gruesomeness of death, and perhaps, too, with the fact that it comes to us all at one time. The best coppers, Banks thought, are the ones who hang onto their humanity against all odds. He hoped he had managed to do that; he knew Gristhorpe had; and he hoped that Susan would. She was young yet.
The tourists decided to go home, partly because their youngest child was making a fearful racket, and the farmers had moved on to discuss the prospects for the three-forty at Newmarket. Banks drained his pint, then headed back to the office. There was paperwork to be done. And he would make an appointment to meet with Linda Fish, from the Writers’ Circle, tomorrow, much as the thought made him wince, and see what light she could shed on Mr Adam Harkness.
The strange woman called on Brenda Scupham shortly
after Les had left for the pub that Monday evening. She
was washing the dishes and lip-synching to a Patsy Cline
record when the doorbell rang. Drying her hands with the
lea towel, she walked through and opened the door.
“Mrs Scupham? Brenda Scupham?”
The woman stood there in the rain, a navy-blue raincoat buttoned up to her neck and a dark scarf fastened over her head. Wind tugged at the black umbrella she held. Beyond her, Brenda could see the nosy woman from number eleven across the street peeking through
her curtains.
Brenda hugged herself against the cold and frowned. “Yes. What do you want?”
“I’m Lenora Carlyle,” the woman said. “You might have heard of me?”
“Are you a reporter?”
“No. Can I come in?”
Brenda stood back, and the woman let down her umbrella and entered. Brenda noticed immediately in the hall light her intense dark eyes and Romany complexion. She unfastened her scarf and shook out her head of luxuriant, coal-black hair.
“I don’t want anything,” Brenda went on, suddenly nervous.
“I’m not a reporter, Brenda, and I’m not selling anything,” the woman said in soft, hypnotic tones. “I’m a psychic. I’m here because of your daughter, Gemma. I want to help you.”
Brenda just gaped and stood back as the woman unbuttoned her raincoat. Numbly, she took the umbrella and stood it on the rubber mat with the shoes, then she took the woman’s coat and hung it up.
Lenora Carlyle was heavy-set, wearing a chunky-knit black cardigan covered with red and yellow roses, black slacks, and a religious symbol of some kind on a chain around her neck. Or so the odd-looking cross with the loop at the top seemed to Brenda. Lenora straightened her cardigan and smiled, revealing stained and crooked teeth.
Brenda led her into the living-room and turned off the music. She still felt a little frightened. The supernatural always made her feel that way. She wasn’t sure if she believed in it or not, but she’d heard of enough strange things happening to people to make her wonder—like the time her old friend Laurie Burton dreamed about her father for the first time in years the very night he died.
After they had sat down, Brenda lit a cigarette and asked, “What do you mean, help? How can you help?”
“I don’t know yet,” Lenora said, “but I’m sure I can. If you’ll let me.”
“How much do you want?”
“I don’t want anything.”
Brenda felt suspicious, but you couldn’t argue with that. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.
Lenora put a friendly hand on her knee. “Nothing, dear, except relax and be open. Are you a believer?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“It’s all right. The Lord knows His own. Do you have something of Gemma’s? Something personal.”
“Like what?”
“Well, hair would be best, but perhaps an article of clothing, a favourite toy. Something she felt strongly about, touched a lot.”
Brenda thought of the teddy bear one of her ex-boyfriends—Bob? Ken?—had bought Gemma some years ago. Even now she was older, Gemma never slept without it. Brenda felt a pang of guilt as she thought about it. If there were any chance that Gemma was alive, she would miss her teddy bear terribly. Being without it would make her so miserable. But no. Gemma was dead; she had to be.
She went upstairs to Gemma’s room and Lenora Carlyle followed her. While Brenda walked to the tiny bed to pick up the bear, Lenora stood on the threshold and seemed to take several deep breaths.
“What is it?” Brenda asked.
Lenora didn’t answer. Instead, she walked forward, reached out for the bear, and sat down on the bed with it. The bedspread had Walt Disney characters printed all over it: Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Bambi, Dumbo.
How Gemma loved cartoons. They were the only things that made her smile, Brenda remembered. But it was an odd, inward smile, not one to be shared.
Lenora clutched the bear to her breast and rocked slowly, eyes closed. Brenda felt a shiver go up her spine. It was as if the atmosphere of the room had subtly changed, somehow become thicker, deeper and colder. For what seemed like ages, Lenora hung onto the bear and rocked silently. Brenda clutched her blouse at her throat. Then finally, Lenora opened her eyes. They were glazed and unfocused. She began to speak.
“Gemma is alive,” she said. “Alive. But, oh, she’s so alone, so frightened. So much suffering. She wants you. She wants her mother. She needs you Brenda. You must find her.”
Brenda felt light-headed. “She can’t be,” she whispered. “They’ve found her clothes …. I’ve seen them.”
“She’s alive, Brenda.” Lenora turned and grasped Brenda’s wrist. Her grip was tight.
