‘But do we have any plans?’ Jordan couldn’t stand the inactivity. ‘I mean, are we going to do something? Or do we just sit here playing with ourselves while everything goes to hell?’
‘There are jobs for everybody.’ Roberts held up a huge, controlling hand. ‘First I need a volunteer to go up and help Darcy Clarke in Hartlepool. Apart from a couple of Special Branch men — who are good blokes but simply can’t be expected to know what they’re on — Darcy’s on his own. The ideal thing would be to send a spotter, except we don’t have one right now. So it will have to be a telepath.’ He looked pointedly at Jordan.
Harvey Newton got in first, however, saying: ‘That’s me! I owe Bodescu that much. He got by me last time, but he won’t do it again.’
Jordan shrugged and no one else objected. Roberts nodded. ‘OK — but stay sharp! Go now, by car. The roads will be empty, so you should be able to go flat out. Depending on how things go at this end, I’ll probably be joining you sometime tomorrow.’
That was all Newton had wanted. He stood up, nodded once to all in general, got on his way. ‘Take a crossbow,’ Roberts called after him. ‘And Harvey, next time you “shoot your bolt” make sure you hit the target!’
‘What’s my job?’ Jordan asked.
‘You’ll work with Mike Carson,’ Roberts told him.
‘And with me and Layard. We’ll try to locate Quint again, and you telepaths can take a stab at sending to him. It’s a long shot, but Quint’s a spotter, he’s a psychic sensitive; he might just feel you. Your message to him will be simple: if he can he’s to get in touch with us. If we can get him on the phone, we can perhaps find out about Kyle. And if he doesn’t know about Kyle — well, that in itself will answer one question. Also, if we do manage to contact him, it might be a good idea to tell Quint to get the hell out of there — if and while he can! So that’s the four of us tied up for the night.’ He looked round the table.
‘The rest of you can concentrate on the proper running of this place before it comes apart at the seams. Every man Jack is on duty full time as of now. Right, are there any questions?’
‘Are we the only ones in on this?’ John Grieve asked. ‘I mean, are the public, the authorities, still entirely in the dark?’
‘Totally. What do we tell them — that we’re chasing a vampire through the countryside from Devon to British West Hartlepool? Listen, even the people who fund us and know we exist don’t wholly believe in us! How do you think they’d react to the facts about Yulian Bodescu? And as for Harry Keogh . . . of course the public is in the dark about it.’
‘With a single exception, anyway,’ said Layard. ‘We’ve had the police alerted to the fact that there’s a mad killer on the loose — Bodescu’s description, of course. We’ve told them he’s heading north, possible destination the Hartlepool area. They’ve been warned that if he’s spotted they’re not to apprehend him but get in touch with us first, then the Special Branch lads who are up there on the job. As and when Bodescu gets closer to his target, then we’ll be more specific. That’s as much as we dare do for now.’
Roberts looked from face to face. ‘Any more questions?’ he asked. There were none
3.30 A.M. at Brenda Keogh’s tiny but immaculate garret flat overlooking the main road through the town and, across the road, an old, old cemetery. Harry Jnr lay in his cot sleeping and dreaming baby dreams, and his father’s mind slept with him, exhausted from a struggle he now knew he had no hope of winning. The child had him, it was as simple as that. Harry was the baby’s sixth sense.
In the wee small hours of the misty morning, with dawn still half a night away, a thicker mist was forming in slumbering minds, bringing horror as it swirled and eddied in subconscious caverns of dream. And out of nowhere, telepathic fingers were reaching, probing, discovering!