The Disappearance of Katie Wren (19 page)

“I was reading about him in the paper the other day,” Milly says after a moment. “Oh, the things they dug up about that man when they started looking into his past. Awful things, horrible things. It's just shocking to me that he was allowed out in polite society for so long. Makes you wonder who else is out there, doesn't it?”

“What kind of things?” I ask.

“For a start, there were two women who had restraining orders against him.”

“Are you sure?”

“That's what it said. They weren't named, for obvious reasons, but they were both quoted and they said he'd been quite awful to them. Following them, taking photographs, trying to force his way into their homes. Now, that all happened a few years ago, but it clearly shows that he's not right in the head. It's the sex, you know. Sometimes sex just messes a man up.”

With that, she snips the dead head off another plant.

“He seemed so kind and decent,” I whisper, reading the letter again.

“I wouldn't let Katie hear you saying that.”

“Of course not,” I reply, suddenly realizing that I'm being grossly inconsiderate. Stepping past Milly, I tear the letter in half and drop the pieces into her waste bin. “The man is a monster, through and through,” I continue, “and I shall dispose of any further correspondence without even opening it.”

“That's the spirit,” she continues, snipping a couple more dead buds. “You don't want to listen to his self-serving nonsense. You've got enough on your plate already. Did you hear about Joe O'Brien's sheep?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She turns to me and runs the clippers across her neck, just millimeters from her flesh.

“They had their throats slit,” she explains. “Two of them, anyway. He found the carcasses this morning. Something had drained them of all their blood. Sounds like a real shocker.”

“That seems rather extreme,” I point out with a shudder. “I wouldn't have thought anyone in Shropley would be into that sort of thing.”

“He's not happy. Says it was definitely a person and not a fox, on account of how clean the wound is. Says there wasn't much blood spilled, though, which makes him think that someone went out there all prepared. They probably caught it in a bucket, something like that. Some of the guts were missing too, which really makes you wonder, eh?”

She sighs, before snipping off another bud.

“He's staying out there tonight,” she continues finally. “Shotgun n'all. Says he's gonna catch the buggers if they go up there again. I hope they don't show their faces, 'cause Joe's got a temper when he thinks he's in the right, and I wouldn't put it past him to fire off a few shots if he spots someone. He's not a man who takes easy to compromise, and I doubt he'll be cowed by the law. If someone's on his land, his thinking'll be that he's entitled to do what he wants with them. And most likely, that'll mean -”

She snips another bud, letting the head drop to the floor.

“Quite,” I mutter, thinking back to the sight of those two awful, pale girls who were talking to Katie earlier. For a moment, I find myself contemplating the possibility that they might have been involved in whatever happened to Joe O'Brien's sheep, and maybe even the awful incident at the church too. “Milly,” I continue finally, with a heavy heart, “I'm afraid I popped by today with an ulterior motive. Does your grandson still live with you?”

“Dylan?” She turns to me. “Of course. He's inside right now.”

“Do you think I might speak to him?” I ask. “I'm afraid I need him to help me do something rather terrible.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Signals on the Wire

“This is probably illegal,” Dylan points out, typing at his laptop's keyboard for a moment longer before turning to me. “It probably counts as, like, wiretapping or something like that.”

“Nonsense,” I mutter, watching as he starts dragging files from one window to another on the screen. “I've never heard such nonsense. She's my daughter. It's not illegal for one to keep one's daughter safe.”

“It might be if she doesn't like it. And if she doesn't know about it.”

“But it'll work, will it?”

He waits a moment, before removing the USB key from the side of the machine and handing it to me.

“You didn't get it from me,” he explains, “but yeah, it'll work. Whatever program she uses to make calls from her computer, this'll relay a copy in real-time to
your
computer and it'll automatically record the whole thing as well. All you have to do is plug that USB drive into her laptop, and it'll install itself. You'll need to leave it plugged-in for about five minutes, but it won't leave any trace once it's running. I mean, someone from the NSA could find it, but your average user won't have a clue that the calls are being monitored. It's just a standard tool I downloaded a while back from an onion site.”

I pause for a moment, staring at the little drive and trying to work out whether I can really do this. I know I'll be invading Katie's privacy, but I just want to be absolutely certain that she's not doing anything untoward on her computer. I have to keep her safe.

“Is Katie into something weird?” he asks suddenly. “I know about the stuff that happened to her in London, but... Well, I mean, I don't know her
that
well, but she always seems pretty cool. It's hard to believe she'd be up to anything.”

“What about the CCTV camera?” I ask, preferring to stick to the subject. “The one outside the bank. It covers part of the cemetery. Is there any way for you to access the footage from last night?”

He shakes his head. “No chance. That's not my area, I don't do cameras.”

“And you don't know anyone who could help?”

“I'm not even gonna begin to try hacking into a bank's security camera,” he tells me. “Sorry, but that's a step too far. I've given you that nasty little spy program, but you should think twice before you stick it on her machine. I know that if
I
found out someone had done that to me, I'd be fuming. It's not really very cool, Mrs. Wren, but at the same time I get it. You're worried, and you've gotta do what you've gotta do.”

“Absolutely,” I reply, still staring at the little drive. “Katie's my daughter. There's nothing I won't do to keep her safe.”

***

“I'm tired,” Katie says as she shuffles past me. “I think I'm going to bed.”

“Already?” I check my watch and see that it's only a few minutes after 7pm. I'm still on my first glass of wine for the evening and the bag of crisps is untouched. “Are you sure you don't want to keep your poor old mother company for a little while? Don't you remember how we used to enjoy watching some of the crime shows? You can have a glass with me, if you like.”

Ignoring me, she makes her way to the stairs. It's as if my voice just drifted past her unnoticed.

“Maybe we could try spending a little more time together?” I ask, even though I know I sound rather desperate. “You don't really want to stay cooped up in your room all alone, do you? It seems rather silly for you to be up there and me to be down here, when we could be enjoying one another's company instead. Don't you think so?”

She mutters something under her breath, although I can't make out the words. Still, it's clear she's not interested in what I'm saying, and I watch as she heads slowly up to the landing. Finally she disappears from view and I wait, listening to her footsteps until I hear her bedroom door swing shut.

I hesitate for a moment, before grabbing my laptop and opening the lid.

Thirty seconds later, an icon starts flashing on the desktop, and I realize that Dylan's program has detected a call being made from Katie's computer. A few seconds after that, I realize I can just about hear her muffled voice from upstairs. I lean forward, ready to open the program that'll allow me to eavesdrop, but at the last moment I hold back as I realize that this is wrong. Finally, I close the laptop's lid.

I can't do this.

I'm not the snooping type.

I sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the sound of Katie talking to someone upstairs. I desperately want to know who's on the other end of the line, and what they're saying, but I know I have to trust my daughter. Despite everything she's been through, she's still the same girl I raised, and I feel certain that she wouldn't allow herself to become involved in anything untoward. She's home, that's what matters. She's home with me and nothing bad can happen to her again.

I have to trust her.

***

The first siren stirs me, but it's only with the second that I sit up on the sofa and realize that I must have nodded off during
Question Time
. I look over at the window, just in time to see a third set of flashing blue lights racing past the house.

“What in the name of...”

Getting to my feet, I wince a little as I feel my tired bones clicking together. It's almost midnight, and I certainly don't feel like a spring chicken as I reach the window and pull the net curtains aside. At that moment, an ambulance shoots past the house, bathing the town in a flashing blue light and illuminating the faces of several of my neighbors as they stare out at the commotion.

I don't want to appear nosy, but I'm still fully dressed so I head to the front door and pull it open, stepping out onto the pavement just as the flashing lights disappear around the corner next to the pub.

“What's going on?” I ask, turning and seeing that more and more people are coming out of their houses. The whole town seems to have been woken.

“There were gunshots,” Else Carey explains, her eyes wide with shock. “I think they came from up near Highbeam Farm.”

“That's Joe O'Brien's place,” her husband points out. “He was having trouble last night.”

“I saw three police cars,” Else continues. “They don't send three out unless something serious has happened.”

Before I can reply, I hear more sirens heading this way, and a second ambulance speeds past at full whack.

“I hope he hasn't done anything stupid,” Tom Malone mutters, having emerged from the house next to mine. “Old Joe can be trigger-happy when he's got the spirit in him. He was ranting in the pub tonight about people killing his sheep, and he'd had a few by the time he left. We tried to stop him, but he wasn't having any of it. The man can be a bloody fool when he feels like it.”

“He's shot someone!” a voice calls out suddenly.

Turning, I see Holly Barnes coming out of her house.

“I just spoke to Jane,” she continues, “and she said Joe caught some people out messing with his sheep again. He shot two of them, and the other one made off on foot while he was reloading. She says it's an awful mess up there, there's police all over the place and Joe's swearing he didn't do anything wrong. You know what he's like. He reckons if they were on his land, they were fair game. I don't think the police are gonna see it that way.”

Feeling a rumbling sense of panic in the pit of my stomach, I try to tell myself that I mustn't jump to conclusions. Still, as the others continue to drill Holly for information, I turn and hurry back into the house. I'm quite certain that Katie would never allow herself to get mixed up in anything bad, but at the same time I have to go up to her room and check that she's okay. Just as I reach the bottom of the stairs, however, I hear a faint bumping sound coming from the dark kitchen, and I turn to look over at the doorway.

A moment later, I realize I can just about make out a figure in the darkness. I watch in horror as the figure comes closer, and finally Katie steps into the light. Her eyes are dark and fixed on me, and there's mud smeared on the hem of her night-shirt. There's something else on her hands, too.

Blood.

For a moment, she simply stares at me, with her mouth hanging open slightly. She seems strangely slouched, with curved shoulders, as if she's on the verge of collapse and is only being held up by a set of strings. After a few seconds, however, she starts shuffling toward me, heading toward the stairs.

“Where have you been?” I ask, unable to hide the fear in my voice.

She mumbles something, but her voice is barely audible.

“Where have you been?”

This time I place a hand on her bare arm, and I'm shocked to feel that her flesh is ice-cold. She immediately stops and turns to me, and I can't help noticing that her eyes seem slightly bloodshot.

“Katie,” I continue, trying to stay calm, “have you been outside? It's 3am!”

Looking down at her mud-caked feet, I realize the question is already answered.

“Where were you?” I ask. “Katie, please tell me you weren't...”

My voice trails off. I can scarcely bring myself to say the words.

She whispers something, but again I can't quite hear her properly.

“Katie,” I say firmly, “I need to know where you've been tonight. Something has happened up at Highbeam Farm, something rather dreadful, and I need you to tell me that you weren't there and that it's nothing to do with you. That's all I need. Just tell me you weren't there, and everything will be alright.”

“I wasn't there,” she whispers, “and it's nothing to do with me.”

I stare at her, but her eyes seem rather glazed, almost as if she's in some kind of daze.

After a moment, she turns and starts shuffling up the stairs, leaving muddy foot-prints on the pale cream carpet.

“Katie, what have you been doing tonight?” I ask. “Katie, I need you to talk to me! I thought you were going to bed earlier, but evidently you crept out of the house after I fell asleep. Katie, come back down this instant! This is important!”

Ignoring me, she shuffles around the corner and out of view.

“Katie!” I shout. “I am your mother and I demand that you talk to me!”

No reply.

Starting to feel desperate, I hurry up the stairs, reaching the landing just as her bedroom door swings shut. I make my way over and knock, but I already know there'll be no reply. Reaching down, I turn the handle and push the door open, and I'm immediately struck by an overpowering rotten stench that seems to fill her room. I step forward into the darkness, and it takes a few seconds before my eyes adjust to the lack of light. Katie is slowly climbing into bed, moving lethargically and a little stiffly, and she's already slipped out of her muddy night-shirt. I watch as she pulls the sheets over her naked body.

Before I can ask if she's okay, I spot several dark objects on the floor by the window. I step closer, only to see that there are half a dozen dead crows on the carpet, each with their chests seemingly ripped out. Their beady eyes are wide open, and -

Suddenly there's a banging sound at the window, and I see another crow furiously flapping as if it's trying to get inside.

“What in God's name is going on in here?” I ask, turning to see that Katie has rolled over in bed and now has her bare back toward me. “Katie, why are these birds on your floor?”

She mumbles something, but I can't make out the words.

“This is intolerable,” I stammer, heading to the door and fumbling for a moment before I find the light-switch. As soon as I've flicked it on, I turn and look back across the room, although I immediately let out a gasp as I see that there are more dead crows all around the bed.

And on the far wall, Katie has used their blood to paint several large symbols. They're the same symbols I saw in her apartment back in London, and one of them is the same as the graffiti that was daubed all over the church's door.

Katie is still on the bed, still on her side, although she's whispering quietly to herself and she looks to be shivering slightly under the thin sheets.

“Katie?” I say cautiously, trying to stay calm. “What's happening in here, Katie? Are you -”

Suddenly she sits up and turns to me. The sheets fall down, revealing her bare chest with thick wounds carved into her flesh. Some of the wounds look old and scarred, while others are fresh. Beads of blood are dribbling down onto her navel, and in several spots the bed-sheets are stained red.

“What happened to you?” I ask. “Katie -”

“I don't know,” she says firmly.

“Katie, please -”

“I don't know,” she says again, staring at me with a calm expression. “I don't know.”

I hesitate, fighting the urge to run from the house and call the police. Finally I step closer, unable to stop staring at the wounds that cover her chest. After a moment, I start to see patterns, as if she's been trying to carve symbols into herself.

“I don't know,” she stammers. “I don't... I don't know.”

“
What
don't you know?” I ask. “Katie, you've said those words over and over, but I don't know what they mean. What is it that you don't know?”