‘As far as the foyer. I was stopped by an armed officer. He suggested I leave, so I did.’
‘And you haven’t heard from Pearcy since?’
‘No. I told you. I rang him again, but got someone else — a wrong number. Look, why is it so difficult to tell me what happened?’
The detective chewed his lip some more as if debating the issue with himself. ‘The hotel management called to say a fight had taken place early this morning in one of the rooms. A passing patrol found signs of a struggle having taken place in a room registered to Mr Pearcy. His passport was under the bed, so it doesn’t look as if he caught his flight out. But we’re checking on that.’
‘What sort of signs?’
‘Evidence of an injury. We have reason to believe Mr Pearcy left in a hurry… or was forced to leave by a third party.’ His face was blank, giving no hint of which option he preferred.
‘Was anyone seen going to his room?’ Riley suddenly realised she had completely overlooked the presence of security cameras and felt the blood drain from her face. The thought that they had her on film skulking around the corridors made her feel sick.
McKinley didn’t appear to notice. He nodded. ‘We’re checking all that. Do you know if Mr Pearcy had any enemies — anyone he might have had a disagreement with, either recently or in the past?’
It was a standard question but she couldn’t think of an obvious answer. Reporters picked up their fair share of hate mail, but she couldn’t envisage Henry being on anybody’s hit list. ‘No. I can’t. He wasn’t the sort.’
‘The sort?’
‘You know what I mean.’
He shrugged and handed her a card with his name and number on it. ‘Please call if you hear from him.’ He climbed back into the car and was driven away, leaving her with a feeling that in spite of his casual attitude, he hadn’t taken anything she’d said at face value.
She went inside and paced around the flat for a while, watched by the cat. She was just beginning to realise that in the absence of anyone else as a prime suspect in Henry’s disappearance, the police had her. She not only knew Henry, but had phoned him earlier, just prior to his disappearance. She had also turned up at his hotel shortly afterwards, compounding the problem. Even a raw recruit fresh into Hendon wouldn’t need long to make a connection out of that.
She sat down at her laptop and fed in what she knew so far. It wasn’t much; merely an unconnected jumble of detail surrounding two main facts; one was the disappearance of Katie Pyle, which had now become her return and death, ten years later. The second was the disappearance — possibly violently — of Henry Pearcy, who claimed to have information about Katie. Yet how could he know anything about her — unless he’d reported on it at the time? It was a slim possibility, but one she couldn’t ignore.
She stared at the bible, which was the only clue she had. It pointed to Henry definitely having been at the Scandair last night, now confirmed by the police. Yet if he’d gone to the trouble of carrying a personal bible with him, would he have left it behind?
She flicked through the pages and came back to the flyleaf. It was just possible the Church of Flowing Light might have heard from him, or knew where he might be. She picked up the phone and dialled the number on the inside cover.
‘Is he sedated?’ The speaker watched with distaste as the two men deposited a bundle on a single bed in an otherwise bare room. It was a man, with traces of dried blood at the corner of his mouth and nose. He was limp and frail looking, and freshly dressed in a pair of old pyjamas. On the floor by the bed, lay his recently discarded trousers and shirt, creased and dirty from the floor of the white van parked out front.
‘He’s out cold,’ said the man with the glasses. ‘Don’t worry — he won’t bite.’
‘He’d better not,’ muttered the speaker. ‘When he comes round, I want to know what he’s done and who he’s been in touch with.’ He walked to the door, then turned and gave the unconscious man a malevolent glare. ‘And I don’t care how you get it out of him.’
Chapter 9
Broadcote Hall, the UK headquarters of the Church of Flowing Light was located in a rambling mansion fifty miles outside London on the fringes of the Cotswolds. Oxford was only twenty minutes away, close by the M40 to London and Birmingham, but civilisation could easily have been a thousand miles beyond, such was the feeling of isolation. Set in several acres of rolling fields and woodland, the property was delineated by a high, dry-stone wall bordering the edge of a narrow country road with little regular traffic and few other signs of human life. After the fury and gridlock of London, it was like driving off the edge of the world.
Riley’s call the previous afternoon had got a recorded message, telling her that due to an important function, nobody was free to take her call, but that callers should leave a message. The voice was male, soft and rich, exuding peace, love and tranquillity like a warm balm.
She hated leaving messages, and once she had traced the address, decided to drop in unannounced first thing next day. There was nothing like catching people unawares, and anyway, weren’t church people renowned for their open door policy and ever-simmering pot of tea?
It was ten in the morning by the time she arrived at the twin pillars marking the main entrance. As she turned off the road, she passed the first sign of life since leaving the main road several miles back. A drab, dusty Nissan was parked by the gates, with the bonnet up. The driver, a tall, thin man in a sombre suit and tie, was staring down into the engine cavity. He looked up as she turned in, but gave no response to Riley’s nod and sympathetic smile, so she eased on by.
Accustomed to the growing paranoia of the city, Riley had expected some kind of entry-phone arrangement, but other than a small, stone-built lodge which looked unused, and a set of gates standing invitingly open, there was no obvious barrier to simply driving inside.
She followed a rutted driveway towards the main house, passing beneath a straggly canopy of trees just beginning to show signs of budding. There were no signs to greet visitors apart from an arrow directing drivers along the track. The verges on either side were a twin wilderness of tangled grass, dotted with rotting leaves and twigs. Beyond the grass a double band of mature trees formed an effective backdrop which, her suspicious mind noted, even without their covering of leaves, would help keep prying eyes from seeing into the grounds.
After three hundred yards, the track spilled out onto a large open circular area housing a collection of cars. Most looked to be in the luxury class, the paintwork gleaming and polished to a high shine. Riley was surprised. She had been half-expecting a tone of utilitarian restraint governed by calling and necessity, but evidently the people here were well-heeled and not shy of displaying their wealth. She stopped next to a large new Lexus and climbed out onto a stretch of smooth gravel leading up to the main house.
As she reached back into the car to pick up Henry’s leather bible, she heard a scrape of movement behind her. ‘Welcome to Broadcote Hall.’
It was too early for surprises. Riley spun round and saw a tall, gaunt man in a black coat and a charcoal shirt buttoned to the collar, standing against the dark backdrop of the trees. His near-skeletal face was the only pale detail, highlighted by flashes of light from a pair of rimless spectacles.
‘You shouldn’t do that,’ she told him. ‘You could give someone a heart attack.’
The man tilted his head to one side, a gesture of apology. It was an oddly bird-like movement. For bird, Riley thought, studying the thin frame, read vulture.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He didn’t look sorry and his words were too cold and precise. He reminded Riley of a particularly spooky dentist she had once known. ‘I’m Mr Quine. Do you have an appointment?’
Riley shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. But I’d like to talk with the person in charge, if possible. I’ve driven out from London.’