Dreams of Origami (3 page)

He pulls up outside the end of the row of terraced cottages and looks up at his own windows, wishing the place didn’t look so dark and empty. As he gets out of his van, he glances across the road, noticing that lights are still on in the schoolhouse. That’s unusual. It’s nearly midnight, not late for some people, but he doesn’t remember seeing all their lights ablaze when he’s arrived home before. He hopes the young couple are all right. Yes, of course they are, probably having friends around for the evening. Nice people, Triss and Matthew, although Triss is inclined to be a bit jumpy at times.

Gideon Wakefield has also arrived home. He has poured himself that promised brandy and, despite the chilly air, has taken it out onto the small balcony of his first-floor flat. It’s nearly eleven o’clock and Cambridge is still wide awake. The occasional passing group of rowdy pedestrians does not bother him. These big, old houses lift their floors high above the street, and he is separated from the city centre by the sweep of the River Cam and Jesus Green beyond. From here he can see across the road to where the dark willow branches drape over the water and coloured lights dance on its surface. Above the noise of the traffic, he can hear the constant gurgling of the weir.

He is tired and is hoping he’ll sleep well, but the evening has left him
slightly disturbed. Yes, he would like to dismiss the guru as another con artist—mainly conning himself that everyone would be taken in by the flowing robe and the phoney accent. However, Gideon has to admit that the man is probably quite genuine in his beliefs. And hasn’t he himself made quite a comfortable living as an exponent of the supernatural? Their individual pursuit of Truth has taken them along different paths, that’s all. And, after all, he has not been totally honest about the source of his inspiration, either. What about Cassandra, for instance?

He is nearly forty now, and the dreams have followed him through his adult life. And although he has searched his own past and his family history, he can find no explanation for them. Sometimes the dreams increased in frequency, especially when he was up at Cambridge and got drawn into the student life; debating societies and rowing clubs, sitting up until all hours putting the world to rights over a bottle of cheap wine. That’s when he first joined the Parapsychology Forum, a group of intellectuals whose aim was to investigate supernatural phenomena from an objective, scientific standpoint. That was the theory, anyway. It was from there that his knowledge expanded to embrace all manner of paranormal events, and, whatever it was they were investigating, Cassandra always had something to say on the matter.

She has become a part of his life, to the point where, if there is a long time lapse between dreams, he misses her. There has never been anything dramatic or traumatic; no nightmares or erotic fantasies. They begin with the folding of paper, different shapes, often remarkably intricate and beautiful in themselves: a true art form. The shapes are usually related to whatever his mind is working on, although sometimes she makes something purely for fun or because she thinks he will enjoy it. Then she comes into focus. A walk in a cool garden, a moment by a still lake. Nowhere he ever recognizes, although he is now widely travelled. They talk, that is all. Often he cannot even remember what they talk about, although the rational side of him knows it is all generated from inside his head, and therefore he has it stored safely within his subconscious mind. But his more intuitive
self feels she is not part of him. A memory? Another lifetime? Some ancestral imprint on his genetic helix? His explanations to himself pass through fashions and phases. He has learned enough to know that there may be other beings, ghosts if you like, spirit guides, angels, who communicate with the living. But somehow that doesn’t ring true here, either. Whoever or whatever she is, she comes to him in dreams of origami. More so recently, as if they are working towards something, some significant event. And the event is coming closer.

Two o’clock in the morning and Triss is on her own. Audrey did offer to stay the night, but Triss insisted that she’d be all right and would rather be alone. She cannot think of going to bed, but eventually she falls asleep in an armchair, whimpering Matthew’s name, her face wet from tears that continue to flow in her dreams.

M
ORNING, JACK.’ LACEY SLIPS
out of her jacket, hooking it over the loaded coat-stand by the door. Eight-fifteen, and already the reporters’ room is up and running, coffee brewed and computer screens flickering with overnight news. ‘Anything for me?’

‘No, nothing much. Grant, you’re covering this meeting about cuts to the library service?’ As their chief reporter, Jack’s first objective of the day is to rally the team.

‘Yeah, but it’s probably a storm in a beer mug.’ Grant reaches for a ringing telephone.

‘I know, but with the local elections coming up…Here, you’d better deal with this, Simon; technically, it’s a sports item.’ He hands a printout to a young, blond-haired man whose desk is covered with Leeds United mascots.

‘What: “Local centre forward up on drugs charge"? Thanks very much.’

‘Don’t knock it. All part of the game nowadays, eh? Sue not here yet?’ He places a pile of papers on an empty desk. ‘I understand you covered that meditation thing for her last night, Lacey?’

‘Yes, she’s got some sort of problem with her mother.’ Lacey gathers up yesterday’s coffee mugs from her desk and takes them to the sink.

‘What was it like?’ asks Simon. ‘Did he put you all in a trance?’

‘That’s what Drew reckons.’ She rinses out the cleanest of the mugs and fills it with fresh coffee from the machine. ‘I’ll write it up this morning unless there’s anything urgent from the police handover.’

‘You’d better get a move on if you want to get there by eight-thirty. Everyone seems to be running late this morning.’

‘Oh Lord, is that the time already?’ Lacey takes a deep gulp of her coffee. ‘Sorry, Jack. Didn’t sleep well last night.’ She drags her tote bag over her shoulder and grabs her coat. ‘Right, I’ll see you.’ Another mug is left to go cold amid the clutter on her desk.

Lacey arrives at the upstairs meeting room at the police station, which is, conveniently, in the next block to the
Fenland Herald’
s office. A uniformed officer behind her holds the door open while she enters. Thank goodness she’s not the last in. The regular morning get-together is about to commence, with nearly thirty constabulary personnel, most in variations of a uniform plus a few in plain clothes, gathered around the huge table in the centre of the room. The sergeant chairing this morning’s meeting is shuffling through a stack of papers, occasionally passing something to one of his colleagues. Lacey slides into an empty chair along a side wall, trying to look inconspicuous. The press are tolerated here: a necessary evil that sometimes has its uses. She rummages in her bag for her notebook and pen as the morning round of reports from the day before begins.

Usual stuff, what you’d expect from any Tuesday. A few traffic accidents during last night’s rush hour, nothing serious, but a nasty smash on the motorway about nine o’clock. A few fights after the pubs closed, and some incidents of domestic violence. There were a couple of break-ins, one of which sets off waves of laughter around the table; the lads caught red-handed when the alarm went off are obviously well known locally. Unfortunately, the victim was the owner of a village store, the third time this year it has been broken into. Then something about a missing person. Not a child, thank God. Adult,
male, and only gone for a few hours when an officer called around. Too early to make it official, but worth mentioning all the same, someone might know something. Lacey recognizes Wadsworth, the sergeant who made the initial call. He says the way the man disappeared is a little strange, or at least that’s what the wife is saying. He’ll follow it up this morning.

Lacey’s shorthand is pretty good, so she gets most of the detail down as it is read out. When the meeting closes, she has a quick word with the reporting officers about the items she’s particularly interested in, including the disappearance, although Wadsworth says she can’t report it yet, not without their go-ahead. Anyway, the chap’s probably turned up by now. Still, he’s going out there this morning to check on the situation, and he assures her that he will be in touch. Lacey knows better than to push too hard at this stage. That’s it for this morning. Most of the interview work for the minor incidents can be done over the telephone. A few quick calls to check out the facts, then she can get it all written up before this morning’s deadline.

Back in the office and armed with another coffee, Lacey types up several short articles for today’s edition and hands her copy to the chief editor, along with the write-up on last night’s lecture. Then she makes an appointment to interview the shop owner whose premises were broken into last night. The initial report will be in today’s edition, but she’s hoping to do a follow-up feature on village shopkeepers coping with increasing crime in rural areas. Might make an interesting series.

The room is hushed now, most people having gone out. Those left in the office are cocooned in their own private world of desk and computer, muffled by the hypnotic tapping of keyboards and the occasional purr of a telephone. Focused on the work at hand, everyone is aware of the clock hands jerking their way around to that all-important eleven. Everyone except Lacey, whose mind keeps drifting back to the disappearance. Something is nagging at her. When Jack comes back into the office, he finds her chewing the ends of her hair and staring into space.

‘Hi, how are things out there on the edge of the universe?’

‘What? Oh, sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Really? I’d never have guessed.’

‘I was thinking about something that came up this morning. A missing person.’ She hands him a copy of the article.

‘So he’s been gone nearly twenty-four hours. Nothing else to go on?’ Jack laughs. ‘Done a runner, more like.’

‘Yes, I know it doesn’t sound much. Could well be a domestic; husband storms off, wife gets her own back by reporting him missing. Only, Sergeant Wadsworth didn’t seem to think so. He was there yesterday shortly after it happened. He said the wife was really distressed, had a couple of the neighbours out looking for him. According to her, he just vanished into thin air.’

‘Is that right?’ Jack raises his eyebrows and peers at her over the rims of his glasses. ‘Any UFO reports?’

‘No, seriously. I know that area. It’s Gainsborough Street, where Drew lives.’

‘Ah, now I understand.’

‘No, you don’t. Look, it’s in the middle of nowhere. You can see for miles. You’d have to be Houdini to vanish from that place.’

‘So where are we up to with it?’

‘Well, Wadsworth is going to check it out this morning. If it’s made official, they’ll be putting an appeal out on the radio at lunchtime, asking the public for information. Of course the police will have to ask the wife if she has any objection to them seeking media support.’

‘Yeah, I know the procedure. It’s usually no problem. In fact, they’d be bloody suspicious if she refused.’

‘The officer said we can put it in today’s edition if we get clearance in time. He’ll phone you straight away. I’ve already submitted a brief account along with their official photograph, but I’d like to cover it more fully. Get an interview with the wife if possible.’

‘If he’s still missing.’

‘Yes, if he’s still missing.’

‘Well, you could try.’ He glances at her article again. ‘No, not a bad idea at all. If the wife’s in a bit of a state, she might respond to a bit of sympathy and understanding. See if you can get the personal angle.
What’s it like suddenly losing someone out of the blue? How she’s coping with the situation? What’s going through her mind? I’m sure you’ll know how to handle it.’

‘I should think so. In fact, you could say we have a lot in common.’ Lacey snatches up her bag and walks out of the office, allowing the door to swing shut with a bang.

Jack stares at the door. ‘What’s got into her?’

‘Sensitivity never was your strong point, was it?’ says Grant as he wanders over to the coffee machine. ‘Lot in common? Understand how she feels? That woman isn’t the only one to have suddenly lost her husband, is she Jack?’

Lacey heads for the car park, more angry with herself than with Jack. She had no business letting a few careless words throw her like that. Of course Jack didn’t mean anything; it was the last thing on his mind, as it should have been with her by now. In the car she takes a moment to calm down. A few deep breaths—slowly, slowly—get a grip. Try to concentrate on something here and now. She glances at her notes on the disappearance. The man left the house suddenly, without informing his wife and with no apparent means of departing from the area. Yes, well the world’s full of women whose husbands walk out on them, or divorce them, or…or just die without telling them first. But you don’t expect men of thirty-five to have heart attacks, do you?

She scoops her hair up into a knot, pokes a few pins into it, and then looks at her notes again. The address: Bell House—yes, that big place set back from the road before you get to the cottages. Drew said it used to be a school. Something about this feels like a good story, and she shifts into reporter mode regardless of Jack’s foot-in-the-mouth sensitivity. First, she’ll go to Fenbridge, the scene of last night’s shop break-in, and from there it’s only a shortcut across to Covington and Gainsborough Street. She’ll talk with the shop owner about the whole issue of security and crime prevention when you’re trying to run a small family business. It might be just her perception, but she seems
to have been following up a lot of incidents in this area in recent months—petty theft, vandalism—probably the same group of lads the police caught last night. She’ll trawl for some figures when she gets back to the office. She starts the car and heads out to the north side of the city.

The shop owner is in despair and is only too eager to talk to anyone prepared to listen. By the time Lacey is ready to leave Fenbridge, it is past noon. She gives Jack a ring to check the publicity clearance on the missing-person case. Yes, the man is still missing, and they were given the OK in time to include the report in today’s edition. So her next destination is Gainsborough Street. Drew is working locally, and he may be home for lunch. She decides to call in on him first, as he probably knows the people from the schoolhouse.

It seems to be getting even colder as she heads towards Covington. She winds the window up. So much for summer. As she turns into Gainsborough Street a police car is pulling out onto the main road, and she thinks she recognizes Sergeant Wadsworth, probably coming from the missing man’s home.

As it happens, Drew is out. She bangs the brass knocker down hard enough to alert the occupants of both rows of cottages, although at this time of day it’s unlikely there’ll be anyone about. Anyway, Drew’s small van is not in its usual place; at the end of the row where he has a patch of ground at the side, gravelled as a car park, and a path around to the back garden. This little dolls’ house was all he could afford after the break-up of his marriage. He bought two of them, this and the one next door, at a bargain price, restored both, then put the second one back on the market, expecting that the profit on the sale would cover the renovation costs for both. The
For Sale
sign went up last week.

All of the houses in the road look neat, having been sympathetically restored and extended, and Drew, being in the trade, has put in a lot of work on his property. He’s got a real thing about doing up old places—a labour of love, he calls it. Treats it more like a mission than
a job. That’s where he’ll be now, working on a house in Covington village, so he could well have called in home. But he’s not here, so she might as well go and find this Mrs…what’s her name? Caxton. She’ll catch up with Drew later. On second thoughts, she’d better let Drew know where she is. If he comes home and finds her car parked outside, well, that would be another missing person. She turns back, scribbles a note, and tucks it under the doorknocker before heading back over the road.

There are two paths leading from the grass verge, one through a wide, gateless entrance that leads up to what must be the old schoolroom. The door is huge and set into a sort of Gothic-looking archway carved from stone, with the words
Bell House, 1815, Samuel Gainsborough Street
cut into it. The other path goes up to what must be the front door of the adjoining house. Lacey is about to knock at the house door when it is thrown open by someone coming out.

‘Yes, can I help you?’

‘Mrs Caxton?’

‘No, she’s resting. Who are you?’ The woman is broad-shouldered with wire-grey hair cropped into a severe bob. She fills the doorway, defying any attempt to pass through.

‘Lacey Prentice.
Fenland Herald.’
She flashes her official identification and offers a business card. ‘I’d like to—’

‘Didn’t take you long, did it? Well, Mrs Caxton’s not available for comment, so you’re wasting your time.’

‘Sorry, you are…?’

‘Minding my own business, which is more than can be said for some folk. Good day.’ She is about to slam the door in Lacey’s face when another voice calls from inside the house.

‘Who is it?’

‘Reporter,’ the guard dog snaps over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, she’s just leaving.’

‘No, it’s all right, tell them to come in.’ Another face appears in the doorway, this time someone much younger, pale-skinned and red-eyed. ‘I’m Triss Caxton, I expect it’s me you’re looking for.’

‘Yes. I’m from the
Fenland Herald.
I’m here because the police have
asked us to help with the public appeal.’ Slight exaggeration, but not totally untrue.

‘What Mrs Caxton needs right now is some peace and quiet. I don’t think—’

‘It’s all right, Audrey. I’ll have to talk to the press sooner or later. Might as well get it over with. Please come in.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You know what reporters are like when they get hold of someone’s private life.’ The older woman steps to one side. ‘Still, it’s not really my place to interfere.’ She holds onto the door as if reluctant to relinquish command. ‘But I don’t like the idea of leaving you with strangers.’ She throws Lacey a look of contempt. ‘Couldn’t she come back later when I can be here to keep an eye on things?’