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  She lifted her head now, though the effort was obviously almost too much for her.

  Mike held out a hand. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll take you back to Fergus.’

  She nodded, took his arm and, leaning heavily on him, allowed herself to be led down the hill.

  ‘What happened to your shoes?’ Mike asked her.

  Cassie glanced down. ‘Must’ve forgotten them,’ she said.

  ‘Didn’t my constable try to stop you?’

  She looked confused, passed an aimless hand in front of her eyes. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said. ‘Don’t even remember how I got here.’ She had begun to sob again, softly at first but now, as they made their way back to the road, more loudly, more desperately. ‘Oh, God! What’s happening to me? What’s going on?’

  Croft put an arm around her, led her, still crying bitterly, down the rest of the path, past the shocked face of the young constable and got her into his car.

  * * *

  Tynan had taken the coast road, heading towards Mundesley. He wasn’t, at the outset of his journey, even certain of where he was going or what story he would give to those he planned to question. Instead, as had always been his habit when still on the force, he had simply acknowledged the problem before leaving home and then switched his mind away from it.

  He listened to the radio, tuning in to something soothing in the classical line which he vaguely recognized as Tchaikovsky. His wife had liked such music. She could probably have told him what it was and even a little about it. She would certainly have had some views to put forward about the tempo of the piece, whether or not that — what would you call it? — rallentando drew back the flow too swiftly or the woodwind section should have been allowed to dominate quite so much.

  Then, as now, Tynan would have been unable to tell whether or not she was right. He always just assumed somehow that she was, had grown so used to her little tirades against the less than perfect, always delivered with such a considered and, perversely, strident gentleness, that he found himself, even now, filling in the silence with the sound of her voice.

  Grace would have liked Mike Croft, though, would have approved of him. Somehow, the thought was very satisfying. Somehow, it also made it even more important that he help this younger man to succeed.

  Can someone else make amends for another’s guilt, however undeserved? Tynan didn’t know. But the guilt was there. Had stayed with him for the best part of twenty years — sometimes submerged by other concerns, sometimes buried so far as to give the impression, for a brief time, of having fled but always ready to return when he least expected it.

  If he could only know for certain that Suzie was dead it would be a help. Instead, he couldn’t help but see her alive and grown up; married perhaps, with children of her own. Existing.

  Tynan shook himself angrily. Did it make it any easier on the mind knowing that Grace was well and truly dead? Did absence of doubt really make such odds?

  He smiled wryly to himself. Two years on, and another two years of nursing her before that, and John Tynan still couldn’t think of Grace as anything other than the woman he’d married. Older, of course, but still with so much life in her and still telling him that she thought the conductor had made that rallentando too soon.

  At night, he still fancied he saw her, seated in front of the dressing-table mirror, brushing her red hair peppered with grey, but still thick and glossy, and chatting to him about her day, asking about his.

  He almost never thought of her as the woman he had held in his arms that last day, weighing almost nothing. The bright hair reduced to grey wisps and the laughter gone from her hazel eyes.

  The road veered off as he saw the first signs for Keswick. He wasn’t sure whether it was worth his while asking there, the village being small and there being little holiday accommodation of the type he looked for. On the other hand, it wouldn’t take him all that long.

  The coast road really was along the coast at this point, as it was at Bacton, the next place up. At high tide in winter, the waves had been known to hurl themselves at pedestrians walking on the far pavement. Today though, the sun was hot and the sea was calm, lazy even, sparkling in the morning light.

  Tynan parked the car, locked it and wandered across to lean on the iron railing above the beachfront. He wrinkled his eyes against the glare coming off both beach and water, trying to stare beyond it and out towards the far horizon.

  The beach itself was crowded with people, arms and legs bared in the summer heat.

  Tynan laughed softly to himself. People-watching had been one of Grace’s habits. One of her passions, he supposed.

  Grace liked people. Loved their foibles and their silliness. Adored scenes like this when their most attractive weaknesses were so exposed.

  God, but he loved her. He felt the muscles of his face tighten in the familiar effort not to show emotion.

  Well, no good thinking like that now, he had a job to do.

  Tynan began to walk along the front, his gaze turned now not to the beach but to the gift shops, adorned with their plastic buckets and sickly sticks of sugar rock and the small cafes already, though it was only mid-morning, packed to the gills with families. Small children seeming almost to spill from the open doorways.

  He crossed the road, drawing the photocopied picture from his pocket as he did so and dodging through the slow-moving heavily smoking traffic. He’d decided, should anyone ask, to drop the ex from his DI status. After all, he’d not been retired that long.

  He eased through the door to the first cafe, wove his way through the crowded tables, the sand-castle buckets and beach bags, and approached the counter, amazed at how easily the official smile and official lines fell back into place.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, this woman. I wonder if you’ve seen her . . . ?’

  Blank looks, replies in the negative, calls to colleagues to take a look and, finally, the apologetic return of the picture.

  Tynan thanked them and went out. He’d try the seafront cafes then slip back into the side streets where the few boarding houses he remembered were located.

  The sun seemed to have gained strength even in the few minutes he had been inside. He considered for a moment returning to his car and leaving his jacket inside, dismissed the idea almost at once and continued up the sea front, feeling distinctly overdressed among the throngs of skimpily dressed, brightly decorated holiday-makers.

  Wondering if this was such a good idea after all, Tynan opened the door of the second cafe and stepped inside.

  * * *

  Mid-afternoon found him at Cromer. Keswick had got him nowhere, Bacton had been as bad and he’d decided to try somewhere larger. The drive had been the most pleasant thing about the entire day, taking him through Mundesley, with its restored mill, and Paston, tiny and pretty and very English, half-timbered houses and idiosyncratic twisted roads.

  He’d stopped for a late lunch of fish and chips on the Victorian sea front at Cromer, feeling hot and tired and painfully aware of his aching feet, then resumed his tour of the local B. & B.s.

  There were hundreds of them. Streets full of semi elegant Victorian villas equipped with names like Sea Breeze and Blue Horizons, stretching back from the sea front and well into the town. Tynan’s third street in seemed to his by now well-practised eye, to be a little more expensive. Perhaps it was the sign boards that were a tad bit more discreet, or the almost inevitable net curtains that were somewhat less yellowed or the paintwork on the frontages that had less tendency to peel.

  Whatever it was, this street had an air of prosperity that the previous two had lacked.

  The pavement was not less hard though and the sun, well into its afternoon heat, was no less searing for a man now feeling his retirement years.

  His door-to-door crusade had attracted attention too. He could see that from the faint but agitated twitchings of the clean white nets and the discreet peering of the inhabitants from their upper windows.

&
nbsp; There were several that had suddenly found themselves in rapid need of cleaning.

  Tynan wondered for a moment if he had become the object of suspicion and if he would shortly find himself having to explain his questions to one of his former colleagues.

  Would that be amusing — or just plain irritating?

  If they offered him a good strong cup of tea while he was making his statement, he thought, it might almost be worth it.

  He paused for a moment and stared along the length of the street. It was one of those gently curving affairs, full of similar houses that seemed to go on forever.

  He decided he’d go to the end and then give up. His long shot suddenly seemed even longer than before. Already, too, he’d been forced to give explanations he’d rather not have given. Twice, women — and almost all of his interviewees today had been women — had asked him straight if this was anything to do with the missing child.

  Other times, he’d felt the need to make the connection himself, though in the most tentative of ways. He comforted himself with the thought that Mike planned to release the picture soon anyway.

  He plodded up the entrance stairs to the next house.

  It was, again, one of these three-storey affairs, with a basement, the small area in front of which was cluttered with large pots of red geraniums and trailing alyssum. The wrought-iron stairway had not escaped the floral touch either. Ivy and wisteria clambered up its length on either side, leaving only the handrail clear. The steps looked well-scrubbed and the pale blue and white paint on the front door and what seemed to be original sash windows looked fresh and newly cleaned.

  There was a discreet, black-lettered no vacancies sign hanging from a rubber sucker in the bay window and a formal, professionally sign-painted arch-shaped plaque above the door which declared its name to be Ocean View.

  Tynan couldn’t help glancing around to see if there was.

  Maybe from the attic windows, but certainly not from here. Just a view of a long, dusty, Victorian street.

  The door opened even before he had a chance to ring the bell.

  ‘I don’t buy on the doorstep.’

  ‘I’m not selling.’

  She looked distinctly affronted. ‘Oh? And what are you meant to be doing then?’ The woman, bleached-blonde hair taken neatly back from her face in an old-fashioned chignon and rather childish pink lipstick marring a strong but attractive face, glared at him.

  ‘You think I haven’t seen you knocking on doors. What is it?’ She looked at the ground beside him, clearly expecting to see some sort of bag containing whatever it was he wasn’t selling. She looked back at his face, frowning slightly, a suspicious look creasing the sides of her pink mouth.

  ‘I told you, I’m not selling anything.’ He paused, anticipating further objections but none came. Tynan carried on. ‘I’m making enquiries about a woman we believe might have been staying in the area.’ He held out the piece of paper.

  She stared, archly. ‘Police are you? How come you’re on your own then?’ She paused to look up and down the street. ‘I thought you lot always travelled in pairs.’

  Tynan just smiled and said nothing to disillusion her.

  She was shaking her head. ‘No, no one like that round here. Artist’s impression is it, or whatever it is you call them?’

  Tynan nodded, but there was no need for more than that, the woman was in full flow by now.

  ‘I suppose it’s about that kiddie went missing?’ She gave him an interrogative look.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  She shrugged, looked at Tynan sympathetically as though she thought him slightly soft in the head and in need of sympathy. ‘Well, stands to reason, doesn’t it? Why else would you lot be checking on boarding houses. Not that it’ll do you no good.’

  She said this last with an air of satisfaction, thrust the picture back in Tynan’s direction and leaned back against the door jamb, arms folded in front of her.

  Tynan knew he needn’t bother asking her to explain; the trick was going to be getting her to stop.

  ‘I mean, stands to reason,’ she said again, ‘you let kids play in a place like that and something’s bound to happen.’ She looked at Tynan for confirmation, then carried on. ‘Some places are just meant to be left alone. Kept away from. All them stories you hear tell about that place. Well, there’s got to be some reason for it, hasn’t there?’

  Tynan murmured something that sounded like agreement.

  ‘I mean, look at them other two.’

  Other two? ‘You mean the Ashmore girl.’

  ‘Yes. Her. And that other one.’

  ‘Other one?’

  Something jabbed at Tynan’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘Yes. Years ago that was. I remember my mam telling me about it. Little thing about the same age. Playing on the Greenway, she was, and next anybody knew, she was gone.’

  She paused for breath long enough to note Tynan’s interested look.

  ‘Charged her father, they did, but they had to let him go, of course. Never found a body. Not that they’d be likely to, not in a place like that. You mark my words. There’s something bad about that place. Something evil.’

  Walking back to his car, the heat of the sun making his head ache and his sore feet making him very much aware that he had walked more today than he had done in years, Tynan struggled with the memory.

  Damn it! He thought he knew the Ashmore case inside out.

  Then it came back to him. A conversation with Phil Andrews when the investigation of the Ashmore case had been at its height. Andrews had lived in the area all his life. He didn’t remember the first child personally, the event had taken place a year or two before he had been born, but it had been recent enough for him to remember the adults talking about it when he was a little kid. Well enough for him to have pointed it out to Tynan.

  He’d reached his car by now. He opened the door and stood beside it, allowing the furnace-like interior to cool a little before getting inside. He could even recall Phil’s words now.

  ‘This isn’t the first time it’s happened, you know,’ he had said. The day had been hot, like this one and Tynan had been standing watching them extend the search to the fields on the ridge circling the lighthouse.

  ‘How do you mean?’ he’d asked.

  ‘There was another kid, went the same way. Emmie something. Oh, a long time ago. Nigh on thirty years ago. Must be. Went from the same place.

  ‘They said her father killed her, but nothing was ever proved. Then they thought she might have run away.’ He’d shrugged and taken a drink from the bottle he was holding and then offered it to Tynan. ‘Makes you think though. Places you think are safe and this happens.’

  That’s why he hadn’t remembered. Fifty years ago now and just a throwaway remark made at the end of a hot and exhausting afternoon.

  A bit like this one really.

  Tynan eased himself into the still over-heated car and slumped back in the seat. He told himself that he was grasping at straws, that it was pure coincidence.

  Wouldn’t hurt to take another look at his own record though, or to mention it to Mike — not that the poor sod didn’t have enough on his plate as it was.

  Wearily, he started the car and began to negotiate his way out of the parking space.

  Suddenly the twenty or so miles down the coast seemed like a long, long way from home.

  Chapter 11

  Fergus gazed out angrily over the surging waters. They seemed to reflect his mood. Unseasonably grey, the waves hurled themselves against the foot of the cliff, anticipating the impending rainstorm. Mike watched him.

  Fergus had coaxed Cassie into bed and Mike had put out a call for one of the local GPs on the police rota. They had just watched his car drive back down the track towards the village, leaving Cassie sleeping. He’d said little, asked Fergus about his wife’s medical history, given her a sedative, and left her to sleep. Mike really had better things to do with his time t
han wait around for the doctor, but some instinct had told him that it would be wise to wait, that he would learn something. He’d been right.

  ‘Schizophrenia,’ he repeated, talking to Fergus’s back. ‘You never thought to mention this before, Mr Maltham?’

  ‘I told you about the depression, that she’d had treatment.’ Fergus swung around, angrily. ‘My wife’s medical history has no bearing on this case. I’ve told you the same as I told the doctor, she’s not even on medication now.’

  Mike sighed heavily, scuffed his toes into the ground and said, ‘But you must understand, Mr Maltham, knowing that your wife has a history of mental instability . . . I can’t ignore the fact, can’t rule out the possibility—’

  ‘That she might have gone completely crazy and abducted two children! How, Detective Inspector Croft? How! Not to mention when. No! Hear me out. Cassie’s been a danger to no one but herself. We’ve been winning. These last two years since she was discharged we’ve really been winning. Trying to build a life for ourselves. She doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve the innuendoes. Doesn’t deserve you leaping to the conclusion that because she’s been ill she’s crazy, and therefore capable of anything.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting she is, Mr Maltham. I’m—’

  ‘Only doing your job. God! Spare me the platitudes!’

  ‘I was going to say, Mr Maltham, that I have a duty to look at all possibilities and that, Mr Maltham, you should credit me with a little more intelligence. Ignorant copper I may be, but I know the difference between psychosis and psychopath and I don’t need your school-teacher patronage to remind me of the fact. And . . . if you’ll let me finish . . . and I don’t need reminding of something else either. Your wife takes herself wandering about like that, in the state she was in. How long is it going to be before the press get hold of it, before the village hears about it and thinks of the inevitable?’

  He paused for breath, seeing the uncertainty in Fergus Maltham’s eyes and knew he’d found his mark. He went on quickly. ‘They’re scared, Mr Maltham. Scared enough not to know or care that Cassie’s maybe as much a victim in this as those kids. To put it bluntly, sir, all they’ll be concerned about is that there’s a nutcase running around loose. They’re not going to be worried by the niceties of definition. Do I make myself clear, Mr Maltham?’