October skies

‘I’ve seen shock like this before: industrial accidents brought into the London hospital where I was studying. Shock… the mind closes down to shut out the pain, and yet can still function amazingly well. I once witnessed a man walking in carrying his own arm under the other. Machinery had wrenched it out at the shoulder.’

Mrs Zimmerman made a face.

‘The point is, the mind is very resilient. Emily’s has shut down for now… from what she’s witnessed. I can only presume it was something quite horrific. And now, her mind is in a dormant state, hiding… hibernating somewhere safe.’

‘But she’ll come back to us eventually, won’t she?’

Ben nodded. ‘Eventually.’

‘What happened, Mr Lambert? Do you know?’

‘Eric Vander thinks it was the Indians did this. Keats says it might have been a bear.’

Mrs Zimmerman nodded tiredly.

‘Tomorrow morning there’ll be a search party and we’ll find out all that we need to know,’ he said.

Ben knew it would be a hard find, chancing across their bodies. Hard, in as much as he would see Sam in a horrible way. If it had been a bear, their bodies would be horrendously disfigured. It was not a final image he wanted to have in his mind of the lad.

I’m so sorry, Emily. So sorry.

He stroked her pale cheeks, remembering a cheerful face around the campfire, delighted with the loan of a doll.

‘I’ll look in on her again soon,’ Ben said to Mrs Zimmerman. ‘Will you be with her tonight?’

Mrs Zimmerman nodded. ‘All night.’

Ben smiled. ‘Good.’

CHAPTER 38

Tuesday

Fulham, London

The phone rang only a couple of times before a deep voice answered it. ‘Dr Thomas Griffith.’

‘Tom, it’s Julian Cooke.’

A moment’s hesitation passed. ‘Julian…’ Then, ‘Julian! How the hell are you?’

‘I’m well, Tom, very well.’

Julian had worked with him a few years ago on their series Uncommon People. Dr Griffith was a forensic psychologist who freelanced for the Met, on occasion for the Crown Prosecution Service and, more often these days, he also found himself contributing the foreword to books on hard-case East End gangsters and the criminally insane. His last collaboration had been with a crime novelist, co-writing a book on Harold Shipman.

The book was doing very well. Julian had noticed it piled high on the centre tables of Waterstones and Borders, and spotted Thomas on daytime TV shamelessly plugging it. Thomas was made for TV; a gregarious character, a large and generously covered frame and an enormously deep voice finely tuned to deliver a Welsh accent.

It was all going very well for Thomas, right now.

‘What are you up to these days, Julian?’ his baritone voice boomed down the line.

Julian sucked on his teeth. He knew the call was going to involve eating a small helping of humble pie.

‘Not as much as I’d like. Business is still coming in, but you know what it’s like; a lot less money sloshing around the TV business these days.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I saw your book. Doing very well, I see.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? I’m quite taken aback. There’ll be more, I hope.’

Julian smiled. ‘Oh, I’m sure there will be. Publishers love to keep backing a winner.’ Actually he was pleased for the lucky bastard. Good fortune couldn’t have fallen into the lap of a nicer bloke.

‘Tom, look, apart from wanting to hear the melted-chocolate tones of your voice again, there’s another reason I rang.’

Griffith chuckled. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s something I sort of stumbled upon by accident over in America. Before I go into too much detail, this is between us and no one else, do you understand?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m not going to need to send you a confidentiality agreement, am I?’ Julian asked cautiously. He trusted the man more than most. Thomas’s word had been good in the past when they’d worked together. But it would be reassuring to hear him make a verbal promise.

‘On my mother’s grave, Julian.’

‘Okay.’

Julian explained what he and Rose had found, careful not to tell him exactly where it was. Only Grace knew the precise location, and for now he wanted to keep it that way. He described the Lambert journal, and summarised the tale he had transcribed thus far. Dr Griffith patiently listened in silence as Julian talked through it for nearly three-quarters of an hour.

‘Well now, Julian, what’re you asking for? A diagnosis over the phone?’

‘Yes, but I’d like to back it up with a meeting. Perhaps, if you’re interested, involve you in the documentary somehow.’

‘Well, I’m… I’m-’

‘Sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that. I know you’re busy right now promoting the book-’

‘No,’ he cut in, ‘no… I’m interested, Julian. I’m fascinated. I’d very much like to be a part of this. I mean, to all intents and purposes, if we’re ruling out Indian wood spirits and giant grizzly bears, it sounds very much like you have a reliable account of an interesting mystery.’

‘Yes. That’s what I thought.’

‘And this journal sounds like wonderfully detailed material to work from.’