Dreams of Origami (6 page)

Lacey follows them in, to Fletcher’s obvious annoyance.
I was here first,
she thinks,
and you know you can’t order me to leave.
Besides, she wouldn’t feel comfortable going over to the schoolhouse while the police were hanging about. She needs to speak with Triss in private. So, with the four of them cramped into the living room of the tiny cottage, Sergeant West takes notes while Inspector Fletcher quizzes Drew on what he knows of the Caxtons and what happened on Tuesday. It isn’t much, and nothing that Lacey hasn’t heard already.

They are outside by the van again. Lacey looks up at the weather vane on the schoolhouse. It judders and swings in the wind. Sudden gusts whip along the roadway, making miniature whirlwinds from the dirt. There’s dust everywhere here; it blows off the fields, the dry topsoil constantly rising and shifting, paying no respect to houses and cars, but covering everything with the same fine, grey veil.

After thanking Drew for his co-operation and bidding Lacey a good day, the two detectives had headed straight over to Mr Abercrombie’s place. They’d disappeared around the back several minutes ago, so must have had some success following Drew’s advice.

‘Right,’ says Drew, ‘I’d better go and get some work done.’

‘Mind if I hang on here until Noddy and Big Ears have gone? I do want to see Triss again this afternoon, and I’d rather they didn’t see me going over there.’

‘Sure. Drop the door catch when you leave.’

‘Burrows, hello there!’ Bill Henderson’s front door is open and he is crossing the road in the nearest he can manage to a run. ‘Them men that were here a moment ago, were they police?’

‘Yes, how did you guess?’

‘Spot one a mile off, ‘specially the plain-clothes sort. I was hoping to have a quick word with them.’

‘Well, they shouldn’t be long. They’re trying to interview old Mr Abercrombie.’ The two men exchange a grin.

Lacey’s ears prick up. ‘You’re Mr Henderson, aren’t you? Your son runs the farm at the end of the lane. I expect you’ll want to talk to them about the disappearance?’ She feels Drew nudge her, the nearest he can manage to a kick on the shins. Well, it’s his own fault for dating a reporter.

‘Told them everythin’ I knew yesterday, which didn’t ‘mount to nothing at all,’ says Bill. ‘No, it’s something else, as if that’s not enough.’ He looks directly at Drew. ‘It seems we’ve got them vandals again. Bloody idiots.’

‘Why, what’s happened?’

‘Damn crop circles. ‘Scuse my language, Miss, but we’re sick to the back teeth of it. Every dammed summer’s the same. You’d think they’d have gotten tired of it by now.’

‘You mean you’ve got one?’ Lacey is halfway to her car, about to find her camera. On second thoughts, it won’t run away. Better to get a photographer around. She scrambles in her bag for her cellphone.

‘Hold it.’ Drew stops her, takes her firmly by the shoulders and turns her in his direction. Bending down, he brings his face level with hers. ‘Now, pay attention. Listen carefully and watch my lips. There will be no publicity. We do not do crop circles in Covington. Got it?’

‘But—’

‘I’m sorry, Bill. You’re probably not aware that my girlfriend here works for the
Fenland Herald.’

‘Oh, Christ, that’s all we bloody need.’ Bill removes his flat cap and wipes his hand over his balding head.

‘I don’t understand.’ Lacey is looking from one to the other.

‘All right, I’d better explain. They get crop circles here every summer. They’re so common, they’re boring. There’s an agreement among the locals and the police that we all keep quiet about it.’

‘But why?’

‘Well, why do you think? That’s what they do it for. The publicity. It’s a perverse way of getting attention by remaining anonymous. They go out in the middle of the night and destroy hundreds of pounds’ worth of unharvested grain. Then they hide behind the hedge, laughing while reporters and psychics and UFO freaks trample all over the place causing even more damage.’

‘Wanton destruction of private property,’ Bill cuts in. ‘Pure vandalism, that’s what it is.’

‘So…the farmers report it to the police, and then everybody shuts up about it.’

‘Yes, but why would people–;’

‘Because they’re brainless idiots who’ve got nothing better to do.’

‘But–’

‘No.’

It’s late in the afternoon when Lacey gets back to the
Herald
office. As is usual for this time of day, the reporters’ room is almost deserted. Jack’s still here, of course.
I wonder if he ever sees his wife,
thinks Lacey. Maybe that’s why his marriage has lasted so long. He looks up as Lacey comes in. ‘Any news of that Caxton chap?’

‘No, nothing. I’ve just come from there, been talking with his wife again.’ Lacey throws her bag on the desk and drops into her chair. ‘She was sitting at the kitchen table painting birds. You know, little porcelain figurines, they sell them in very expensive department stores. It earns her a few extra quid, and she also does the bookwork for her husband’s business.’

‘Is that right?’ Jack is in automatic response mode, his attention focused on something he’s reading.

‘You know, people never cease to amaze me.’ Lacey carries on talking to the back of Jack’s head. ‘Customers are still ringing her up to ask about their furniture. Perhaps they don’t read the papers. Or perhaps it’s morbid curiosity. It’s been two whole days now. That woman’s holding on by her fingernails. Not helped by Detective Inspector Fletcher being on the case. She said she had to tell him about the baby and her depression. She said it seemed to change the way they behaved towards her. I bet it did. I can’t imagine old Fletcher having any sympathy for a grieving mother. And with one death in the family already–’

Jack swings around in his chair and looks at her over the rim of his glasses. ‘So, what did you talk about?’

‘Usual stuff.’ Lacey shrugs her shoulders. ‘What she’s thinking, how she’s coping. What the police are saying.’

‘And what are they saying?’

‘Not much. Apparently, they wanted to know if anyone had been seen hanging about, any strangers, awkward customers. Did Matthew have any enemies? Routine sort of questions. While I was there, another police car pulled up outside, a woman officer this time. She said there’d been no change. Said she wanted to have a chat. In private. I had no option but to leave.’

Jack gets up from his chair and comes over to perch on the edge of her desk. ‘Look, Lacey, I’m sorry about this. I just wasn’t thinking yesterday. I should never have asked you to cover this story. You know, it’s OK if you want to drop it. I can always get someone else to deal with it. I’m sure quite a few people around here owe you a favour.’

For a moment she looks at her hands, still wearing the plain, gold ring. Then she brightens, looking up at Jack. ‘No. No way am I going to let go of this one. In fact, I have an idea.’ She scoops up her hair into a knot while she explains about Audrey Stanton and the weird things that Drew reckons go on in the Fens.

Jack thinks it might be a good idea. ‘Not exactly new, you know—it’s all been done before. Still, with this chap missing…Mind you,
this story’s already been passed on to the national papers and there’s been no interest. People who don’t know the Fens are not impressed. Still, a feature might go down well locally; it might even get some follow-up interaction in the letters page. OK, go ahead with it, if it’s really what you want to do.’

‘Yes, it is. Thanks, Jack.’

He goes back to his own desk and the page he was reading, then looks up as if something is going through his mind. ‘This Stanton woman. Some sort of historian, you reckon?’

‘So Drew says.’

‘Yes, that’s good. But how about another angle as well? What say we get a psychic involved?’

‘A what? You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘Not at all. They’re flavour of the month right now. All those programmes on TV.’

‘And where are we going to get a psychic from?’

‘There’s that writer chap, Gideon Wakefield.’

‘Wakefield? That’s him! He was at that lecture the other night—I’ve been trying to remember his name.’

‘What does he call himself? A parapsychologist? I’ll give him a ring and see if I can persuade him to co-operate. See what you can dig up about him, background stuff. I know he’s quite respected in certain circles, so he can’t be a complete nutter.’

Lacey spends what little is left of the afternoon at the computer, trying to get some background on Gideon Wakefield. Jack has managed to contact him and, to Lacey’s amazement, he’s agreed to meet with her this evening. There’s quite a lot of information on him. She prints it out, intending to read up on him over a quick bite to eat at The Eagle. She stuffs the printout into her bag and is about to close the computer down when, as an afterthought, she types in
Crop Circles Cambridgeshire
and clicks on the search button.

People differ greatly in their attitudes towards the paranormal. The devout believer and the aggressive sceptic often have much in common, in that their attitudes are formed by social and emotional causes and have little to do with intellectual consideration. The open-minded inquirer, on the other hand, has no particular axe to grind and is willing to consider the evidence on its own merits. The problem is that, as yet, I have been unable to find anyone without an emotional and social background and a personal and cultural history.

Parapsychological research aims to operate somewhere in this open-minded middle ground. It is an ideal with which, in principle, I am in full agreement. The problem is that, as science has now conceded, the experimenter, by his very involvement or mere interest, becomes an additional factor in an experiment and so would influence the outcome.

There is, therefore, no such thing as the impartial, objective observer.

Extract from
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield

I
T IS APPROACHING SEVEN O’CLOCK
in the evening and Gideon is feeling annoyed with himself. He received a call earlier from the chief
reporter of the
Herald,
something about Fenland history and strange phenomena and how people are affected by the atmosphere. He can certainly do without that kind of sensationalist nonsense, and so his first impulse was to hang up. But somehow a memory of Cassandra slipped between him and the voice at the other end of the line.
A man will ask it as a favour,
she had said.
I know you are impatient with people sometimes, but, Gideon, this is too important.
So he found himself agreeing to assist with a newspaper feature, something totally against his personal policy. Now he is waiting for someone named Prentice to call on him. As soon as he put the telephone down, he wondered what the hell he had let himself in for. Press interviews are one of life’s minefields. No matter how painstakingly he prepares his material, no matter how comprehensively he explains his subject, they always manage to twist his words into something unrecognizable. He’ll make every effort to get rid of them as quickly as possible.

He goes out onto the balcony, hoping to catch sight of a stranger coming up to the main door of the building. The summer sun is still high above the horizon, burnishing the river. It is that restful time of the day between the frantic commercial rush and the evening pursuit of pleasure. A few people are walking along the riverbank, couples hand in hand, a man exercising his dog. Over on Jesus Green a game of cricket is in progress, a local friendly match with spectators spreading blankets on the grass and opening picnic baskets. Gideon loves this city. Cambridge is where he grew up; the university gave him his education, this building grants him a haven whenever he has tired of travelling. It is a city of narrow, overcrowded streets and graceful buildings, cut through by swathes of open grassland where people cross from one busy place to another; green spaces where students lie on their backs in the sun to study a book, or gather in groups to reshape the world with their rhetoric. A city of contrasts, ancient and modern, town and gown. A place to come home to.

When the doorbell rings he is startled. He hadn’t noticed anyone approach, but then his gaze had wandered over to the river as it usually does. He hurries through to the hallway. As he opens the door, an image flashes on his inner eye: a white horse, long-legged and prancing,
tail flying in the wind. He gasps. But no, it’s a woman, that’s all. She’s wearing a cream suit—almost white—with a short skirt, and her legs are long in her high-heeled shoes. She turns towards him, and her hair, caught up in a high tail, swings around over her shoulder. He can almost feel Cassandra behind him.
There, you see, I was right.
For a moment, he cannot catch his breath. He steps back and the woman enters.

‘Mr Wakefield? I’m Lacey Prentice, the
Fenland Herald.’
She flashes her identity card, but he doesn’t look at it. ‘It’s good of you to agree to see me. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time, I’m sure you’re very busy.’

‘Yes, that’s right. I mean…I’m sorry, please come through. Can I offer you something? Some tea? Perhaps a glass of wine? Do take a seat.’

She moves to the sofa, crossing her legs as she sits down, and looks around the room. He can imagine the trained reporter’s eye taking in the antique furnishings, Persian rugs, and paintings. Would she know they are originals, recognize the artists? Probably not. She seems one of those ‘I know what I like’ people, although he senses she is bright and intelligent, and yes, there is something graceful about her like a young horse; a free creature, filled with the energy of living. He has recovered from the first shock of seeing her overlaid with the vision, and now his intuition kicks in. He senses that there is more to this interview than interest. This woman is deeply troubled.

‘You’re covering the Matthew Caxton story, aren’t you? Is that what you’ve come about?’

‘Yes, that’s right. How did you know? Of course, yes, you’re a psychic.’

‘Yes, I am—but it wouldn’t take a great leap of logic to figure that one out. I did read last night’s paper.’

‘Look, I was going to tell you. And I do genuinely intend to write a feature about the supernatural—you know, strange happenings in the Fens. But yes, that’s how I got the idea in the first place, from the missing-person story. You see, the whole thing sounds odd. I’ve spent a long time talking with his wife, and I think there’s more to it than him
just clearing off, although that’s what everyone else seems to think.’

‘And what do
you
think?’ Yes, he senses she is worried about this, far more than can be accounted for by a professional concern. And behind that, something deeper still—a great sadness.
Please, for my sake, do not dismiss her.

All right, Cassandra, I hear you.
He sits down in an armchair opposite Lacey. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me what you know.’

Lacey starts at the beginning, with the police handover and the missing-persons report. When she tells him about Triss and the baby, her eyes swim with tears. His impulse is to offer comfort, but he knows he must allow her to talk. As she tells the story, his mind is filled with the image of Cassandra’s hands folding a white paper lotus.

‘And who is Drew?’ As he asks, he pictures a big man with a mop of curly hair. He thinks of him as a rock or an anchor. Lacey explains about their relationship, how he came to her house to fit a stained-glass window and how they ended up going to a football match together. Gideon sees the softness in her eyes when she speaks his name and senses the warmth between them. But there is also a sadness keeping them apart, like a dark cloud that hovers between them. He listens and nods.
All in good time,
he thinks.

But the mention of Drew takes the conversation around to the weather vane and the bell that move on their own, although it’s probably something wrong with the tilt of the roof. And Audrey Stanton and Bill Henderson and his crop circles. ‘But for God’s sake don’t tell anyone,’ she laughs, ‘or I’ll never get another story out of the farming community.’ She remains quiet for a moment. The balcony doors are open, and they can hear sounds of passing cars from the street and, from across the river, a round of applause as the batsman scores another run. ‘So, what do you think?’ she asks.

‘I did offer you a glass of wine, didn’t I? Look, I’ve been working indoors most of the day and we’re missing a lovely evening. It’s even quite warm for a change. I wouldn’t mind a walk over to the pub—if you’re free, that is. Though you might have something else planned.’

‘No, no other plans. A walk sounds good.’

They take the iron bridge over the weir, and then the river path to the Fort St George. The place is overfull, as it usually is at this time of year, mostly tourists and language students. A small outside table is being vacated, and Lacey quickly stakes a claim while Gideon fights his way to the bar. ‘I might be some time,’ he says, which turns out to be a true prediction. This gives Lacey a few minutes to think about what she’s got herself into, although she’s quite relieved as, according to what she found on the internet, Gideon Wakefield doesn’t usually give press interviews and certainly doesn’t invite reporters out for a drink. In fact, when she first arrived he looked surprised to see her, flustered even, and, although Jack had assured her that Gideon had agreed to be interviewed, she had expected to be thrown out after five minutes. She pulls the elastic band from her hair and shakes it loose. As they made their way along the river he had asked more questions about Gainsborough Street and then about her job. In fact, so far he’d asked all the questions and she’d done all the talking. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work at all.

She sees him struggling through the crowded bar, heading back towards their table. She had asked for a red wine and he is carrying a bottle and two glasses. ‘It’ll save time,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to fight my way through that lot again.’ It’s a good label, too.

‘By the way, we saw you on Tuesday evening,’ Lacey says as he sits down. ‘You were at that talk, sitting at the other end of our row.’

‘Ah, yes, the Swami.’ He opens the bottle and fills the glasses. ‘Did you find it interesting? I hope this is all right; quite fruity, not too dry.’

Lacey takes a sip. ‘Mmm, excellent. It was organized by the Parapsychology Forum, wasn’t it? I expect you’re a member? Can anyone join or is it exclusive to the university?’

‘No, I’m not an actual member, sort of affiliated. And yes, it’s open to anyone, although it attracts mainly university people. I joined when I was up at Cambridge, then left when I went overseas. Since coming back, some of the longer-standing members have approached
me. They’re trying to encourage me to renew my interest. Hence I get invited to things like Tuesday evening, even though it was a public meeting.’

‘I see. I must say I was surprised to find so many academic bigwigs attending an event like that. It seemed too far-out and freaky for intellectuals.’

‘Not at all. I assume you’ve not heard of the Koestler Parapsychology Unit? It’s part of the Psychology Department of the University of Edinburgh, and has its own chair. Some American universities have set up their own research units, too. As you say, a little controversial for Cambridge, perhaps, but there’s a lot of interest among the students and several of the Forum committee are members of the university faculty.’

‘Really? So exactly what do they mean by “parapsychology”? And what is a psychic, what do you do? What’s the difference?’

‘Oh, heavens, those are rather broad questions.’ Gideon laughs. ‘If I answered fully we could be here all night. Right, to put it very, very simply, a parapsychologist is a scientist or scholar who is seriously interested in psychic experiences. That might mean telepathy, clairvoyance, precognition—a whole range of mind-matter interaction.’

‘What about UFOs and ghosts?’

‘Ghosts, yes, and UFOs. Anything that is potentially measurable or verifiable.’

‘What are they hoping to find?’

‘It may be that what science knows about the nature of the universe is incomplete.’ He picks up a flier from the table, an A5 sheet advertising a forthcoming drama at the Mumford. ‘We certainly don’t know enough about the relationship between the mind and the body. They might, in fact, be two separate and independently functioning items. Perhaps humans are capable of much more than we have assumed so far. And historically what have been called miracles may simply be the application of a different set of rules.’

‘But you call yourself a psychic. So, where do you come in?’

‘Well, you might say I am one of the phenomena they study.’ His
eyes are focused on the paper in which he is making a complex series of folds.

‘But you also call yourself a parapsychologist, don’t you? Surely you can’t be both?’

‘I confess I’m a bit of an anomaly. I practise psychism, yes, but in my writings and research I try to maintain a degree of objectivity. And I emphasize facts and look at the evidence. At least, as far as possible, and some of the time I confess it isn’t. That’s why I became disillusioned with the so-called scientific researchers.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, take the whole issue of survival after death, which is one of the main areas of investigation. There’s no way anyone can maintain objectivity, it’s just not possible. Sooner or later, everyone dies. Try finding a researcher who doesn’t have a personal interest in their own mortality.’

‘That’s true.’ Lacey speaks quietly. Something in her voice alerts Gideon to that dark shadow he felt earlier.

‘But in some respects,’ he continues, ‘it was more the ethical implications that concerned me. For instance, there’s the whole problem of the academic researcher and their personal interests. There’s a certain kudos to be gained by the recruitment of high-profile members. However, we have here the cream of the country’s intellectuals, students on the brink of a brilliant career, respected professors with ambitions for faculty chairs. Think of the rewards. All the glittering prizes. Are they going to risk offending the establishment and blow their entire future by claiming they have proof of the existence of a poltergeist? I think not. Far safer to debunk everything regardless. They don’t necessarily set out to do that—not intentionally, anyway. But, as I say, in parapsychology there is no such thing as purely objective opinion.’

‘It’s a bit like being a reporter, then. No such thing as the truth, just someone’s version of it.’

Gideon laughs. ‘Exactly. So that’s why I became disillusioned with the claims of scientific groups and went my own way. Mind you, I do try to walk a balanced line between a healthy scepticism and an
open mind. But I think sometimes you can become too detached. Sometimes you have to put your disbelief on hold. You have to embrace an experience, commit yourself to it totally in order to be effective, then evaluate it afterwards, in the cold light of day. Perhaps you find that, too, in your line of work?’

‘Well, yes. Drew’s always accusing me of getting too involved. Like this thing with the Caxtons.’ Lacey places her glass on the table. ‘What do you think has happened to him?’