The madness, p.14
The Madness, page 14
18
With Rhiannon’s revised testimony and my information about Lucy and Renée, I head for the police station.
I was able to get an appointment with Detective Inspector Seb Davies for nine this morning, so I stayed up most of the night organizing my thoughts and going over what I was going to say to present my case. I googled everything I could think of regarding Cysgod Castle, but came up empty. Even the Land Registry and Cadw were like brick walls, unwilling to give up any information.
I need to know who owns it, what goes on there. The details of Rhiannon’s story—the rash, the business card—and the fact that Cysgod Castle is somehow involved... It’s my first tangible evidence linking Wales to London, linking Seren and Lucy to whatever happened to Renée, and the club with no name, and the girls I read about on the message boards, all experiencing the same symptoms before they disappear or turn up dead.
I know I’m coming to this meeting with next to nothing, but I’m also at a dead end without more help, and the clock is ticking for Lucy.
The local police headquarters occupy what looks like a large family home one village over, and when I ring the bronze buzzer in the redbrick wall, I almost expect a kindly old man to open the door and invite me in for tea and cake. Instead, a grainy voice asks for my name and whether I have an appointment.
“Dr. Mina Murray for DI Seb Davies, nine a.m.”
I’m buzzed in and head to the small reception area where I’m asked to wait. At nine thirty, a burly man comes to collect me and shows me to DI Davies’s office.
“Come in, come in,” he calls in a friendly tone, rising from his desk and gesturing widely with his hands.
He’s a short man, balding, with bright eyes and a warm smile.
“When I heard we had a London doctor in town with a theory about our missing girl case, it piqued my curiosity,” he says, sitting back down.
“Thank you for your time.”
He rubs his hands on the worn vinyl armrests. “Now, what can I help you with?”
He’s expectant. A good start.
“I’ve located a pattern. Numerous instances of missing girls across the country, Seren Evans being the most recent. They all seem to be linked by a series of physiological symptoms and a location in London. Possibly one here in Tylluan too.” I riffle through my papers.
He leans back in his chair, his smile fading. “I see. Tell me more.”
“This place,” I say, sliding a photograph of the doors to the club with no name across his desk. “They’re recruited by men offering ‘job opportunities’ of some kind, sharing the same mysterious business card. After working there or perhaps attending an event there, they’d present with odd symptoms. Many of the girls simply vanish from their lives like Seren, only to be found weeks or months later, dead. I believe these cases are all connected. The illness lasts for variable amounts of time, but eventually leads to their deaths. These are the common symptoms.”
I slide a stack of paper across to him and he flips through it, frowning. He nods slowly as he turns pages over, while I go through the history of my involvement up until the moment Rhiannon told me the truth.
“Seren’s best friend, Rhiannon Jones, said that Seren had received an invitation to Cysgod Castle before she went missing—a job offer, a business card—and was sick shortly after that. Rhiannon claims she saw the same rash, and then Seren vanished. So, I’d like to see if there are closer links between the Cloth Fair club and Cysgod. I’ve looked into their ownership online, but there’s not much that’s publicly available.
“It might be a type of STI,” I continue. “Or maybe a new designer drug circulating. Something we haven’t seen before.”
DI Davies slides the pages back toward me. “I can see you’ve thought a lot about this.”
“Yes. And I’d like for you to open an investigation into the owner of Cysgod Castle.”
DI Davies exhales and leans back in his chair. “You must know I can’t do that.”
I purse my lips. “Excuse me?”
“You’re suggesting targeting a well-established, high-profile property with nothing more than hearsay from a...a known troublemaker.”
I squeeze my knees together to keep myself from standing. “With testimony that the missing girl was there only days prior to her disappearance,” I clarify.
He holds up his hands in a shrug. “To begin an investigation, you need evidence.”
He is the second man to say this to me and I could scream.
“The same principle applies in the beginning, middle, end. Evidence. Otherwise any Tom, Dick, and Harry can waltz into a police station with a file of rumors and speculation, alleging all sorts, and start a witch hunt. I could lose my job.”
I lean forward. “I understand you can’t press charges on the owner of Cysgod simply from what I’ve told you. I’m not naive, and I’m not asking you for that. I’m simply suggesting that, given this new information and the possible links to an active case in London, there’s something to be looked into here.”
“We’re up to our ears in cases,” he says, rubbing the bald spot on his head. “To allocate resources to this we’d need something compelling, and it just isn’t there. I don’t mean to be rude, but for all I know, you could be a jilted ex looking for revenge.”
I blink several times. This man has just received a report of a possible predator in his sleepy Welsh town, and he doesn’t think it’s compelling? I knew I didn’t have much coming in, but I was at least expecting him to take down some notes, make a few calls, look for a paper trail, any link between Cloth Fair and Cysgod.
“So you’re going to do nothing? Not even see if there’s a connection between the club and Cysgod? Not even if women are turning up dead?”
DI Davies raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Look, what you’ve told me isn’t sufficient to pursue. However, I’ll keep an eye out and if something more presents itself, we’ll follow it up.” He stands, releasing a long sigh.
This man is not going to pull his finger out; that much is clear. Not without overwhelming evidence—and maybe not even then. I’m angry with myself for thinking I might find an ally here. I need more. I need to find Seren, if she’s still alive.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I get to my feet, sliding the pages back into my file and picking it up. “No. Thank you.”
He ushers me to the door. When I’m standing outside, he says, “I’m sorry you had to come all this way for nothing.”
“It might not be nothing,” I say firmly. “I could be seeing you again.”
He laughs. “Let’s hope not.”
And he closes the door in my face.
I’ve counted thirteen steps toward the exit when I hear a voice.
“Mina Murray?”
I turn to see a female officer leaving one of the side rooms. She’s a tall, imposing woman with cropped blond hair—beautiful, and vaguely familiar. Her face breaks into a smile.
“My God, it is you!”
I blink, the puzzle of her sliding into place. “Quincey?”
Quincey Morris, Lucy’s ex-girlfriend, towers in front of me. “I can’t believe you’re back.”
“For a while, yes.”
Quincey glances behind me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say sourly. “I had an appointment with DI Davies.”
“Did you get everything you needed?”
I grimace. “It didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”
Quincey shifts her weight to her heels and regards my expression for a moment before saying, “Listen, I’ve got to head out now, but can you swing by my house later? Around seven? It’d be nice to catch up.”
“Sure. Where is it?”
“Remember my parents’ house?”
I nod.
She digs into her duty belt and pulls a business card from one of the pockets. “That’s my number if you get lost. See you at seven.”
* * *
Quincey’s house is off Cefn Close, just past the mountain zoo. It’s a small, detached bungalow with a loft conversion and dormer window, an ugly beige pebbledash monstrosity with an exterior garage. A tiny BMW i3 is parked outside.
I hesitate in my own car, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. The file of printouts is sitting on my passenger seat. I know Quincey probably meant this as a social call, but I can’t help it... I’m tempted to bring her in, tell her everything I know, and hope she’s more open to hearing what I have to say than DI Davies.
I grit my teeth and get out of the car.
Before I know it, I’m knocking on the door.
“Mina fucking Murray,” Quincey says when she opens it, as though we didn’t just see each other at the station. I almost laugh at how different she is in a tartan robe and slippers.
“Quincey fucking Morris,” I reply, laughing.
“How the hell do you look exactly the same?” She pretends to block her eyes. “It’s revolting how young you look!”
“You bugger,” I say, her arms wrapping around me for a tight hug. She lifts me off my feet, her arms like a vise. When she releases me, she pulls my shoulders back and takes a long look. We grin like schoolgirls at one another.
“Come inside and tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself. Sorry I was a little formal at the station.”
We go into the front room, which is still decorated like a little old lady lives here instead of a hardened copper. I suppose she hasn’t felt the need to update it since her parents... I realize I don’t know what happened. Did they move? Die? She catches my expression.
“Mum’s old stuff. She passed last year and I couldn’t bring myself to chuck it.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I think I only ever saw the outside of your house when we were kids.”
She spreads her arms. “Well, this is it. Been here ever since. Considering selling it to move closer to the station, but it’s early days yet. What can I get for you?”
“A cup of tea would be lovely.”
“Perfect. Back in a tick.”
I use the time alone to gather myself, memories of our childhood flooding my mind.
Quincey Morris came into the picture when she moved here with her family from Texas in the middle of the spring term Year Eleven. She was an army brat who had lived everywhere, from Saudi Arabia, to New York, to Turkey. Everyone at school was fascinated by the new American, Lucy most of all. She seemed so glamorous and worldly to us. Quincey and Lucy became fast friends, which I resented until I realized that it wasn’t friendship blossoming between them; it was romance. They were an item within the year and were still a couple when I left. Whatever happened between them during the intervening time, I have no idea. As far as I’m aware, they don’t speak. Certainly, Lucy hasn’t ever mentioned Quince to me.
“There we are,” she says, coming back into the room with two huge bucket mugs full of builder’s tea.
I take mine and sit on the sofa with a sigh. It envelops me like a bear hug.
“I don’t have any sugar in the house. Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine, thanks.”
Her house is frilly, sure, but I can also see that it is spotless, and my nerves ease immediately.
“I’m guessing that’s what the meeting was about?” Quincey says, glancing at my manila folder.
“Yes. I know you invited me here to catch up, but I’m hoping you can help me.”
She nods, and her frown lines are deep. I wonder if that comes with the job, or just with time.
She ponders me, head tilted to the side. “Where did you run off to at the end of Sixth Form?”
“Oxford.”
She nods. “Right, I remember that now.”
She looks like she wants to ask more, but reads my face and leaves it alone.
I touch the folder once more and take a deep breath. “I need help because of Lucy.”
She flinches. “Because of Lucy?”
“I think she’s the victim of something...something big, bigger than just Tylluan. It’s hard to explain. Will you just listen until I’m finished?”
Her eyes dart between my own, searching, but she nods and sits back to listen.
I explain everything. I tell her about Renée and Rhiannon’s story about Seren, as well as the forum discussing a conspiracy theory about a predator under the alias @UKPREDATOR. How more missing girls turned up in the search, all of them matching the symptoms, if the database is to be believed, and all of them within a small radius of London. I tell her how I stumbled upon the club with no name and discovered that Renée had links to it. About Rhiannon’s mention of Cysgod and a potential connection there, a “job opportunity” and a mysterious business card matching the one I found in Renée’s room. About how Lucy is now showing similar symptoms.
“I think this club is spreading an unseen STI among these girls, something that eventually kills them. Either that or a designer drug—something we’ve not seen before. Something that’s allowing this predator to kill girls slowly, methodically, quietly, without getting caught.”
When I’m finished, I’ve laid out all my evidence across her coffee table and she’s examining it closely.
“Who is the owner of Cysgod?” she asks. “Do you have a name?”
“I couldn’t find anything. I’ve tried every kind of search I could think of, but there’s no record of the owner. Same story with the club. It’s why I went to the station today. I knew it was a long shot, but I was hoping they’d take me seriously enough to look up the deeds, or other information I don’t have access to.”
“Mina...” She sighs. “This could be something...or it could be nothing. It’s all circumstantial.”
“You could take it to your CO?”
“And get laughed out of the station?” She sighs again when she notices my face fall. “Look, I think you might be onto something here. But if I take this in, I’d need more. DNA linking the girls, eyewitnesses—firsthand—who are willing to go on record. Hard evidence. I know it’s not what you were hoping to hear, but this just wouldn’t stand up in court. It has to be beyond all reasonable doubt.” She clasps her hands across her knees. “With powerful people like this...they have resources, lawyers, and much more aggressive means to defend themselves and scupper an investigation.”
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of all this falling heavily on my shoulders. DI Davies was right. I’m not surprised, just disappointed.
“But listen,” Quincey says, “don’t let this drop if you think something’s there. It wouldn’t be the first time respectable-looking men turned out to be creeps.” She stands up and walks to the window by the table. “I’ve seen women come in two, three days after an assault, when they’ve finally got brave enough to do it, but they’ve showered more thoroughly than they ever have in their lives, for obvious reasons. But they washed away the DNA and there’s nothing we can do because all it amounts to is he-said, she-said.”
I’m all too familiar with this. I see the other end of it, when the women are broken, enraged, desperate to repair their shattered dreams. People are liars at the end of the day, and without proof, how can anyone be certain of anything?
We’re silent for a while, sipping cold tea.
“Outside of amateur investigations,” Quincey says. “How are you?”
“I’m...okay. I’m worried about all of this, and it’s hard to think of anything else.”
She hesitates. “And Lucy?”
I told her that Lucy might be a victim, but neglected to mention that she’s also very sick. “She’s not doing well.” I force the words out. “She’s sick, and whatever this illness is...it’s hit her hard.”
Quincey’s jaw tightens. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
I want to ask what happened between them, why Quincey isn’t the one with the Mrs. Westenra ring, but I suspect that’s a sore topic. I back off like she did for me.
“I should get back,” I say, getting to my feet. “Thanks for listening.”
“Hey, look, don’t be a stranger. And I meant what I said. You’re smart, meticulous, and you’ve got good instincts. If you’ve got a feeling about this whole thing, don’t just let it drop. When you’ve got something definitive, bring it to me.”
“Thanks, Quince.”
“See you around, Murray.”
I’m halfway down the street to my car when I hear footsteps behind me and turn. Quincey is jogging over, fluffy slippers and all.
“God, Mina. You’re a pain in the ass. Ugh!” She shakes her head. “I am one hundred percent going to regret this, but I’ll help you. We just need to keep it under the radar until there’s concrete proof, okay?”
Something in my chest lifts. A weight I didn’t know I’d been holding. “On my word of honor.”
“Stay out of trouble,” she says, rolling her eyes as she turns away.
19
The sun casts shades of marigold, tangerine, and grapefruit over the quaking ocean, and the wind whips my hair out of its French twist. It was a lifetime ago that I walked along this beach, looking at the painted sky as the sun died on the horizon. It should be beautiful. I should be able to see this, objectively. But I don’t. All I can focus on is the roiling gray sea, churning like my insides. On the eastern end of the promenade a group of kids whoop and scream, chasing each other and smoking stolen cigarettes. The smell of tobacco in the briny air hits me like blunt force trauma to my chest, reeking of nostalgia so potent I have to turn and walk in the opposite direction, toward the cliffs and Cysgod Castle.
The past whispers at my shoulder—in particular, that last evening with Jonathan. I knew it would be then, on that night, when we finally went all the way. We had been together two years, had done other things, touched in secret, kissed forbidden places, but we hadn’t crossed that final line. Jonathan had been with a girl before me and he didn’t want to rush things, even though I burned for him so desperately that at night I woke tangled in my sheets, sweaty and breathless. When he was near me, I was hyperaware of his body, his scent, yearning for his hands on me. I thought I’d go crazy with longing.
