Clarke was no oneiromancer but the dream’s interpretation seemed simple enough. Zek, to her own dismay, had pointed the finger of suspicion at Harry. As for the Aegean backdrop and the blood: these were hardly inappropriate in the circumstances and considering the occurrences of the recent past.
And the dream’s conclusion? Papastamos had put an end to the horror but that wasn’t significant, hadn’t been the point of it. It didn’t have to be Papastamos but could have been any one of them – except Clarke himself. That had been the point of it: that Darcy Clarke himself hadn’t done it and didn’t want it to happen. In fact he had tried to stop it. Just like, right now, he was less than eager to start anything . . .
The telephone was starting its fifth ring when he reached for it, but the relief he’d felt at the first chirrup was shortlived: his nightmare was right there on the other end of the wire.
‘Darcy?’ The Necroscope’s voice was calm, collected, about as detached as Clarke had ever heard it.
‘Harry?’ Clarke pressed a button on his desk, ensuring the conversation would be recorded, and another which alerted the switchboard to start a trace. ‘I’d thought I might have heard from you before now.’
‘Oh, why?’
Harry asked good questions, and this one stopped Clarke dead. For after all, E-Branch didn’t own Harry Keogh. ‘Why – ‘ he thought quickly, ‘ – because of your interest in the serial killer case! I mean, it’s been ten days since we met in Edinburgh; we’ve spoken only once since then. I suppose I’d been hoping you’d come up with something pretty quick.’
‘And your people?’ Harry returned. ‘Your espers: have they come up with anything? Your telepaths and hunch-men, spotters, precogs and locators? Have the police come up with anything? No, they haven’t, because if they had you wouldn’t be asking me. Hey, I’m only one man, Darcy, and you have a whole gang!’
Clarke decided to play the other at his own circuitous game. ‘OK, so tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure, Harry? I can’t believe it’s a social call.’
The Necroscope’s chuckle – normal, however dry -brought a little more relief with it. ‘You make a good sparring partner,’ he said. ‘Except you cry uncle too quick.’ And before Clarke could counter, he went on: ‘I need some information, Darcy, that’s why I’m calling.’
Who am I talking to? Clarke wondered. What am I talking to? God, if only I could be sure it was you, Harry! I mean, all you, just you. But I can’t be sure, and if it’s not all you . . . then sooner or later it will be my job to do something about it. Which, of course, was what his nightmare was all about. But out loud he only said, ‘Information? How can I help you?’
Two things,’ Harry told him. The first one’s a big one: details of the other murdered girls. Oh, I know I could get them for myself; I have friends in the right places, right? But this time I’d prefer not to put the teeming dead to the trouble.’
‘Oh?’ Clarke was curious. Suddenly Harry sounded cagey. Put the Great Majority to the trouble? But the dead would do anything for the Necroscope – even rise from their graves!
‘We’ve asked enough of the dead,’ Harry tried to explain himself, almost as if he’d read Clarke’s mind. ‘Now it’s time we did them a few favours.’
Still puzzled, Clarke said, ‘Give me half an hour and I’ll duplicate everything we have for you. I can mail it or … but no, that would be silly. You can simply pick it up yourself, right here.’
Again Harry’s chuckle. ‘You mean via the Möbius Continuum? What, and set off all those alarms again?’ He stopped chuckling. ‘No, mail it,’ he said. ‘You know I’m not struck on that place of yours. You espers give me the shivers!’
Clarke laughed out loud. It was forced laughter but he hoped the other wouldn’t notice. ‘And what’s the other thing I can do for you, Harry?’
‘That’s easy,’ said the Necroscope. ‘You can tell me about Paxton.’