“What are you doing?” asked May as Maggie snatched the mobile from him.
“Come on, we both feel it,” she told him, “a deviant force at work, trying to fool us into making a mistake. We can’t fight it alone, two elderly men and a crazy lady of a certain age coping with her psychic senses and a hip replacement; we need help, so that’s what I’m going to get us.” She punched out the number of the PCU. “Hello, dear, to whom am I speaking? Well, if it’s a wrong number why did you answer the phone? Anyway, it’s not; get me April on the phone, would you? John May’s granddaughter-yes, I suppose that does make her name April May. Well, she probably never told you because she was embarrassed.” She pursed her lips at the phone. “This is no laughing matter, young man, put me through at once!”
“Got her,” said April, running down the list of names on her computer with the phone propped under her chin. “Kate Summerton went to jail on seven counts of fraud the first time in 1998, second time for receiving stolen goods and intent to deceive in 2002. Address, twenty-four Cranmere Road, Greenwich SE-10, and there’s a phone number. We’ll get someone to call her right now and put the frighteners on her. No, not literally, Maggie, it’s an expression I heard on the telly.”
“That’s good,” said Maggie. “I thought you were referring to shape-shifters.”
April jotted down the number, tore off the strip of paper, and passed it to Bimsley. “I hear Uncle Arthur managed to resolve our investigation at Bayham Street. Perhaps we can return the compliment and do the same with his. Colin, we need everything you can get on a Madeline Gilby, she’s a client of this woman.”
Meera came into April’s office with a folded page in her hand. “Your grandfather wants a check run for these names on your ICDb,” she explained. “He’s on the line, waiting for an answer. They’re all supposed to be victims of the bloke they’re looking for on Dartmoor. Can you do it right now?”
April looked at the piece of paper. “This is an Indian takeaway menu,” she said.
“Other side.”
April turned the sheet over and entered the names into the International Criminal Database: Pascal Favier, Patrice Bezard, Johann Bellocq, Edward Winthrop, Paulo Escobar, Pierre Castel.
She took Meera’s phone and transferred it to a speaker while she typed. “Easy, Granddad, they’re coming up on my screen, all well-known cases by the look of it. Johann Bellocq was born in Marseilles, then moved to the family home near the village of Roquebrune, Alpes-Maritimes, charged with manslaughter for beating his mother to death in March 1986, but the judge commuted his sentence to a stay in a mental hospital due to the extenuating circumstances of the case, which he called ”devastatingly sad.“ Bellocq was released five years later. Bezard was executed in Normandy for the murder of his wife in 1945, likewise Escobar for the same crime in Paris in 1958. Winthrop was a lawyer murdered by his client, Pascal Favier, in 2004 in Marseilles; they never caught Favier. Castel was jailed for the murder of his mother in La Rochelle in 1976. They’re all in a book, Famous French Trials of the 20th Century by Edith Corbeau, published in France two years ago by J’ai Lu, currently available here in paperback from Transworld.”
“My God,” said May. “I’ve just seen that book today. Madeline Gilby had a copy of it in her handbag.” He broke the connection, pocketed the mobile, and turned his attention to opening the envelope Madeline had left in her Toyota’s wheel arch.
He found himself looking at Johann’s old passport, its expiry dated for August the previous year, and ten colour photographs, scenic postcard views of different gardens in bloom at the Villa Rothschild. “She lied to us,” he said. “There are no murder victims here.”
“No, she didn’t lie. I think she genuinely believed she could see them,” said Maggie. “I told you, Madeline is convinced that she has the gift of second sight. Her reality is not yours or mine.”
“Then Arthur is in the gravest possible situation.” May grabbed Maggie’s hand, pushing on towards the distant tunnel.
The ringing telephone pierced the stillness of the terraced Edwardian house. There was a creaking of the shabby leather armchair, a shuffling of tartan slippers. A hand reached for the telephone.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Summerton is not here at present. Can I help? I’m Roger Summerton, her husband.” He listened for a minute. “Yes, blond, very attractive, I remember her well. She’s often here. First came to the refuge after her husband beat her up, but she went back to him a couple of times before finally deciding on a divorce. Oh, she has a history of trouble. I think the same thing happened to her own mother, but I’m sure Mrs. Summerton will be able to give you more information; she’ll be back soon.”
Bimsley scrawled down the details and passed them to April, who called her grandfather back.
John May stopped dead on the great white hill below the railway line. “I’m getting a message,” he said. “My trousers are vibrating.”
Maggie looked delighted. “I knew we would make a believer of you eventually.”
“No, a text message.” He pulled out his mobile.
“Honestly, you get more calls in the middle of the English countryside than you do in your office,” the white witch complained. “I’m surprised anyone can ever get hold of you. And you’re slowing us down.”
“I can’t move any faster than this,” May replied. “If you were a real witch you’d take us up there by broom. Let me read this; I’m being sent important information.”
“While your partner is risking his life,” she tutted, pulling on his arm. “For heaven’s sake, come on.”
Arthur Bryant rose with creaking knees and carefully stepped around the body. He felt disembodied, faintly unwell. There was no point in remaining inside the tunnel now. Pressing his left hand against the wet wall, he slowly made his way back towards the dazzling disc of light.
When the body dropped on him with its arms locked around his shoulders, the air was crushed from his chest, and the sudden weight threw him down onto the track. The grip tightened around his neck. Bryant knew there was little point in resisting, but twisted over onto his stomach, forcing his attacker to roll onto the line.
“What are you doing, Madeline?” He breathed with all the calmness he could muster. The flints that surrounded the sleepers were cutting into his chest. “Are you going to kill me as well? You can’t take revenge on the whole of mankind.”
She was shocked to hear him address her by name, but remained silent, her hands clasped tightly around him. He wondered what she thought she was doing.
“You shouldn’t have picked the names from your book, Madeline. It’s called Famous Trials because that’s exactly what they are to anyone in law enforcement. And you shouldn’t have got Ryan to lie for you. Children are always so obvious when they’ve been asked to lie for their parents. They simply can’t look you in the eye.”
They remained locked in position on the track, although she was trying to pull him further in. Bryant’s hand gripped the freezing rail. He dug his boots in against the sleeper, determined not to budge.
“The boy whose throat you just tore open with the scissors from the Swiss Army knife you keep in your bag really is called Johann Bellocq. And a small pair of scissors is a woman’s weapon, you should know that.”
Bryant raised his chin so that he could speak more clearly. “In his own way, Bellocq paid for the crime he committed. He never hurt anyone but his mother, and that was after years of being locked away and tortured by her. He was a petty thief, and had borrowed cars, although he usually returned them. It’s true that when an old hunting friend of his grandfather’s died, Bellocq borrowed his house, but there was no real malice in him. Nor was there any dead body in the villa-the local gendarmerie has had a chance to visit it; in your hysteria, you merely thought you saw one. You were furious about being lied to once more, and thought that your pattern with men was starting to repeat itself all over again, but you only saw what you wanted to see. When Johann told you about his past, he was opening himself up to you because he genuinely loved you. He wanted you to know everything about him, but in your panic you shut him out and ran away, embroidering his history with lurid scraps culled from your own warped imagination.”