The Invisible Code (18 page)

‘He has nothing to do with this.’

‘You know what? If I had a problem and needed someone to help me out, he’s the sort of man I would have picked to confide in. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, before you heard it from anyone else. Someone attacked him yesterday.’

‘Is he injured?’

‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’

Sabira said nothing. For a moment Longbright thought she had failed to understand. Finally she looked up at the detective sergeant and said, ‘His killer is outside the window right now.’ The casualness of her tone was chilling.

Longbright looked out, but the garden was veiled in rain.

‘It’s the same man who was there last night. Can’t you see him?’ Her voice began to rise. ‘He’s right there, you must be able to see.’ And then she was yelling in a thin, high voice, ‘He’s there! Right in front of you! He’s there!’

Longbright ran to the French windows and unbolted them, running out into the downpour, but there was no
one in sight. The rain had beaded on the grass, giving it a silvered sheen that held no other footprints but her own. She searched inside the bushes and under the trees, but it was clear no one had been standing there. She headed back to the house, soaked.

Sabira had turned away from her, expecting failure. ‘I knew he’d vanish before you got there. You must go now,’ she said. ‘Go and never come back.’

‘Sabira, if there’s anything I can do—’

‘Just go. You can see how mad I am. Even I don’t know what I’m saying any more. Go fast. It is safer for you.’

There was no point in remaining any longer. Longbright slipped her business card into Sabira’s hand. ‘This has my home contact details on the back. Please use them at any time.’

She said goodbye and went to speak to Amelia Medway, the centre’s senior nurse.

‘It may be more than just mental exhaustion,’ Medway told her. ‘Sabira is free to come and go as she pleases, but she’s exhibiting quite serious symptoms, and may require more specialized health care. We’re not a psychiatric unit, Miss Longbright. We’re not secure, and don’t provide long-term pharmacological solutions.’

‘How long do you think she’ll be here?’

‘Certainly until Monday, when she’ll be assessed by a King’s College psychiatrist who’ll decide the next step. If he thinks there’s a genuine risk of self-endangerment, he’ll refer her to the private ward of the Bethlem Royal Hospital in Bromley. She’ll be well cared for there. If he thinks she’s out of danger he may allow her to return home, providing she remains under local supervision.’

‘There’s one last thing,’ Longbright said. ‘I know your concern is for Sabira’s mental wellbeing, but we need to make sure that she’s not physically at risk from anyone else.’

‘The doors of the centre are locked at night, but we’re
not legally allowed to restrict her movements. If she wants to go out, we have no way of stopping her.’

‘Then perhaps you could keep me informed of her whereabouts.’ Longbright gave her a card with the unit’s number, and then took her leave.

Lucy Mansfield’s school was just off England’s Lane in Belsize Park. It was privately run and so smart that it looked like an upmarket restaurant from outside. It was popular with executive couples, who placed their children’s names on its waiting list years in advance.

Longbright caught up with Lucy’s father by the main gates. The girl who came running up was slightly built and small for her years, but clearly filled with confidence and energy. Lucy had reached the age when she had just discovered the power of her opinions, and was already used to being heard.

They went to the Caffè Nero on Haverstock Hill. Andrew Mansfield bought his daughter low-calorie chocolate cake and explained why Longbright was here.

‘I was playing with Tom,’ Lucy explained between greedy mouthfuls. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a real game, with a rulebook and everything. It’s called
Witch Hunter
and you have to ride across the countryside and find witches to kill.’

‘She used to play the game with her brothers,’ Andrew explained. ‘It’s an RPG. We vetted it, of course. My wife doesn’t approve, but I don’t see the harm in it. It’s historically accurate, rather like those books, the
Horrible Histories
, so the kids learn about the English Civil War. I didn’t know you still played it, darling.’

‘I don’t, but Tom had the cards on him, and we were waiting for you and Tom’s dad so we played.’

‘How do you play the game?’ asked Longbright.

‘You pick if you’re going to be a witch or a hunter. Hunters ride to a town in a place called Suffork and listen to accusations from the villagers, and then they find the
person who’s a witch. It doesn’t have to be Suffork. It can be wherever you like.’

‘How do players know who’s a witch?’

‘There are lots of questions you have to ask, but you can tell ’cause of the way they look. We couldn’t ask a lot of the player questions because we didn’t have a witch, because Tom wanted to be a witch hunter as well as me.’

‘So you found someone you thought was a witch? Why did you pick her?’

‘Because she was pretty and witches can change their skin, and she was reading a book about eating babies.’

Longbright remembered that a bookmarked paperback of Ira Levin’s
Rosemary’s Baby
had been found in Amy O’Connor’s handbag. ‘Then what did you do?’ she asked.

‘We pretended to be playing ball so we could get up very close, and I had a good look at her, but I still couldn’t tell if she was a witch. And then we killed her. Can I go now?’

Longbright frowned. Lucy had deliberately skipped the part she needed to hear. ‘Why would you kill her if you couldn’t tell whether she was a witch?’

‘I talked to Tom and he thought she was.’

‘How did you kill her?’

‘We put a curse on her.’

‘How do you do that? Did you talk to her?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘No. We did this.’ She rubbed her fingers together. ‘And we said the thing on the card called an incant … an incant—’

‘An incantation.’

‘Yes, but I can’t remember what it was. Tom has the cards.’

‘I think you did talk to her, Lucy,’ said Longbright.

‘No – she just told us off. That’s not talking, is it? Ask Tom, he’ll tell you about her.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘She got up from the seat, put her sandwich box in the
bin and went into the church. And then me and Tom went back into the office.’

‘All right, what about yesterday, when you went to Coram’s Fields? Why were you in the park?’

‘I was bored of waiting. Dad was being a grump and wanted to look at the books on the stall, so I walked away.’

Longbright addressed Lucy’s father. ‘Had you taken your daughter to Coram’s Fields before?’

‘No. I knew there was a garden square opposite but I only had a vague idea there was a children’s park there.’

‘Lucy, how did you find the park?’

‘I crossed the road and there it was.’

‘Have you seen it before?’

‘I can see it when we drive to Waitrose. We never have time to stop.’

‘There’s a camera by the road that photographed you with a man. Who was he? How did you come to meet him?’

Lucy thought for a moment, but there was something too pantomimic about her performance. A finger on the chin, a roll of the eye. ‘Oh, I remember now. He asked me where the farmers’ market was so I told him.’

‘Are you sure? How did he get into the park?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Because the camera shows the two of you entering through the gates at the same time.’

‘He must have been walking close to me or something.’

‘And that’s all that happened? He didn’t say anything else to you?’

‘No. He asked me the way and I told him.’

‘Why would he think you knew the way?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘I heard Dad calling and ran back to the road, but I had
to go all the way around because there’s no gate on that bit.’

‘Did you see what happened to the man?’

‘No. Daddy, we have to go now or I’ll be late for the optician.’

She’s lying by omission
, thought Longbright.
She spoke to Waters, but maybe he told her not to tell anyone. She might even know why he was killed. Something else must have happened at St Bride’s when the children were putting a curse on Amy O’Connor
.

Lucy glanced back at her with wide innocent eyes, then picked up her pink rucksack and got up from her seat. ‘Daddy, come on,’ she commanded.

All right
, Longbright thought,
we’ll see what your playmate Tom has to say
. She checked the number for Tom’s mother, Jennifer Penry, and called her. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed him,’ said Mrs Penry. ‘Tom’s with his grandparents.’

‘Do you have a number for them?’ Longbright asked. ‘It’s important that I speak with Tom.’

‘I’m afraid not. At the beginning of the week they flew to Bodrum and boarded a gulet – one of those traditional Turkish boats? They’re going along the coast and will be returning from Göcek, I’m not sure when. My in-laws fancy themselves as free spirits. All very annoying. I don’t suppose there’s any way of contacting them until they stop in Rhodes, and I’m not sure when that is.’

‘Don’t you have a number for Tom’s grandparents?’

‘They don’t use mobiles. I thought we had one for the skipper but it doesn’t seem to work.’

That’s convenient
, thought Longbright before checking herself.
Now you’re starting to get paranoid as well. Maybe it’s catching
.

‘What about the travel company who arranged the trip?’

‘I have no idea who they used. You’d have to ask them.’

‘But I can’t do that.’

‘They may call in at some point. If they do, I’ll get a contact number for them.’

As Longbright headed back towards Belsize Park Tube station, she found herself checking the glistening pavement behind her.

19

METHOD IN MADNESS

ARTHUR BRYANT STEPPED
into the narthex of the baroque Wren church and slowly made his way up the nave towards the altar.

It was early on Saturday morning and the place was empty. Sunlight shone through the modern design of the stained glass, dividing the marble floor into patterns as richly coloured as Tetris blocks.

Bryant consulted the church pamphlet and read:

In 1375 Edward III issued a writ in the Tower of London confirming the Charter of the Guild of St Bride. Its first purpose was to maintain a light to burn before the statue of St Brigide the Virgin. The Guild continued until 1545, when it was swept away by Henry VIII.

He folded out another section.

St Bride’s is known as ‘the cathedral of Fleet Street’. After its devastation in the Blitz the parish rose again, as it had so many times before. Little of importance
that has happened in England’s story has not been echoed here in St Bride’s. From Celts and Romans to Angles, Saxons and Normans, the church has acted as a parish pump to the world.

As the journalists’ church, it facilitated the spread of information. Was that why Amy O’Connor had chosen it, to make a point?

It was certainly not her local parish. O’Connor had lived in Spitalfields. Before that she had resided in Wiltshire from the age of seven. Banbury had been up to her apartment, but the City of London officers had already conducted a search and submitted a report, and he had not uncovered anything new.

Bryant eased himself on to a wooden chair and looked up at the great stained-glass window. The entire ground floor of the church had been searched inch by inch. If O’Connor’s death had been planned somehow, why did it occur here? O’Connor’s family might have originally come from Ireland but they were Protestant, not Catholic. Amy may have visited St Bride’s before the day of her death, but no one recalled seeing her. The question rose again: Why this particular church?
A parish pump to the world
. A message of some kind?

There was an answer drifting like a raincloud at the back of his brain, but every time he tried to focus on it the damned thing dissipated.
The perils of age
, he thought bitterly,
you have to think twice as hard as you did when you were younger, and it will just keep getting worse unless you force yourself to make connections. Everything is connected. Step back and see how it all fits
.