By Touch the Light

Okay, we’ll play it that way. Pretend it’s just a story. A yarn I made up to pass the time.

Even if it isn’t.

Even if it really, really isn’t.

My freckled fingers freeze, just as they did all those months ago when I feared that death might be waiting for me in the room I was about to enter.

This time it’s life that’s scaring the pants off me.

We’ll see which one of us lands him first.

Sylvia had won that contest hands down. But the night Ruth came back…

He uses the payphone by the fruit machine. The number he dials is preceded by no STD code, and the coins he inserts are purely for show.

When he replaces the receiver, Toby Cunningham is no wiser than when he picked it up.

Watch and wait.

Just for a change.

What happens when the cure is more harmful than the disease?

I stand up and sweep every item in front of me to the floor. This has gone on long enough.

I have to leave now. Fooling these women into thinking I’m coming round to their point of view has become an indulgence I can’t afford.

Not when I’ve started hearing voices.

The door creaks open. My head snaps round, and I almost pass out at the sight of two living, breathing kuzkardesh gara.

"Dover, it appears, was a red herring. They flew from Gatwick to Paris this afternoon, on passports Niamh – and Celeste - were complicit in faking.” He hands me a small white envelope. “Meet Mrs Rachel Holmes and her seventeen year old daughter Teresa.”

As we come closer to our destination it doesn’t comfort me to remember that Egerton and de Monnier were there less than a week ago.

Left the metropolis for deepest Somerset, called HQ to report ‘mission accomplished’ and received orders to head north without further delay.

What mission? Who gave them their orders?

Which other shadowy organisation is involved in all this?

The tall, strongly-built young man standing next to the capstan has already smiled in response to Niamh’s precocious body language.

“Not my type,” I maintain, but before I can embellish this statement I realise that I know who he is...

“I want you to go out and flag down a taxi. Tell the driver to take you to Victoria, but when you get there act all scatterbrained and say you meant Waterloo instead. I’ll—“

“We’re being followed, aren’t we?”

But the vicar has found the picture of Sorina. He moves it closer to his eyes, which are widening in disbelief and shock.

“By all the blessed saints...” he gasps.

“Not something you see every day, is it?” I venture. “She’d certainly stand out in a crowd.”

“Can’t you see?” he cries, jabbing a finger at the photograph. “It’s her. It’s Sarah-Jane.”

We walk back to Redheugh Close in silence. The feeling that something isn’t quite right is impossible to escape.

Because Helen Sutton died the same night as Bob Hodgson, that’s why.

If only I could wrap my head around the implications of that one simple sentence.

“There’s no need to pull a face like you’ve just swallowed a bluebottle, sweetheart. Your name only came up after I happened to mention that as I hoped to do a spot of amateur sleuthing while I was here, it would be nice if I could hire a trusty sidekick to help me out for a day or two. Norah says a break like that will do you a power of good, so consider yourself roped in.”