Part 21 (1/2)

”Is she still alive?” Elizabeth asked in a small voice.

John crouched almost on top of the screen, now so close he could see the lines that formed the picture. Get a close up of her face; come on, get a close up of her face.

The rotors of the helicopter were close enough to blow dust across the road along with the bloodstained dressings discarded by the medics. There was the car again. Filling the screen. A mess of bent metal, shredded tires. A motor exposed and naked now that the hood had been torn clear. That was the moment he saw it.

A red line painted down the side of the car. No, in fact, two narrow lines running in parallel along the body of the car. They were so fine that he didn't notice them before.

”Hon,” John whispered. ”Hon. That isn't your mother's car.”

”It isa look.”

”No. It's the same make, the same color. But her car doesn't have red lines painted down the side.”

”Then it's not Mum and Paul in there?”

”No. It's someone else.” He was trembling, and his throat burned so hotly he found it hard to speak. ”Haven't we been a pair of idiots scaring each other like that?”

”But it looks the same.”

”I know, hon. It's a coincidence, that's all.”

He dialed Val's mobile.

”h.e.l.lo.”

”Val?”

”Hi, John. I'm in the supermarket. I've got the mayonnaise. Do you want any more of that tomato ketchup they do here?”

He held out the phone so Elizabeth could hear. She was wiping away tears but grinning all over her face.

”h.e.l.lo, John? Did you catch that? Do you want any more ketchup? ”

”No thanks, love.”

”I'm in the queue. I'm just about to be served. Did you want anything else?”

”Only for you to be home soon, hon.”

His insides were water but he was grinning, too. Elizabeth came to him, encircled his neck with her arms and hugged him. They stayed like that for a long time.

CHAPTER 15.

”Do you have any porter?”

”Any what?”

”Porter.” John Newton had been testing the man's reaction as much as anything. But the manager of the local Rhythm & Booze looked puzzled. That rules you out as a mystery letter recipient as well as the mystery letter writer.

The man scratched his head. ”Porter? Oh, you mean port? We've ruby, tawny and white. It's over there by the sherry.”

”No,” John said. ”Porter's a beer.”

”Sorry, that's a new one on me.”

The afternoon sun burst through the plate gla.s.s windows of the store with a dazzling intensity. Ceiling fans stirred the air, but it was still searing. John felt pearls of sweat roll down inside his s.h.i.+rt. He'd antic.i.p.ated the storekeeper wouldn't know what porter was so John had consulted the encyclopedia for a modern alternative.

”I'll take a couple of bottles of Guinness, then please.” John reached into his pocket.

”Sorry, we're out of bottlesa there should be some cans across there next toa no, wait. My apologies, we're out of cans, too.”

”You're out of Guinness?”

”I can't understand it either,” the man said, looking genuinely puzzled. ”We had a real run on it this morning.”

”It must be the hot weather.” John smiled but his gut reaction told him exactly what had happened. The mystery mailman visited other people in Skelbrooke, too.

”Do you have any other stout?”

The guy didn't want to commit himself. ”I'll just check. That stuff's been selling fast, too.” He craned his neck so he could see to the back of the store. ”There's none left on the shelf but there are a few bottles in the refrigerator.”

John fetched the bottles himself. They were metric half-liter bottles. He bought two to be on the safe side.

Christ, just listen to himself. He was buying the beer as if lives depended on it. But then maybea he closed off the train of thought. All this was veering close to the delusional, if not out and out insanity. After John handed over the cash the guy slipped the bottles into a lilac carrier. ”Phew. Feel that heat. I'll be ready for a cold one myself tonight.” He handed John the bag. ”There you go, sir.”

John thanked him. Once he'd left the store he walked by the village pond where Robert Gregory threw whole sandwiches to the ducks.

Robert Gregory? He'd certainly taken a dislike to the man when he'd visited old Mr. Price. Could Gregory be the letter writer? Christ, you are getting paranoid, John. Come to that you're going soft in the head. These letters were like insect bites on the back of his neck. Tiny, insignificant things, but G.o.d how they itch. They dominate your day. You can't sleep at night for them. He followed the road uphill, the sun hot on his back. It was a little after three. The barbecued food he'd eaten lay heavy and undigested in his stomach. He'd eaten it to show there was nothing amiss. But the scare a few hours ago had left him badly shaken. If anything Elizabeth had recovered faster than he had when she realized it really wasn't her mother's car lying mangled on the road.

For a few minutes as they'd watched the live TV coverage he'd really believed that it was Val's car. And that his wife and his son were lying crushed inside. Of course, it was a mistake anyone could make. Your wife or husband has a car of the same color, the same make, you see it smashed to pieces on the road. You might jump to the same terrifying, albeit wrong, conclusion. But you'd recover quickly enough. Perhaps you'd feel an idiot for frightening yourself in such a way. Then that would be that. An anecdote you'd tell over dinnera nothing more.

But h.e.l.la he'd still been shaking twenty minutes later. The worst of it was he knew why he was still shaking. The letters. Those d.a.m.ned awful letters. With their demands and their threats. He remembered full well how he'd wanted to shout from the window earlier, Go on, do your worst! I dare you!

Now this was the crazy part. After he'd seen the car wreck on TV, and then realized it wasn't Val's car after all, he had told himself: That was a warning. You challenged the letter writer to do his worst. Even if you'd only thought that challenge. Five minutes later you saw the car wreck on TV. You believed your wife and son were dead. What you've just had is what they call a Scarborough warning, a shot across the bow, a promise of what's to come if you don't yield to the demands.

Which was madnessa But was it? He'd received the first letter demanding he leave chocolate on the grave of a Jess Bowen. He'd ignored it. Elizabeth had fallen from her bike, slas.h.i.+ng open her chin in the process. For a moment he thought someone had cut her throat. That she lay dead on the gra.s.s.

Now he'd seen the car wreck.

But wait a minute, he told himselfa just wait a minute herea So wrapped up in his own thoughts he stepped out into the road without looking. A car horn blasted him. Quickly he stepped back, checked the road was clear then crossed to where the gates of the Necropolis stood like the bones of a gigantic bird against the sky. They were locked. Figuring there'd be another way in, he followed the fence uphill. The lilac carrier bag containing the bottles of beer swung in his hand.