Chapter 6

Monday, before daybreak

Boom! Boom! Boom! Somewhere in his dream, DI Jon Graham shot at ducks on a lake. The birds flew up, and millions of wings stirred the scorching breeze. Palm trees swayed.

A loud thud, then a metallic explosion jolted him awake. Without reason, he found himself on the frigid floor of the caravan, one leg hung up in the blanket. Light flashed-on, off, on, off-from his alarm clock next to his face. The electric mini-heater whirred a blast of heat. The heater did little good. He had left a window open. It just made sense in the tightness of the place. He wrapped covers around his body and grabbed the clock to make out the time. Did the thing actually read 4:30? Already?

Boom! Boom! Boom! The caravan's fabricated walls shook. What stonyhearted villain banged on his door at this ungodly hour?

"Coming! I'm coming!" he called out, and massaged his scalp to rub some awareness through to his brain. The cold sliced through him as he pushed the duvet aside. He stood, slipped, and jammed a toe into the wire grate of the heater. "Oww!"

He yanked away. The grate popped off, and the heater fell forward. He flipped a light switch and saw that the old appliance head melted into the flooring. He jerked the plug from the socket.

The caravan's door handle wiggled. Bloody-minded hell! "I said I'm coming!" he shouted, limping two hops across the narrow space to peer through the curtained window at a fellow he didn't recognize. He popped the door open. "Hello?"

The rotund chap on his doorstep smiled. He carried a lumpy dish-towel-draped tray. "Sorry, sar. Thought you said, 'come in.' Weather's turned sketchy. Does sumin to my ears."

Jon gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. "It's half-bloody-four."

"Oh ... er ... Sorry. I'm oaf to work. Thought you'd wish to know what's what."

Jon was awake now and realized this must be Perstow, sergeant of the local police and owner of the house occupying the other half of the garden. "Of course. Yes, come in. Sergeant Perstow, I take it." Jon grabbed a torn shirt up and threw it on.

"Sure, sure," Perstow groaned as he climbed the step. "Ow. Her Indoors is on me 'bout me weight. I tell her it's her fine cookin' and it calms her right down. She'll fix you a meal once she settles to the new face."

Perstow was short, not much over five feet, and built like a brick. He set the tray on the table and managed to squeeze his backside into a swivel seat. He drew the towel away from his tray. "Somethin' warm fer braxis."

"Thank you very much!" Jon rubbed his hands together and sat across the narrow table from Perstow. He cleared away the notes he'd taken the night before, and pushed a stack of his books aside, effectively hiding the mail package that contained the two VHS tapes.

Perstow looked around the confined space and sniffed the air. "Somethin' afire?"

"The space heater melted into the floor a bit."

"Sorry to hear it, sar. Milk?"

Jon nodded.

Perstow poured. "In for a mort o' weather."

His accent was thick but manageable; it held the sing-song quality of the local dialect. Jon briefly wondered what he'd meant, but he nodded in agreement, which was an acceptable answer to a weather statement this early in the morning.

Jon rubbed away at his eyes and studied the sergeant. The gray-haired man had the kind of jolly face that meant unlikely advancement in the ranks. He didn't have police eyes-the shrewd, cynical look of a person accustomed to being lied to. His round cheeks had a rosy blush, and his belly jiggled at every word. The tea was passed over. Perstow took a sip of his and an expression of pleasure swept over the man's good face, smoothing the lines and taking age from his years.

Jon eyeballed his tiny caravan. Not even here a day and the place looked like a clothes bomb had gone off in it. "Excuse the mess."

Perstow glanced around and said, "Your note mentioned you hated closed spaces, but I'm afraid the missus 'ud get a bit teasy 'bout the loan of our settee."

"No worries. The window's open. My therapist friend ..." Jon looked at the open face of the other man and wondered if he had disclosed too much information about himself. Even in such cold weather, he always kept a window cracked. Perstow seemed a good listener so he'd have to watch himself. "Enclosed spaces don't sit well, is all. My friend Steve suggested I take up spelunking."

"Sounds adventuresome, sar." Perstow had a habit of tossing a crinkle-faced smile upon every other sentence.

"But I said no way in bloody hell could anyone get me in a cave."

"You'll have to watch it round here with the mines. Sometimes the rock falls through from up top, and if you happen to be on the spot, you'll find yourself in a cave, right enough." Perstow drew the corners of his mouth down. "The other thing I need to tell you-no doubt today you'll observe the posters of the missing girl."

Jon adapted his well-used reserved look, "Oh?"

"Went missing yesterday morning just before seven." He glanced around at the monitors. "Did you happen to notice anything?"

"Sorry." Jon studied the man's face, then said, "No ... No, I shouldn't be so cagey, what with your taking me in, so to speak. I ... I have footage of the girls on the beach. I'm sorry to say the cameras aren't state of the art, so there isn't much to see."

"You saw ..." Perstow leaned back as if he'd been slapped. "I'll need to see it." He added a "sar" as an afterthought.

"Here, I've archived the footage to these drives. You can look through them. Believe me, if even the slightest hint was on them, you'd have seen them right away. There isn't a thing. My super will get the experts on them. Trust me. The footage shows nothing, past the girls arriving on the beach, no one else, a lot of shadows. If I hadn't arrived when I did, and with DS Browne's food poisoning-"

"How is he?"

"He'll be fine, with a few days' rest. But what I was going to say is I'm here to complete the assignment."

"And the missing girl will not interfere?"

"She doesn't have anything to do with my investigation. I'm only interested in Trewe. We must know the source of this money."

"Oh! Aye. The money."

"And-" A clap of thunder like a gunshot made Jon duck. He'd have to speak softly, as noises seemed to carry through the caravan's walls. "And he's never said a thing about his new-found wealth?"

"Never." The tragic look that overcame his face under other circumstances might look comical. "I'd like to know, too. Our chief inspector seems to be a chap with worries."

"Odd. Very odd."

"DCI Trewe is certainly more on edge about the missing girl than anythin', though."

"How on edge?"

"He said, and I'll quote, 'the girl's American. The implications! International scandal. The newspapers. Bad for business, worse than the foot and mouth ever was in '01.' At least, that's what I remember he said. But ... it was the way he went on."

"A coldhearted beast."

Perstow shook his head, "Oh no! I wouldn't say it like that. But I've never heard him quite as bad, sar. He's desperate, pulled in a profiler. The profiler said that there is a forty-four percent chance the child will be dead in the first hour, and the best chance of bringing her back alive is within the first three hours. The way our Chief Inspector went on ... Where's the mercy in him, I ask meself. It was as if there was something else botherin' him."

Like nine hundred thousand somethings, Jon thought. "Keep me informed, as you are able. It is imperative you let no one know about me. I'm your cousin, on holiday, remember. And your wife must play along. She will, right?"

"Don't worry."

"I must concentrate on DCI Trewe, not a missing girl investigation. Hopefully, she'll show up with a good story and nothing amiss." Jon didn't believe it for a moment. The man in the dark car would not have been barreling out of the village quite so fast if there had been nothing to hide. He set his cup down with a definitive thud. "In the event the girl's body is found, the police will saturate this place. I'll have to make my presence known. If it comes to that, it would be expeditious to drop my investigation momentarily. Meanwhile, I'll send the footage in an anonymous package to DCI Trewe. I can't help but think it is the proper thing that he get it."

"I'll follow your lead, sar." Perstow nodded, eyes averted, as if he was well aware of his standing and didn't want to step beyond his bounds by getting chatty with a DI.

Jon had taken an immediate liking to the fellow but wondered about him a little. He seemed too nice to be true. The heaviness of an impending storm added to the burden he carried inside himself. He hoped against hope the girl would be found soon.

Outside, the storm pounced, but inside the caravan, Jon and Perstow sat hunched, intent upon the archived footage from the beach. Blue-white light from the monitor flashed across their faces and danced shadows around the caravan. Outside, the wind moaned and shoved against the tiny abode.

From the upper corner of one of the live monitors-one automatically controlled by computer at the monitoring station so any motion had it zooming or panning and focusing on minute detail-a large black dog darted into view, stopped, stared toward the camera, turned and took off.

***

Monday, daybreak

Rain and hail bulleted across Ruth's front window and the glass was rattled by inconstant wind. In those first few seconds of awareness Ruth wondered why she wasn't in her own bed, why she had slept in her big easy chair. Then came the heart-stopping memory of Dot's voice asking, "Where's Annie?"

Movement under a blanket on her couch caused Ruth to sit straight up. "Annie!" she whispered, heart beating wildly. Sally's curly red hair spilled from under the blanket. Ruth fell back, hope dashed. Dear Lord Jesus, bring her back and I'll be a better Christian. I promise.

She must have drifted into sleep again, because when a knocking woke her, the window was a dull rectangle. Here it was, another day, and no Annie to get up for school. Annie wasn't a morning person and the routine for school readiness was quite a production. She liked her sleep after her night hours of reading by flashlight. As far as Ruth knew Annie was unaware that her mother knew she was staying up, and that Ruth used to do the same thing.

In the corner of the dining room, the computer's new-mail icon flashed. Ruth sat up as she smelled bacon cooking. Another knock-knock, and she was at the front door.

Even in the gray drizzle, the local magistrate stood immaculate and stiffly upright. His sloping nose hooked over smiling lips. A poised fedora held his gray hair firmly in place.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Butler. I heard at the post office your daughter has gotten herself lost. I hope I might have misunderstood. Perhaps I misunderstood." Mr. Malone's umbrella dripped water in a neat circle all around him, turning the gray slate of the porch black. He stepped forward. Bushy gray eyebrows hung over his black-rimmed glasses, eyes hidden in shadow behind thick lenses. Mr. Malone gave talks on the local history to visiting groups of tourists. He volunteered at the library. He let it be known that he knew everybody.

"Thank you for coming," Ruth murmured.

"Of course," Mr. Malone said. "I've heard that your daughter is a polite young lady. Polite."

Ruth reached out and touched his sleeve. "Come in."

"Oh!" Mr. Malone stepped away from her. "Don't mean to intrude. The wife instructed me to bring you this soup she made you. Good soup." He held out a large canning jar. "I like it, anyway. She says it's an old family recipe. Yes. Mustn't stay. Mustn't."

"Thank you."

"Your Annie will come back to you, I'm sure. Take heart." Mr. Malone paused a moment, as if he was about to say something else. Then he touched his hand to his hat in a haphazard salute. "The wife and I will be thinking of you. Our prayers are with you. With you." He made a stiff, miniscule bow, turned, and went gingerly down the two steps to his car.

Ruth called out to him, "Tell Liz thank you."

"She'll say you're quite welcome, I'm sure." He waved and squeezed gracefully into his Bentley. The grand silver car moved smoothly down the one-way road toward High Street, which was the main road in and out of the village.

Ruth leaned against the closed door. Mr. Malone was not a comfortable man. She took the jar of soup into the kitchen, where Sally wiped at the counter. A plate of congealed fried eggs sat on the tiny table where she and Annie usually sat to eat. The eggs were from the night before when hunger drove her to stuff food into her mouth. Rubber. Salty rubber. A few bites had been enough. She must have forgotten to clean up after herself. How had that happened?

Sally put her arms around her and pulled her into a motherly hug. "Hungry?" she asked.

Ruth's stomach rebelled. "No."

Sally, an expert at argument who had a temperament to match her fiery red curls, gave Ruth a look.

"I wouldn't mind tea." The British panacea had become just as much her own. As she turned to leave the kitchen and its heavy smells of food, she heard Sally say softly, "Bless yer heart."

Ruth went to the computer. She had an email from someone named Charles. The subject line said: Tell me you love me!

That was what the man on Annie's phone had said. She sat heavily as her knees gave way. It was her fault, hiding as she had all these years. She missed her parents, and the thought tore into her heart. Her parents-she needed them now.

Tell me you love me. He had said it on Annie's cell phone. How had he gotten her email address so quickly?

"Sally," she called out, "could you phone the police?"

Ruth stared at the computer screen. A tap at the front door made her jump. She got up and swung the door open to find no one there. With a glance down, she found a nosegay of wildflowers on the wet doorstep. She glanced up and down the street. A few cars swished by.

A card tied around the flowers with brown string read "Fel neidr yn y ddaear. Sorry for your loss." Her stomach tightened. She tossed the flowers on her hall table and stared at the card.

The night before-after the call-she'd dressed warmly and headed outdoors into a moonlit night, to attempt divination of the direction Annie might have gone if she had left the beach on her own. She walked to the cliff overlooking the bay. The moonlight sparkled dimly upon the waves. Silver-lined storm clouds amassed where horizon met sea. She had paused long enough to listen to the surf before heading home again.

"Here we are, luv." Sally brought Ruth's tea in the duck mug. "The police are on their way."

Ruth smiled her thanks. Dearest Sally. The funny mug had given Annie a laugh. Sally knew things like that. When the tea is drained, sip by sip, the duck figurine is revealed. The words on the outside of the mug read, "Who's at the bottom of the well?"

A child's mug.

The phone rang. Ruth set the mug down and jumped up to answer it.

"Hello!" She listened. Nothing. "Hello?" She heard breathing. "Hello?" No response, just the sound of someone breathing, listening to her.

"Annie?" she said, unable to stop the desperate keen of her tone.

The caller hung up.

Shaken, Ruth stared at the phone in her hand. That was the second time she had answered the phone and known someone listened to her frantic questions. The day before, she had let it pass as a mistake. It had been no mistake. She shivered. Things became more horrible by the minute.