looking more
than ever like a schoolgirl. "It's just I need to talk to somebody.
I need to talk to <em>you</em>." She looked up at him and her big
grey eyes were wide with mute appeal.</p>
<p>"I need help."</p>
<p>"That's what I'm here for," Jack said, keeping his voice level.
He didn't have a clue what she was talking about, but there was
something about the girl that made him want to listen. Maybe she
had transmitted her sense of urgency, or maybe it was because she
looked as if she was in serious trouble, but he thought if he said
the wrong thing she'd be off and running.</p>
<p>"Hey. Come on and I'll buy you a coffee."</p>
<p>She nodded, then looked up at him.</p>
<p>"There's nowhere open."</p>
<p>"There's always someplace open."</p>
<p>Just two streets away, the two women who ran Hobnobs coffee
shop, a cluttered little place filled with mis-matched tables and
chairs were cleaning up when Jack opened the door.</p>
<p>"Time for a quick coffee?" he asked. They were both friends of
his sister, so he knew they'd let him sit for a while. One of them
took in the girl by his side and gave a half-smile. Jack led Lorna
Breck to a corner table. The coffees arrived, hot and steaming.
Jack spooned three sugars into hers and smoothed cream onto the
surface before shoving it across the table.</p>
<p>"Get this down," he ordered, then started fixing his own, adding
more cream in deference to his tender throat.</p>
<p>He raised the cup to his lips, savoured the heavy roast aroma,
and took a sip. Just then the file in his head spat out the
information.</p>
<p>"Lorna Breck," he said. "You were in the Gazette a couple of
weeks back."</p>
<p>She nodded slowly, face reddening a little. It did wonders for
her.</p>
<p>"I remember now. It was something about the fire."</p>
<p>"Agnes McCann's babies," she said softly. "They all died."</p>
<p>"Terrible thing. The paper said you had a premonition or
something."</p>
<p>"Something like that."</p>
<p>"Are you a what's-it-called? A clairvoyant?"</p>
<p>"A speywife? No. I don't think so. I read tea-leaves now and
again. My grandmother showed me. At parties and things. Just for
the fun of it. It was only a little gift until now."</p>
<p>"And now?"</p>
<p>"Now I see things."</p>
<p>The words came out flat, like heavy slabs. Beyond the counter,
the door leading to the kitchen was a clatter of noise and
chattering women, but it hardly penetrated the little circle of
silence that enveloped Jack Fallon and Lorna Breck at the corner
table.</p>
<p>"You see things?"</p>
<p>She nodded again, keeping her eyes down.</p>
<p>"What kind of things?"</p>
<p>She lifted her cup and sipped through the cream, put it back on
the saucer with a small <em>chink</em> sound, then raised her eyes
again.</p>
<p>"There's something terrible happening here. I've seen it."</p>
<p>Jack held her gaze. "Seen what?"</p>
<p>"The babies. They've been taken. I saw them."</p>
<p>"What? You <em>saw</em> them?"</p>
<p>"I did."</p>
<p>"Where?"</p>
<p>"And there's more. There's a boy who's dead now. And the man who
was thrown down from a height. I saw him. It's been in the
papers."</p>
<p>"And you <em>saw</em> it?" Jack repeated himself.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Where were you?"</p>
<p>"You don't understand. I saw them <em>happen.</em>" She tapped
her temple. "In my <em>head</em>."</p>
<p>"You mean you imagined them."</p>
<p>"No. I saw them. And I'm scared. It's terrible. It came and took
the baby from it's pram. It was crying awfully sore. And then the
next time, it came down and hit the other baby's mother. It hit her
so hard and she fell and even then she fought for her baby and it
hit her again and all the blood. <em>Oh the blood</em>, it came
running out of her and her eye was still open and she could see it
carry her baby away."</p>
<p>The girl's voice was rising with every word. Jack reached out
and put a hand on her shoulder. She stopped talking
immediately.</p>
<p>"Wait. Take it easy. I don't understand this."</p>
<p>She looked at him, suddenly placid.</p>
<p>"What is it you don't understand?"</p>
<p>"Well, any of it. Where did these things happen?"</p>
<p>"I don't know. I've only been here since the summer. I'm not
sure of the places."</p>
<p>"Right. So how did you see them?"</p>
<p>"I don't know. Honestly I don't. It just started the night of
the fire, or maybe before that. I've been getting bad dreams. But I
saw the fire. I was looking into the tea-leaves and then it came. I
saw the smoke and something moving in the dark and I heard the
babies in their beds and <em>oh it was terrible</em>."</p>
<p>All the words came out in a rush. She kept her eyes glued on his
as she spoke.</p>
<p>"So you see all these things in the tea-leaves?"</p>
<p>Lorna sat back, her eyebrows knitting down in an instant
frown.</p>
<p>"No. They come all the time. Ever since the night of the fire.
When I fell in the street, that's when I saw it again. It came down
from the dark and took the baby away."</p>
<p>"What did?"</p>
<p>"I don't <em>know</em>! It comes from the dark and I can feel
its hunger. It's an <em>evil</em> thing."</p>
<p>"Isn't that the truth," Jack said. He didn't know what to make
if what the girl was telling him. He re-adjusted his first
impressions. Maybe she wasn't scared. Maybe she was downright
loony.</p>
<p>"Why were you at the doctor today?"</p>
<p>"They sent me from work. I had another fright. In the library. I
saw the boy."</p>
<p>"What boy?"</p>
<p>"The one who's missing. He's dead."</p>
<p>Jack put the coffee cup down very slowly. It made a clink sound
as it rattled in the saucer.</p>
<p>"Say that again," he said, slowly and softly.</p>
<p>"The boy you are looking for. I read it in the paper. It's the
same one, and he's dead."</p>
<p>"And where is he?"</p>
<p>"I don't know."</p>
<p>Jack nodded, unable to conceal the dry sarcasm. The word
<em>loony</em> flashed back into his head. It was a shame. In other
circumstances the girl would have been attractive enough, even
stunning. She looked clean and well groomed and despite the
pinched, harried expression, she seemed, at first glance, to be
intelligent. He lifted up the cup and swallowed the lot in one
gulp. The interview, as far as he was concerned, was over.</p>
<p>"You don't believe me," she said flatly.</p>
<p>"No," he replied, equally direct. "I don't play mind games" This
was not the entire truth. He'd had to play games with many people
hauled into the cells after the cut and slash of a Friday night in
Glasgow.</p>
<p>"It's not a <em>game</em>," she shot back. He could almost
visualise her stamping her foot in petulant emphasis. "I saw it,
and you have to believe me. I need your help. Somebody has got to
stop this."</p>
<p>"Alright," Jack conceded. He sat back and stared at the girl.
"Tell me about the boy. "</p>
<p>"He's dead. It came down from above in the dark and just lifted
him up. I could hear it breathing. It's like an animal."</p>
<p>"What is?"</p>
<p>"I don't know <em>what</em> it is. You can't see it properly. It
moves so fast, and it climbs."</p>
<p>Jack started to say something, but she held up her hand. Her
eyes were closed, screwed up in concentration, as if she was
fighting to recall.</p>
<p>"He heard the woman. There was a woman there. She was in the
shadows. I couldn't see her properly, not her face. Her leg was
sticking out, and she had lost one of her shoes. Her bag was lying
on the stairs."</p>
<p>She paused and her frown deepened, making a furrow between her
eyebrows.</p>
<p>"It was in an old place. Broken glass and a smell of something.
Birds. Yes. There were birds, fluttering in the dark. The boy
called out and then it came down and took him. He didn't have time
to cry out. It carried him up onto the rafters and the birds were
fluttering about. His shoe came off too. I heard it. Something
broke. I think it was his leg, and there was blood coming from his
neck. The thing climbed up to the rafters and it was horrible."</p>
<p>"And where did all this happen?"</p>
<p>"I don't know. It was an old place. Empty. Like an old factory
or something. I remember pigeons and the rafters, and there were
shutters on the windows and a door on the wall at the far side,
like a hayloft door on the farm. For loading things."</p>
<p>She stopped and looked at Jack.</p>
<p>"I <em>saw</em> it, but I don't know where it is."</p>
<p>"Tell me about the woman."</p>
<p>"She was on the stairs. It was dark, but there was light coming
in. I could see her legs and her bag. There was something on the
glass. <em>Stew</em> or something. Old letters on the glass. The
woman called out to the boy and he came in and I couldn't tell him
to run away, because it had already happened. He's dead."</p>
<p>As she said that, her eyes filled up with tears again. They
glistened, huge and moist, before she dived her hand back into the
bag and hauled out a wad of tissues.</p>
<p>"And this thing. What is it? A man?"</p>
<p>"I don't know what it is. The woman brought it."</p>
<p>"How?"</p>
<p>"I think they called it here."</p>
<p>Jack was about to ask what she was talking about when one of the
women came from behind the counter and lifted up both cups.</p>
<p>"We have to close now," she said, balancing cups on saucers in
one hand and brusquely wiping the table with a cloth in the
other.</p>
<p>"Sure," Jack said. He fished out more coins from his pocket and
laid them on the table. She took the money and went back behind the
counter.</p>
<p>"Where do you live?" he asked the girl. When she told him, he
said he'd take her home. They walked back to the car in silence,
and she didn't say a word all the way over the old bridge and down
Clydeshore Avenue. She lived in a small converted cottage, not
unlike Jack's own place, though more compact, down close to the
tidal flats of the firth. The road stopped right on the shoreline
walkway. Ahead of them, the estuary was slate grey in the cold
night air, lit by the flickering lights from the towns on the far
side. A sea mist trickled around the rocks lapped by the incoming
tide.</p>
<p>When the car stopped, she made no move to get out. Jack didn't
have much to say. There were always cranks. He wasn't yet ready to
give any credence to a girl who dreamed of murders days after they
happened.</p>
<p>"You don't believe me," she said, as if reading his mind.</p>
<p>"Well, let's just say I've been a policeman too long. My
incredulity has had a tough apprenticeship."</p>
<p>"But it will happen again."</p>
<p>"Oh, I dare say it will." The thought crossed his mind that he
should take her in for serious questioning, but he quickly
dispelled the notion. There was no way she could have been
<em>involved</em> in any of what happened. He'd heard stories of
clairvoyants before, but had never met one in the flesh. There were
even tales of murder squads calling them in to help with difficult
cases, but Jack had never considered that a possibility. He was a
healthy sceptic. Facts did him fine. Recently, facts had been hard
enough to come by, but he'd keep working until they turned up.</p>
<p>"It might happen again," Jack conceded, "though I sure to God
hope it doesn't."</p>
<p>"It will. It's an evil thing." She didn't face him as she spoke.
Her head was bowed and she stared at her pale hands. Jack turned
round in the car seat. Her face was mostly in shadow, although some
of the light of the street lamp sent a band of illumination across
her eyes. They were glistening again.</p>
<p>"Listen, don't get yourself upset," he started to say.</p>
<p>"It's too late for that," she retorted, though her voice carried
more sadness and despair than anger.</p>
<p>She reached and opened the car door, quickly stepping outside.
She swung it back, paused, then leaned inside.</p>
<p>"You won't find the boy. It took him away. But it will come back
again."</p>
<p>The door closed with a click. He watched her cross in front of
the car and push open an old wrought iron gate. It squealed in
protest, then clanged shut behind her as she disappeared into the
shadows behind the hedge. Jack sat for a moment, thinking on what
she'd said, before starting the car. He reversed up until the next
driveway, turned in and drove back the way he'd come.</p>
<p>She was right in one thing, he thought. Whoever had snatched
Timmy Doyle and little Kelly Campbell, and whoever had abducted
young Neil Kennedy was rolling right along. He would most certainly
try again.</p>
<p>Yet there was something else nagging at him as the headlamps
drove twin cones through the pale mist on the way down to the
bridge, and past the heavy Victorian gates of the cemetery.</p>
<p>There was <em>something</em> in what the girl had said.
Disturbed she might be, needing treatment almost certainly. But she
had said the killer had come <em>down</em> from the dark to smash
Shona Campbell to the ground. Jack had asked Jock McColl to get
somebody up on the roof at Barley Cobble because there had been no
evidence on the ground. That tied in with Jack's thinking,
especially in view of the coincidences of Jock Toner's death and
the Doyle snatch.</p>
<p><em>It came down from above.</em> That's what she'd said, not
just about the Campbell killing, but about Neil Kennedy's
disappearance. There was something in that. Jack pondered on it for
a moment as he waited for a van to pass before getting onto the
bridge and crossing back to the centre of town. There was something
he should be remembering, but, like the girl's name, it stayed just
out of arm's reach.</p>
<p>When he got back to the office, there were a stack of messages
waiting for him. He called on John McColl and Ralph Slater first.
Both of them appeared almost immediately at his door.</p>
<p>"Feeling better Chief?" John asked.</p>
<p>"Not yet," Jack said. He felt a bit guilty over spending the
past half hour or so with the girl. Despite the nagging, unsummoned
memory that she'd almost sparked off, he thought it had been a
complete waste of time. He unscrewed the cap of the little brown
bottle and dropped a couple of capsules into his palm.</p>
<p>"Thanks for reminding me," he said. He swallowed both of the
antibiotics with some difficulty. They seemed to expand to block
his throat. There was a mouthful of cold juice in the bottom of the
cup on his desk. He used it to ease the pills down.</p>
<p>"Right. Who's first?"</p>
<p>"Sorley gave us the lifter you wanted," Ralph started. "Came up
with two things. Traces of cloth on the guttering and some scrape
marks on the north side of the roof-slope. Plenty of moss-sheen.
I've sent the material to the lab for fibre comparison and a
pic-man out to Latta Court to get snaps of the scrapes above the
balcony at the Doyle place. I remember seeing something then.
Didn't look significant, but if they match the roof down at the
river, then we can be sure we've got a climber."</p>
<p>"Good work. John?"</p>
<p>"Divers found nothing," the sergeant said. "But we got prints
from the woman. She was definitely at the Herkik house. Robbie
Cattanach gave us another preliminary. She drowned alright. Lungs
filled with river water. Aged forty to fifty, no identification
marks. No sign of violence. I'm getting dental records to see if we
can get an ID."</p>
<p>"How long had she been in the water?"</p>
<p>"Robbie says about twelve hours, give or take six. Harder to
tell in the winter." John leaned across the desk and laid down the
buff folder.</p>
<p>"It's all in here. More to come later."</p>
<p>"Fine. Keep working on it," Jack said. "And those marks could be
very helpful. Once we find who the lady is, maybe we can find what
happened to Marta Herkik. And once we find that out, I reckon we've
got our man."</p>
<p>The two policemen nodded and turned to go when Jack halted
them.</p>
<p>"Hold on a minute. Anybody know anything about the second
sight?"</p>
<p>"You mean mediums, that sort of thing?"</p>
<p>Jack nodded. The two others looked at each other.</p>
<p>"My wife does," Ralph volunteered. She gets her cards read every
other month. Says it really works, but then most women do. It's all
hogwash to me."</p>
<p>"No," John countered. "There's a lot of folk believe it. They
use them to hunt for missing folk in the States. Why do you
ask?"</p>
<p>"I just spoke to a girl who claims she sees things in dreams.
Says she saw the Campbell snatch."</p>
<p>"I'd haul her in for a going over," Ralph said. "We need every
witness."</p>
<p>"No. She saw it in a dream as well. Or so she says."</p>
<p>"I'd bring her in on the team," Ralph advised, trying to keep
the smile off his face. "But don't let Mr Cowie hear it, or he'll
put you on sick leave."</p>
<p>Jack shrugged and returned the grin. Both men left the office,
and when the door was closed Jack bent to the notes on his desk.
There was a lot of technical data on the woman from the river.
Still no identification though, which was a disappointment. Jack
knew John McColl would get a name for her and quickly, but it might
not be quickly enough.</p>
<p>He marshalled what was known. Things were beginning to piece
themselves together, slowly, but surely. Simpson had been at the
Herkik house. So had the woman. The dead minister had also been at
or near the Doyle place. Now both of them were dead, both suicides.
The Campbell baby had been taken some distance, up to the top of
Loch View, one of the highest parts of Levenford, which mirrored
the Doyle abduction.</p>
<p>There was a connection running through everything. Jack knew if
he worked at it for long enough, he'd come up with the answer, but
for the moment he felt he was wallowing in a welter of hints and
near-facts. To himself, he was becoming more and more convinced
there was more than one person, and that thought worried him. One
lunatic, one psychopath was bad enough, hard to find. Two, or more
meant some sort of organisation, a group of perverted and malignant
people who were killing for a purpose. He put the folder down,
unopened and picked up the white sheets of the various messages.
Robbie Cattanach had called an hour ago. Andrew Toye from the
University had returned his call only minutes after he'd left. At
the bottom was a call from Oban police. Jack reached to pick up the
phone. It rang under his fingers and he jerked his hand back in
surprise before snatching it up.</p>
<p>"Hey boss, what's happening?" Mickey Haggerty bawled into his
ear.</p>
<p>"I've been looking for you," Jack retorted.</p>
<p>"You and half the police in the highlands." Mickey sounded more
aggrieved than worried. "You have to help me. I'm a wanted man.
They've got search parties all over Oban looking for me. I just got
out ahead of the sheriff."</p>
<p>"You're a popular man Mickey."</p>
<p>"It's no bloody joke. They've been asking after me in every pub.
I don't know what the hell they want. I haven't been up to
anything, except hustle these yokels for their wages."</p>
<p>"Oh, calm down, Mickey. They were doing me a favour. I was
trying to get a hold of you."</p>
<p>"You?"</p>
<p>"Yes. Netta didn't know where you were staying."</p>
<p>"Jesus Christ Jack. You could have let me know. I've been
ducking and diving up here." Mickey's voice trailed off.</p>
<p>"Well I'll call off the dogs and you can get back to playing
snooker as soon as you give me what I need on that fellow you
mentioned, the Irishman."</p>
<p>"Him? But you've got that. I came in to see you last week, but
you were out. I'd fixed up to come up here, so I left a note. Gave
it to that boss of yours. The one with the face like a torn
loaf."</p>
<p>Jack cursed aloud.</p>
<p>"Oh come on, Jake. Don't blame me. I told you I'd get back to
you."</p>
<p>"No, it wasn't you Mickey. Somebody just forgot to pass on the
message, and that's why I've had the Oban busy-boys combing the
hills for you."</p>
<p>"They'd never find me anyway. I'm shacked up with a pal of mine
here. You'd like her."</p>
<p>"So that's why Netta didn't have an address," Jack ventured.
"She'll skin you."</p>
<p>"Only if you tell her," Mickey shot back, laughing. "Anyway,
you're looking for Michael O'Day. Lives out on Cross Road. He's
Irish, from somewhere up north. Talks with an accent thicker than
shit in the neck of a bottle."</p>
<p>"What does he do?"</p>
<p>"Sells cars somewhere up in the city. Nobody knows where. But
he's a heavy punter. Puts down a lot of dough on the horses. I hear
he was down a lot of money to Eddie Carrick. Not a lucky man."</p>
<p>Jack took notes while Mickey spoke, writing down everything in a
tight hand. There might have been nothing in it, but he wanted to
talk to everybody, hell <em>anybody</em> who had been near Marta
Herkik's on the night of the storm. Mickey seemed quite relieved
that the Oban police were not hounding him for anything he might
have done. He told Jack he'd expect a few beers for his trouble and
Jack promised to call off the search.</p>
<p>The phone rang again as soon as it was on the cradle. This time
it was Andrew Toye.</p>
<p>"Third time lucky," the professor said drily.</p>
<p>"Been a busy man, Andrew."</p>
<p>"So I gather. You're having more problems, so I hear on TV."</p>
<p>"Too many," Jack agreed wearily.</p>
<p>"Well, I've had a look at the material. The tarot cards are
straightforward. Almost a full set of major and minor arcana. You
can buy them in half a dozen shops, though these ones look very
old. I could get an estimate on their age, I suppose."</p>
<p>"No. I don't think I'll need that."</p>
<p>"As for the other stuff. The photographs are very good. The
table is a rather elaborate ouija board, as you'll know already.
That looks quite old too, possibly made for a professional medium.
It's for telling the future. They use a crystal class to spell out
the messages from the other side."</p>
<p>Jack thought back to the scene in the shattered room. The old
woman had been lying with her head on the kerb of the fireplace.
Shards of crystal had been embedded in the top of her head.</p>
<p>"The other side?"</p>
<p>"Yes. The dear departed. Most mediums claim to have a spirit
guide who takes messages and passes them across the great
divide."</p>
<p>"So this was a seance?"</p>
<p>"Sure it was. The whole room was full of spiritualist
paraphernalia, and from different cultures. The old woman must have
known her stuff."</p>
<p>"Do they take it seriously?"</p>
<p>"Believe me, thousands of folk do. Everybody who reads a star
chart in a newspaper has some level of belief."</p>
<p>"And does it work?"</p>
<p>"There again. People think it works."</p>
<p>"How about you," Jack asked.</p>
<p>"Well, until a year or so, I was a healthy sceptic. Now I'm
coming down on the other side."</p>
<p>"You mean the other side, like in ouija boards?"</p>
<p>"No, the side of the believers. There's been a great deal of
research into it. Automatic writing, poltergeists, that kind of
thing."</p>
<p>"And you believe in all that?"</p>
<p>"After what happened in Linnvale, I don't have much choice,
because I believe the man who told me about it. That was real
witchcraft, and it had real results."</p>
<p>Jack diverted Andy, who ran the department of parapsychology and
paranormal studies at the university. "What about the book?" He
remembered the blood-soaked pages crumpled and scattered all around
the body.</p>
<p>"Same again. It's occult. It took me a while to identify it, but
we're a growing band, us paranorms. I've a friend in Winchester who
identified it for me. He's got a first edition of the Goetia."</p>
<p>"Now you've got me."</p>
<p>"It's Crowley's book. One of his major works. The Goetia was his
treatise on summoning spirits. It's a mite arcane and more than a
little speculative, if you ask me. He claimed every spirit had its
own name and that could be used in raising it up."</p>
<p>"What sort of spirits are we talking about?"</p>
<p>"Oh, demons. Imps. That sort of character. Crowley's generally
considered to have been the biggest charlatan of them all, but
there's some folk believe he raised the Beast itself at Bolsekine
House and again at Torbeck Estate way back just after the war. The
Goetia was translated for him from allegedly ancient texts. It
means necromancy. Crowley's own definition was
<em>howling.</em>"</p>
<p>"Sounds like a horror movie."</p>
<p>"Well, you did ask," Andy said, but without rancour.</p>
<p>"So, this book. What would it be used for?"</p>
<p>"I told you. It's a guide on how to bring spirits into this
world."</p>
<p>"And folk actually believe it?"</p>
<p>"Don't knock it until you've tried it."</p>
<p>"You think there was some sort of seance where they were trying
to conjure up ghosts?"</p>
<p>"I can't say for certain. But it looks as if they were going
beyond reading palms. It can be dangerous too."</p>
<p>"It was dangerous for the old lady. Fatal."</p>
<p>"Yes. But there's a lot of psychological danger in this kind of
thing. You can't even buy a ouija board here any more. There's been
too many documented cases of schizophrenia and psychosis relating
to the use of the paraphernalia. I wouldn't recommend it."</p>
<p>Jack thanked Andy and was about to hang up when another thought
struck him.</p>
<p>"Oh, before you go, maybe you could help with something
else."</p>
<p>"Go on," Andy encouraged.</p>
<p>"I was talking to a girl today. She says she's had visions or
nightmares or whatnot about what's been happening down here. Tells
me she's seen the events actually happen."</p>
<p>"That's not beyond the bounds of probability. It's happened in
hundreds of cases."</p>
<p>"You mean you believe in this too?"</p>
<p>"I can't speak for the lady, because I haven't met her. But
there's no reason to be a complete sceptic. I've had first hand
experience of telempathy. When you get violent acts, murders,
accidents and the like, you often hear stories of people who've had
some prescience of the event. It's far from uncommon."</p>
<p>"So she might not have been spinning me a line?"</p>
<p>"Possibly. If you want me to have a chat to her, I'd be
delighted."</p>
<p>Jack said he would let him know.</p>
<p>"Well, you could look at it this way. If she <em>is</em> telling
the truth, then she'd be the best source you could hope for. I'd
hire her if I were you."</p>
<p>Jack put the phone down and thought about it, but not for long.
It rang for the third time.</p>
<p>Robbie Cattanach was in ebullient mood, despite his
occupation.</p>
<p>"Up to the armpits in gore, as usual," he said when Jack asked
him how things were going. "Definitely a dead end job." Jack
winced.</p>
<p>"So. Fancy a beer?"</p>
<p>Jack told him he was on antibiotics and couldn't drink.</p>
<p>"An old wife's tale. The new ones don't react with alcohol."
Jack allowed himself to be persuaded to meet Robbie in Mac's bar in
half an hour. The place was busy when he arrived some time after
seven, just minutes before Robbie himself came in, buttoned up in
his leathers, and with his black helmet under his arm. He accepted
a pint and drank half of it in one gulp.</p>
<p>"Needed that," he said breathlessly, putting the glass down.
"Clears the smell of formalin and worse. I did your lady
today."</p>
<p>"I know. Quick work. I've got the report to read up tonight. No
surprises?"</p>
<p>"No. She killed herself. Only odd thing is the amount of water
in the lungs. I reckon she walked in and breathed in hard. Normally
there's still some air and carbon dioxide, but she was well and
truly flooded. No other visible signs of trauma inside or out."</p>
<p>Jack sipped his own beer slowly. His throat was easing slightly,
though he didn't believe a word about modern antibiotics and
alcohol.</p>
<p>"John McColl tells me you want to know about suicides," Robbie
volunteered.</p>
<p>Jack nodded.</p>
<p>"Well, There's another one," Robbie went on. "He's up in Lochend
at the moment. And the remarkable thing is, he's not dead yet."</p>
<p>"Okay," Jack said, patiently. "What's the punchline."</p>
<p>Robbie looked at him with an expression of injured
innocence.</p>
<p>"No kidding. He drank paraquat. Definitely a goner. I should get
him in the next day or two. Insides will be like a septic tank.
He's been unable to tell the doctors a thing, but the toxics man
tells me he's been raving about devils, poor soul."</p>
<p>Jack's glass stopped halfway to his mouth.</p>
<p>"Have you got a name?"</p>
<p>"No, but he's in ward eight. At least, he was when I left. He
could be down in the cellar by now."</p>
<p>"Sorry, Robbie. I have to go. Thanks for the tip."</p>
<p>Jack pushed his way past the startled pathologist, leaving his
drink almost untouched. He reached the payphone at the far end of
the bar next to the door and dialled the number. When it was picked
up at the other end, John McColl sounded breathless.</p>
<p>Jack told him to stay in the office until he got there. It took
him only a few minutes to get the car from the tight space at the
back of the pub and scoot round to the station. John was waiting at
the door and came across to where Jack had stopped, engine still
running.</p>
<p>"Mr Cowie's looking for you," he said. "He's like a bear with a
sore arse."</p>
<p>"He'll have to wait."</p>
<p>"What's the rush?"</p>
<p>"Another suicide," Jack said. "I want to catch him before he
dies."</p>
<p>He pulled out into the traffic and did not see the look on John
McColl's face. If he had he might have laughed.</p>
<p>"This is the third dinner I've missed three nights in a row,"
John said heavily. "I was halfway out of the office when the phone
rang. And now I've to see a dead man who isn't dead yet."</p>
<p>The man in Ward Eight looked as if he was caught in a surreal
science fiction scene. Clear plastic tubes, filled with different
coloured liquids snaked from hissing, pumping machinery and wormed
their way into the various orifices of the shape on the bed. The
man was naked, apart from a small cloth over his groin from which
three separate catheters looped their way into the harsh light from
the overhead tubes. A plastic mask hid most of the man's face. An
accordionated tracheotomy line plunged into a scabbed hole in the
man's throat. Electrodes suckered on to the bare chest and the
wires fed off into an electronic monitor. The oscilloscope showed a
very slow heartbeat.</p>
<p>"Impossible," the toxicologist told Jack when asked if the man
could be interviewed. He was a tall, angular man, with thick grey
hair which looked as if it had been cleanly parted with an axe.
He'd introduced himself as Charles Collins.</p>
<p>"It could be important," Jack insisted.</p>
<p>The doctor looked at him levelly, then gave a disarming
smile.</p>
<p>"Oh, I've nothing against it. I don't mind at all. It's just
that he won't be talking to anybody any more."</p>
<p>"You couldn't give him something?"</p>
<p>"I'd love to, but I've tried everything. There's nothing in this
world that will keep him from the next. He won't wake up again. I
estimate he's got between three and six hours. Damn fool."</p>
<p>"What happened," Jack asked. John McColl was standing off to the
side, eyes fixed on the shape on the bed. The skin around the man's
eyes was brown-tinged and flaking. The eyelids were bruised almost
black. Down the length of the chest and the sides, the skin was a
yellow, almost orange colour, obvious signs of liver failure. But
for the faint hitching of the chest, he might have already been
dead.</p>
<p>"He drank paraquat. <em>Dimenthyl-bipyridium</em>."</p>
<p>"The weedkiller?"</p>
<p>"Yes. It's a non selective herbicide. It doesn't choose what it
kills. You could call it a <em>bio</em>-cide. His body has been
shutting itself down since the first swallow."</p>
<p>"Any idea when?"</p>
<p>"According to his wife, it was Friday night. He's lasted a lot
longer than most. But it seems it was quite deliberate. I don't
think he quite realised the consequences. He's been in intense pain
for most of the past four days."</p>
<p>"And there's no cure?"</p>
<p>"Never has been one. They invented this stuff for chemical
warfare, as a nerve gas and now sell it in every garden store, but
they forgot to develop an antidote. It's amazing how few folk
actually die from it considering its availability, but once
swallowed death is a certainty."</p>
<p>"Like taxes and nurses," John McColl murmured absently, eyes
still fixed on the wasting man on the bed.</p>
<p>"Quite," Dr Collins said drily. "Must use that at the next
rotary dinner."</p>
<p>He turned back to Jack. "Paraquat is completely anti-life. The
perfect final solution. We've had him on a ventilator since Friday.
The lungs are the first to go. They'll be like soap suds in there.
There's hardly any tissue left to absorb oxygen. Kidneys are next.
They've failed, so he's been on continual dialysis. Then there's
the liver. That's packed up. He's jaundiced, of course, and his
blood production has been disrupted. Marrow's going too, but that's
a secondary issue. He's most likely got irreversible brain damage,
both from lack of oxygen in the blood, and also because of the
nerve tissue damage. I would say that by now he's beyond feeling
any pain, though we've loaded him to the eyes with morphine."</p>
<p>"So he won't talk?"</p>
<p>"As they say in the movies," Dr Collins said, returning Jack's
exasperated look with a smile.</p>
<p>"Any idea why he did it?"</p>
<p>"No. He was conscious for the first day. In a lot of pain and
babbling when the painkillers wore off. After ten hours the lungs
were too far gone for him to talk. He whispered a lot."</p>
<p>"Can you remember anything he said?"</p>
<p>"Talked about the devil mostly. Said it was coming to get him.
Maybe he was religious, what do you think?"</p>
<p>Jack shrugged. The shape on the bed was as still as death.</p>
<p>"His wife said he came in and told her what he'd done. He told
her it was all over and then quite calmly said he'd drunk the
paraquat. I would have chosen something easier myself, maybe a
bottle of brandy and some valium. That would give the devil a run
for his money, and there's always a chance of a reprieve."</p>
<p>Jack could tell the doctor had seen death in many of its forms.
He was not making light of it. The best practitioners he knew were
all as drily ironic. It helped them cope with the fact of it, let
them make it a business and get on with the job, just like a
policeman on a murder squad. Death was something you didn't get
used to, but you learned to face it and not look away.</p>
<p>"Do you mind if we print him?"</p>
<p>The doctor raised his eyebrows.</p>
<p>"Fingerprints," Jack explained.</p>
<p>"Be my guest. What's he done?"</p>
<p>"I don't know. I'm checking on all suicides, or attempted ones.
I wish I'd heard of this earlier."</p>
<p>"Wouldn't have done him any good."</p>
<p>"Might not have helped me either, but at least I'd know."</p>
<p>John McColl took only minutes to take the dabs, using a
date-stamp pad from a secretary's office, carefully pressing each
finger and both thumbs onto a clean page of his notebook. It was a
strange experience, taking prints from a man who was completely
helpless. As he reached for the wrist, he could feel the heat under
the skin. The dying man was burning up inside, and John thought it
was no wonder he was scared of the devil. He was already in
hell.</p>
<p>It was after nine when they left, and closer to ten when Jack
dropped the sergeant off at his house on the east end of town after
depositing the fingerprints in the station where he picked up the
reports he'd planned to read that night. John invited him in for a
bite to eat, but he declined. He was tired and his throat was still
sore and he knew he'd be up early in the morning to interview
Edward Tomlin's wife. He wanted to get home, have a long, hot bath,
take another couple of capsules, and get to bed.</p>
<p>That's exactly what he did except that first of all he dropped
in at his sister's house. Julia was looking much better than she
had on Saturday, although her voice was still a bit husky.</p>
<p>Davy was in bed and Jack was reluctant to go up and wake him up.
Julia subjected him to some sisterly reproof over the escapade in
the stream, told him he deserved his tonsilitis for being an
overgrown schoolboy, then told him how much her son had enjoyed his
day out.</p>
<p>"Just wish I had more time," Jack told her. "It does me a lot
more good than it does him, I can tell you."</p>
<p>She came up beside him, a tall woman, though her head only came
up to his chin, and nudged him with her hip, putting an arm around
his waist. The way she did it, reminded him of Rae, and as soon as
that image came, he shied away from it. He was too busy to get
maudlin. Julia gave him a hug and asked him how the investigation
was going.</p>
<p>"Not great. It's going to take a lot more work, so tell Davy
I'll drop by him and see him when I can, but tell him not to hold
his breath."</p>
<p>"He'll understand," she said.</p>
<p>"Hope so. He's a good wee fellow."</p>
<p>"Shame about his father," Julia said without malice. She'd been
bitter when Malcolm had left, but time had smoothed the rough
edges. It had been one of those things.</p>
<p>"Oh, and keep an eye on him Jules."</p>
<p>"I always do."</p>
<p>"No," Jack said. "A close eye. There's something going on. I'd
keep him in for the duration. And never let him out in the dark
under any circumstances."</p>
<p>"Fine Jack. You just tell me how to raise my own boy," Julia
shot back, then instantly regretted it. Since he'd lost his wife
and daughter, Jack and Davy had used each other for therapy, and
that was a good thing. Each went a little way to replacing what was
gone.</p>
<p>"Sorry," she said, and dropped her eyes.</p>
<p>Jack shucked her under the chin.</p>
<p>"No offence kid. Just humour me, eh?"</p>
<p>"Sure," she said. He let himself out.</p>
<p>Up at the cottage he had a quick glance at the post mortem
report on the woman who'd been fished from the river that morning.
It seemed as if it had happened days ago. The words began to blur
in front of his eyes after only ten minutes and Jack started to
doze off. The report slid from his fingers and landed on the floor
with a slap.</p>
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