Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1) Page 3

  ‘You’ve heard about yesterday’s stabbing in Mill Hill?’ the detective continued. ‘A secondary school student, now on the critical list. He was attacked by a sixteen-year-old classmate named Paul Sullivan, who has since gone missing. Sullivan is probably with Vivian Loxley. She’s his girlfriend.’

  Sara felt a sudden weight in the pit of her stomach. ‘I see.’ She twirled a length of spiky hair, and chewed absently on her lower lip.

  Sara remembered a few things about the young teenage girl. Once, she told Sara how a friend had taught her to read Tarot cards, and said that sometimes they played with a Ouija board. Vivian had been delighted with Sara’s understanding of such things – her parents didn’t have a clue, she’d said – and she enjoyed baiting Sara with messages from other world. Sara would laugh and tell her it was all nonsense. Now, she hesitated before saying to the detective, ‘I hope you came to me because I was Vivian’s therapist, not any occult connection.’

  ‘Sadly, both.’ Harding offered the folder to Sara. ‘The Sullivan boy considers himself a Satanist.’

  Sara accepted the file, laid it on the coffee table, and closed her eyes. She was starting to get a headache.

  ‘His parents, meanwhile, are devout Baptists. You can imagine the Battle of Armageddon that’s been going on in Mill Hill. In the last couple of months, the boy’s been dragged to church, prayed over, confined to his room – everything his parents could think of. He responded by getting weirder. By all accounts, he’s not a strong boy, physically or emotionally. He was being bullied at school.’

  ‘Let me guess: his victim was the chief bully.’

  Harding inclined his head deferentially. ‘Spot on. There’s no indication that Paul meant to stab the victim until it happened. But he’d taken to carrying a ceremonial dagger, and when he was cornered in the lavatory ...’

  Sara shuddered. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘He fled the building, then Vivian Loxley failed to return home from school in Finchley that afternoon. Neither one’s been seen since.’

  Sara gazed at a wall hanging, losing herself in thought. Eighteen months ago, Vivian had been a bright thirteen-year old with long brown hair and a taunting smile. She had seemed smarter than her parents, and took pleasure in driving them around the bend. She reminded Sara of her brother, Rhodri, at that same age. Through a combination of family counselling and individual sessions, Vivian’s relationship with Mum and Dad had started to warm. As soon as that happened, the family stopped coming. Sara never found out why – it might have been the cost, or exaggerated optimism on their part – but Sara had not worried about the girl’s future. She was a bright spark, Sara had thought. She’d pull through.

  She watched her cat as he edged around Harding, leapt gracefully over his knees and onto the coffee table, settling on the agent’s file folder. Harding smiled and attempted to stroke him. He said, ‘Nice kitty,’ without conviction.

  ‘You say he considers himself a Satanist. Any idea what he means by that?’

  ‘Is there more than one way to worship the Devil?’

  ‘Several. I assume he’s more than just a fan of death metal?’

  Harding nodded. ‘Full-blown devil worshipper.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sara said, ‘but what you call “the devil” depends on your point of view. The boy might be associated with one of the Satanic churches – the Temple of Set or the Church of Satan ...’

  Harding gave a sardonic snort. ‘I doubt it. This kid isn’t a joiner. He spends most of his time in his room.’

  Sara shook her head. ‘That wouldn’t matter. Those groups tend to be American anyway, and much of their interaction is online. In a sense, it would be better for him to be part of a cybersect than to be a complete Solitary.’

  ‘Why?’

  Sara patted her lap and Ego jumped from the file folder. ‘Think of it like this: some of the well-known, public groups practice what you might call philosophical Satanism. They preach a kind of self-centred individualism, as well as contempt for most other people. It can seem antisocial, but it’s not usually violent. For the disturbed types they often attract, these groups can be a form of social constraint. They offer a world view, such as it is, that boosts self-esteem and keeps misfits from going completely off the rails.’

  Harding nodded slowly. ‘Like a pressure valve. Which would be denied to a troubled kid who’s making it all up by himself.’

  ‘My guess is, he’s looked at Satanist websites, but takes a syncretic approach – blending whatever bits feed his fantasies, and using them to escape the things in life that scare him. Problem is, without guidance from a community, there’s nothing to anchor himself to. Just a constant flood of poisonous thoughts.’

  Harding took a slow, deep breath. ‘So you’re saying the boy is dangerous.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no doubt about that. The real question is, to whom?’

  ‘You’re worried he might hurt Vivian?’

  ‘I can imagine a lot of outcomes.’ Sara glanced at the file of documents on her lap. ‘Can I keep this?’

  ‘Long as you like.’

  She looked at the clock behind Harding. ‘I have another patient coming, but I’ll find time to look at it this afternoon. Would you like to meet for dinner?

  Harding stood. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Seven o’clock?’ She smiled and added, ‘And don’t worry – I can tell you don’t like the cat. I’ll leave him here.’

  That afternoon typified feelings that would soon be common in her relationship with Jamie Harding: a blend of emotional turmoil and attraction.

  The turmoil came from knowing that a former patient of hers – someone she’d let slip away – was in trouble. What detail had she missed eighteen months ago? In her heart, Sara knew the question wasn’t rational. Kids change between thirteen and fifteen ... but should she have convinced the family to keep coming? Should she have offered free sessions? These thoughts tumbled pell-mell through her brain as she reviewed the detective’s papers, as well as her own file on the family. Vivian’s story was resonant of Sara’s own miserable past: young people mixed up in strange beliefs, ending in violence. It sent her down well-worn mental pathways, into areas of thought better left unvisited.

  But along with the bleak mingling of past and present, there came a small caress of desire. She realised she wouldn’t mind spending time with this new policeman.

  At the pavement café, they had chosen a table in the sun, away from the shade of a large canopy, as well as the other diners. Furtive as secret lovers, they had not wanted their conversation overheard.

  ‘I’ve studied the file and I think we can guess that the boy’s do-it-yourself Satanism results from a rift with his parents,’ Sara said in a quiet voice. ‘It’s been his way of rejecting, even hurting, them.’

  ‘I suppose if your parents are deeply religious, devil worship will do it.’

  ‘It does have implications for the present, though. It suggests he won’t run home to the loving support of Mum and Dad. He’ll want to get far away.’

  Sara’s mind harked back to the epilogue of the horrible events of her own childhood: George Thomas gone and Rhodri’s motor scooter found abandoned. A flush of fury always surfaced when she thought of George Thomas. She forced herself to concentrate, and pressed on.

  ‘I’d suspect that in Paul’s state of mind – and having already wounded somebody – he’d do almost anything to escape.’

  Harding nodded. ‘There are plenty of ways to do that.’

  ‘The wild card is Vivian Loxley. Her reaction will be critical to what her boyfriend does next. I don’t know what she’s like any more. Does she share any of his beliefs?’

  ‘As you’ve noted, it’s hard to pin down what his beliefs are, other than a rebellious sort of hatred for everything his parents stand for.’ Harding shrugged. ‘We know she’s a bit of an oddball, but does she call herself a Satanist? She didn’t before she got involved with him. Now, who knows?’

  ‘
People adopt new beliefs for all kinds of reasons,’ Sara said. ‘Sometimes, it’s because they admire the people who hold it. That’s called Affectional Conversion.’

  Harding pursed his lips. ‘So Vivian Loxley might call herself a Satanist just because Paul does?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Mentally, Sara kicked herself for not staying in touch. ‘How loyal is she to him?’

  He smiled. ‘I’d imagine you know more about the love life of a fifteen-year-old girl than I do.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. I was an insular child.’

  ‘I’m inclined to doubt that.’

  Sara grinned, then checked herself. ‘We need to talk to the Loxleys,’ she said.

  Harding nodded once. ‘They’re expecting you to come.’

  Sara pushed away her plate. ‘Eat up.’

  Harding looked shocked. He had barely touched his food. ‘You want to go now?’

  She pulled out a debit card and signalled to the waiter. ‘Did you have anything else planned?’

  In her time analysing the family, Sara had never seen the Loxleys’ house. Part of a terrace off Finchley High Road, it was comfortable, casual, and dishevelled. Their leather recliner sofa was strewn with mismatched pillows, two iPads, three remotes, and a cat toy. The place smelt of pipe tobacco. Mr and Mrs Loxley were a short couple in their mid-forties, as lumpy as their furniture. Clearly, they hadn’t slept much since their daughter’s disappearance the previous afternoon; their eyes were bleary, their faces slack with weary bemusement.

  ‘School?’ said Mrs Loxley. ‘Vivian’s never been particularly academic. Lately, her grades have been getting worse.’

  ‘Much worse,’ said Mr Loxley. ‘And it’s because of him.’

  Sara nodded. ‘Paul.’

  The very ordinariness of their home filled her with wracking pity: the knick-knacks, the hangings, and the nest of rosewood tables seemed entirely too safe. It reminded her of something she had already learned in her studies of the occult: the bizarre can creep up on the most banal of family stories.

  The couple showed Sara and Jamie around the house. They spoke of Vivian’s recent worsening attitude.

  ‘You could have called me, you know,’ Sara said. ‘I would have spoken to her at any time.’

  Mr Loxley shrugged helplessly. ‘She wouldn’t have come.’

  ‘How long has your daughter been seeing Paul?’

  ‘A few months,’ the woman sighed distractedly.

  ‘We knew he was odd,’ Mr Loxley said, ‘but we didn’t know about the – you know, the devil business.’

  They climbed the stairs to the second floor. On a landing, Mrs Loxley picked up a small framed snapshot. ‘This is what Vivian looks like now.’

  Sara took the picture and released an audible gasp.

  The difference between the teenager now and when Sara had known her was startling. Then she had been fresh-faced and impish, not pretty, but attractive in her own way. Now, her style was a jarring contrast to the high street anonymity she had sported eighteen months ago: her make-up ghostly white, her hair dyed coal-black, which was also the colour of her clothing. She wore chunky silver jewellery, mostly crosses and skulls. Although she smiled for the camera, a glint in her eye suggested this commonplace act could only be submitted to with heavy irony. What had happened, Sara wondered, to make this girl show such contempt for the mild manners with which she had been raised?

  ‘How did you get along with Vivian just before she met Paul?’ Sara asked.

  ‘As you know, Dr Jones, she’s always been unusual,’ Mrs Loxley said. She had misread Sara’s question and was apologizing for her daughter’s transformation. ‘Things were pretty good for a while, after we saw you. Then they slipped again.’

  ‘When she met him,’ said Mr Loxley. ‘We did the best we could.’

  ‘Do you think she was influenced by Paul’s beliefs?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘I told you,’ the father said, ‘we didn’t know about his beliefs. But I’ll say one thing: she got stranger once she started hanging about with him. All her old friends – her normal friends – she just shut them out.’

  Mrs Loxley shook her head in puzzled wonder. ‘But it’s odd. When they’re together, it’s always Viv who tells him what to do. Sometimes she walks all over him. Still, he has this influence ... it’s hard to describe.’

  She paused, and added, ‘His parents are ever so religious, you know.’

  They climbed the remaining stairs to Vivian’s room. What Sara saw caused her to shudder; it was like an obscene parody of her own room as a child – but with the Take That posters replaced by death metal bands Sara had never heard of. One wall was painted matt black, and black candles dripped from wrought-iron candlesticks.

  ‘What can you do?’ Mrs Loxley asked. ‘Kids go their own way.’ Tears welled in her eyes but she did not sob. ‘I’m sorry she’s turned out this way. You will find her, won’t you?’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ Sara said. ‘And when we do find her, I’ll want to talk to her regularly. There’ll be no charge.’

  They took their leave of the distraught couple, and climbed back into Jamie’s Range Rover. ‘What do you think?’ he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  ‘I think Paul Sullivan will regret taking his girl along for the ride,’ Sara said. ‘She won’t be a silent partner.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a chance she might get fed up and leave him?’

  Sara pursed her lips, then sighed. ‘There’s a chance, but it’s slight. His desperation, combined with whatever power he has over her ...’ She lowered her head. ‘I think it’s more likely that Vivian Loxley is in terrible danger.’

  The detective inspector pondered her words before muttering, ‘Well, thanks for talking to them, anyway. I’ll call you if we learn anything.’

  ‘You’d better call me anyway,’ Sara said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not going to let you waltz into my office, dump a load of unpleasant news on me, then walk away, that’s why. You’ve depressed me, Inspector. Now it’s your job to cheer me up.’

  He smiled. ‘Ah.’

  ‘So call me tomorrow, no matter what happens. I know you’ll be busy – but it’s your turn to buy dinner.’

  FOUR

  Once they had called him Taffy, because he was Welsh, and that had been demeaning. He had hated it the same way an Irishman might object to Paddy. The name’s biggest insult was its lack of imagination, the idea that he wasn’t even worth original condescension. When you’re a street person, any nickname will do, even when you’re talking to other street people. Somewhere along the line – he could never remember when or why – someone had changed it to Daffy. Maybe because it sounded like a Welsh emblem – the daffodil. Whatever the reason, he had kept the name.

  Daffy stood in the maze-like queue of London’s Victoria Coach Station ticket hall, fifth from the front. Sell me a ticket, sell me a ticket, sell me a ticket ... he repeated those words as if they were a form of magic, as if his will power alone could compel the people behind the wickets to overlook his clothes, his face, his hair, and sell him a ticket to Aberystwyth.

  Sell me a ticket. For God’s sake, sell me a ticket.

  An hour before, he had washed himself at a McDonalds loo, and tried to slick down his hair. Daffy wore a worn brown sports jacket that had once been expensive, but now was unravelling at both elbows. The fabric was shiny, and so was the cloth of his trousers and the polyester of his shirt. He couldn’t hide that, but he had hidden his bedroll and dingy canvas bag in the corner, where he could keep an eye on it, but the ticket-sellers couldn’t see.

  It was his face that really gave him away. Years of living where he could had told their story there. That was why he could no longer hitchhike; nobody would give him a ride. That was why he’d had to beg for the money, and steal the last eight pounds from a naïve young lad new to life under Waterloo Bridge.

  Daffy was ashamed of having done that. But his desperation outweig
hed his shame. He needed the money more than that kid.

  The person in front of him loped towards a free window, and he scanned the row of wickets nervously, wondering which one would be free first. This would never have happened if he’d just kept his mouth shut. He should never have gone to that man. He should have never said what he said. That bastard was cruel, brutal, and Daffy knew that. He had always known that.

  A window became free, and he shuffled towards it, the broken soles of his shoes scuffing against the dirty floor.

  Sell me a ticket. If you don’t, I’ll ...

  ‘One ticket to Aberystwyth,’ he said.

  He held his breath, sensing that the woman was staring at the dirt under his fingernails – the grimy layer he had not been able to remove.

  ‘Return?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, nearly barking in his enthusiasm. ‘Return.’

  He wished he could truly be so certain about his future. He released the crumpled bits of money from his sweaty palm, and pushed them forward.

  Jamie sat at the large pine table in Sara’s kitchen in Penweddig, a mug of coffee at his elbow. He looked around the large room, an extension to the original farmhouse. ‘Cosy,’ he said.

  Sara smiled lopsidedly. Jamie was being polite; the kitchen was a mess. ‘It will be cosy. Just give me more time.’

  Because everything in Sara’s life at the moment was subject to change, she had intended to make as few renovations to her newly purchased farmhouse as possible. She didn’t even know whether she planned to live in it for long. Yet once she had actually moved in, she found herself unable to accept the old stone house as it was. She had been aghast that the place had actually used a solid fuel-burning oven for heat and hot water. She couldn’t imagine herself getting up in the morning and stoking it with wood or coal before she could even take a shower. She had been astonished that the attached stable – the only real storage space in the entire house –only had an external entrance. She imagined having to run through the pelting winter sleet to fetch something from a box. It would never do; within her first week, she’d had a plumber installing new oil-fired central heating, and a builder knocking a hole in her living room wall in order to make an internal entrance to the stable. As soon as the builder had finished the new door, she had set him to work in the kitchen, ripping up the hideous cork-tiled floor and breaking away the crumbling plaster. Meanwhile, the plumber had replaced the bathroom suite.