answered he could hear screaming.
‘It’s Phoebe,’ she said. ‘She won’t stop crying. I don’t know what to do, John, why won’t she stop? Why is she crying?’
‘Maybe you should call the doctor.’
‘I’ll see. What is it you want?’
‘Want?’
‘Yes – you just called – now you’re calling again.’
‘I – I wanted to see if you’re OK, darling?’
‘NO, I AM NOT OK,’ she shouted. ‘I’M DEMENTED. IT’S FINE FOR YOU IN YOUR BLOODY OFFICE.’
‘Maybe she’s got an infection or something?’ he answered lamely. Then he said, ‘Listen, are you-’
He stopped in mid-sentence. This was stupid calling her like this, stupid to worry her.
‘Oh Christ,’ Naomi cried out. ‘Luke’s being sick again. John – sod it – I have to call you back.’
She hung up.
John stared back at the screen, suddenly feeling very, very alone in the world.
He dialled Kalle Almtorp in Washington.
It seemed, he told John, that the Disciples of the Third Millennium were as elusive as they had been a year ago when they’d claimed responsibility for Dettore’s death. There were no names of any of the members and no clues where the organization hailed from.
‘I think you need to be vigilant. The police don’t know whether this organization is for real or whether it’s the work of some copycat sickos. This whole genetics issue brings out some strong feelings in people, for sure. It’s good that you aren’t in America any more, but my advice to you is to make your home as secure as possible. Keep your head below the parapet and keep out of the press.’
‘Can you do me one favour, Kalle. Can you get your secretary to find me a phone number for a Mrs Betty O’Rourke, in Scottsville, Virginia? I need to speak to her very badly. She may be unlisted – if so, could you try to pull some strings?’
Kalle rang back an hour later. It was an unlisted number, but he had managed to obtain it.
John thanked him, then dialled it.
After five rings he heard a mature-sounding woman’s voice. ‘Hallo?’
‘Could I please speak to Mrs Betty O’Rourke?’
‘That’s me.’ The voice, cracked with grief, sounded guarded.
‘Mrs O’Rourke? Forgive the intrusion, my name is Dr Klaesson, I’m calling from England.’
‘Dr Gleeson, did you say?’
‘Yes. I – my wife and I – we met your son last year at a clinic.’
‘Clinic? I’m sorry, what clinic are you talking about?’
John hesitated, unsure how much she knew. ‘Dr Dettore. Dr Dettore’s clinic.’
‘Dr Dee Tory?’ The name sounded like it was a total blank to her. ‘Are you a newspaper man?’
John felt increasingly awkward. ‘No, I’m not. I’m a scientist. My wife and I knew your son and – and his wife. I’m very sorry about your sad news.’
‘I apologize, Dr Gleeson, I’m really not up to talking with anyone.’
‘This is important, Mrs O’Rourke.’
‘Then I think you should talk to the police, not me.’
‘Please let me ask you just one question. Did your son intend to have twins?’ Realizing he hadn’t phrased it well, he tried to recover the situation. ‘What I mean is-’
‘How did you get this number, Dr Gleeson?’
‘This may have some bearing on what has happened. I appreciate it must be difficult for you to talk at the moment, but please, believe me-’
‘I’m going to hang up now. Goodbye, Dr Gleeson.’
The line went dead.
Shit.
He stared at the receiver for some moments. Then he redialled. The line was busy.
He tried again, repeatedly, for the next half hour. The line remained busy.
Finally he gave up. From a drawer in his desk he pulled out a thick, heavy Yellow Pages, and turned to the heading marked Security Services and Equipment.
45
Chopin tinkled on the Saab’s radio as John drove along the country road. It was eight o’clock. The wipers thud-thudded, smearing the drizzle into an opaque film. Headlights burst out of the darkness towards him, then, in his mirror, became red tail lights shrinking into the distance. Darkness in front of him now, and behind him.
Darkness, also, in his heart.
He drove at a steady sixty miles an hour, the headlamps picking out the familiar landmarks. Inside his head he pricked at thoughts, trying to grab them, grasp them.
They had moved from America to here. Was there any point in moving again – and if so, to where? Sweden? Would they be any safer there, any further from the reach of these crazies? A few years back the Swedish Prime Minster had been shot in a busy street. Where in this world could you be safe from fanatics?
He passed a brightly illuminated pub on the right, followed by the sign for a farm shop. Then a long stretch of dark road again, bordered by hedgerows. In a fortnight the clocks went forward. Summertime would begin. He would be able to drive home in daylight. Daylight gave more protection than darkness. Didn’t it?
His mobile rang. Glancing at the dial he could see it was Naomi. Jamming the phone into the hands-free cradle, he answered. ‘Hi, honey, I’m almost home. Be there in five minutes.’
‘You’re so late – I’ve been worrying about you.’ Her voice sounded strange, very strained.
‘I’m sorry, I did try to call back a couple of times but you were on the phone.’
‘You said you’d be home at six.’
‘I got stuck in a staff meet-’
Then the line disconnected.
He cursed. Reception was always bad in this area. He tried to call her back but there was no signal. Minutes later he saw the lights of a garage forecourt and pulled into it.
The selection of flowers was poor. The best was a small bunch of red roses, wrapped in cellophane. He bought them then drove on. Five minutes later, he turned off the main road onto the narrow lane that led to the village.
Caibourne was ten miles east of Brighton and four miles from Lewes, the ancient historic county town of Sussex. It was more a hamlet than a village. There was a pub, used mostly by locals rather than tourists, a church badly in need of a major roof restoration, a tiny Post Office that doubled as a general store, a thriving primary school, a one-court tennis club, and a community that was mostly farm and estate workers in tied cottages that were owned by the nearby stately home of Caibourne Place.
John drove past a row of labourers’ cottages, the schoolhouse and the church. A mile and a half beyond the village, he turned onto the single-lane farm track that led up to their house. A rabbit ran across the road in front of him, and he braked sharply as the creature darted back across his path again, then loped for some yards up ahead of him before finally diving through a gap in the wire fencing and into a ploughed field. Beyond his headlights was total darkness.
Slayings.
Mutilated.
The second couple this had happened to.
There was a ton of stuff on the internet about Dettore, and what was particularly concerning was a series of anonymous blog posts by someone claiming to be a former employee from the clinic. God knows what information from the clinic had been leaked.
If this organization – sect – bunch of crazies – whoever – or whatever – they were – if they had taken over
