was just an argument. Married couples survive them all the time. Idiosyncrasies are forgiven, routines adopted, criticisms left unsaid.
The taxi pulls up outside the cottage. Emma comes tearing down the path, wrapping her arms round my neck. I hoist her onto my hip.
‘I saw the ghost last night, Daddy.’
‘Did you. Where was he?’
‘In my room; he told me to go back to sleep.’
‘What a sensible ghost.’
Julianne is paying the taxi driver with her company credit card. Emma is still talking to me. ‘Charlie said it was a lady ghost but it wasn’t. I saw him.’
‘And you had a chat.’
‘Not a long one.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, “Who are you?” and he said, “Go back to sleep”.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ask his name?’
‘No.’
‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘She went for a bike ride.’
‘When did she go?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t read the time.’
Julianne has paid the fare. Emma squirms out of my arms and slides down my chest. Her sneakers touch the grass and she runs to her mother.
Imogen has come outside to help us with the overnight bags. She has two messages for me. The first is from Bruno Kaufman. He wants to talk to me about Maureen and whether they should go away for a few weeks when she gets out of hospital.
The second message is from Veronica Cray. Five words: ‘Tyler is a trained locksmith.’
I call her at Trinity Road. The seesaw whine of a fax machine punctuates her answers.
‘I thought locksmiths had to be licensed.’
‘No.’
‘Who trained him?’
‘The military. He’s been working nights for a local company, T.B. Henry, and driving a silver van. We have matched the plates to a vehicle that crossed Clifton Suspension Bridge twenty minutes before Christine Wheeler climbed the fence.’
‘Does he work from an office?’
‘No.’
‘How do they contact him?’
‘A mobile phone.’
‘Can you trace it?’
‘It’s no longer transmitting. Oliver is keeping a close watch. If Tyler turns it on we’ll know.’
There’s another phone ringing in her office. She has to go. I ask if there’s anything I can do but she’s already hung up.
Julianne is upstairs unpacking. Emma is helping her by bouncing on the bed.
I call Charlie. She still has my mobile.
‘Hi.’
‘You’re home early.’
‘Yep. Where are you?’
‘With Abbie.’
Abbie is also twelve and the daughter of a local farmer who lives about mile out of Wellow along Norton Lane.
‘Hey, Dad, I got a joke,’ says Charlie.
‘Tell me when you get home.’
‘I want to tell you now.’
‘OK, hit me with it.’
‘A mother gets on a bus with her baby and the bus driver says, “That’s got to be the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen.” The mother is really angry but she pays the fare and sits down. Then another passenger says, “You can’t let him get away with that. You should go back and tell him off. Here, I’ll hold the monkey for you”.’
Charlie laughs like a drain. I laugh too.
‘See you soon.’
‘I’m on my way.’
55
It begins with a number: ten digits, three of them sixes. (Unlucky for some.) Next comes the ringing… then the answering.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mrs O’Loughlin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Professor O’Loughlin’s wife.’
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘I’m afraid your daughter Charlie has had a little accident. She fell off her bike. I think she lost control on a bend. She’s quite the daredevil on that bike. I want you to rest assured she’s completely all right. In good hands. Mine.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I told you. I’m the person who’s looking after Charlie.’
There’s a tremor in her voice, a dim stirring of approaching danger, something large and black and dreadful on the horizon, rushing towards her.
‘She’s such a pretty thing, your Charlie. She says her real name is Charlotte. She looks like a Charlotte but you let her dress like a tomboy.’
‘Where is she? What have you done to her?’
‘She’s right here, lying next to me. Aren’t you, Snowflake? Pretty as a peach, a sweet, sweet peach…’
Inside she is screaming. Fear has filled every warm wet place in her chest.
‘I want to talk to Charlie. Don’t touch her. Please. Let me speak to her.’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry. She has a sock in her mouth, taped in place.’
That’s when it starts, the first fracture in her mind, a tiny fissure that exposes the soft unprotected parts of her psyche. I can hear the hysteria vibrating through her body. She calls out Charlie’s name. She begs. She cajoles. She cries.
And then I hear another voice. The Professor takes the phone from her.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘Want? Need? I want you to put your wife back on the phone.’
There’s a pause. I’ve never understood what people mean when they say a pause is pregnant. Not until now. This one is pregnant. This one is pregnant with a thousand possibilities.
Julianne is sobbing. The professor puts his hand over the mouthpiece. I can’t hear what he’s saying to her but I imagine he’s issuing instructions telling her what to do.
‘Put your wife back on the phone or I will have to punish Charlie.’
‘Who are you?’
