“Ah, but you missed the most interesting part. You were asleep.”
Heseltine said: “Would you mind explaining?”
Fallada said: “You can use a pendulum like water-divining rods. It reacts to different substances at different lengths — twenty-four inches for a male, twenty-nine for a female. The Count said he’d used it to test whether one of his patients was possessed by a vampire — it reacted to both the male and female length when it was held above him. That’s why he tried it on Olof.”
“And what happened?”
“It reacted for male and female. But that’s not all. Geijerstam agreed it could be a coincidence, because the female length also indicates danger. So he tried testing Olof at lengths beyond forty inches — that’s the length for death and sleep. Apparently there shouldn’t be any reaction beyond that length, because death’s an ultimate limit. As Olof lay asleep, the old woman tested him at forty inches, and got a strong reaction. Then she lengthened it to sixty-four — forty inches plus the normal male length. She got no reaction at all. So she lengthened it to sixty-nine-forty plus the female length. And the damn thing began to sweep around in enormous circles.”
Heseltine asked quietly: “Which indicates what?”
“He wasn’t sure. But he said that it could mean that whatever was causing the reaction was already dead.”
Carlsen felt the hairs on his neck prickle. His voice sounded oddly strained as he said: “I don’t believe that. These things are alive, all right.”
Fallada shrugged. “I’m only reporting what Geijerstam said. I don’t think these things are supernatural either.”
Heseltine said: “That depends on what you mean by supernatural.”
“Well, dead. . . ghosts, whatever you want to call it.”
Carlsen experienced the now-familiar sense of despair and hopelessness, the feeling that the world had suddenly become immensely alien. He was accustomed to the emptiness of space, but even in the outer limits of the solar system, he had never lost a sense of belonging to the earth, of being a member of the human race. Now there was a frightening sense of inner coldness, as if he were moving into areas where no other human being could follow. Looking at the endless lights of the Great North Way and at the glow of some city — probably Nottingham — in the distance, he was overwhelmed by a sense of unreality that was like falling. The panic began to build up. And then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Whatever happened was too quick to be grasped by his perceptions. There was a flash of insight that made the panic seem absurd. Then the lights below seemed to become brighter; there was a sudden wave of delight, a sense of freshness. It had gone as quickly as it came, leaving him startled and puzzled. His eyes felt tired, and he closed them.
A moment later, Fallada was saying: “Wake up, Olof. We’ve arrived.”
He realised that the Grasshopper was about to land on a deserted road and that its powerful searchlights were illuminating the tops of trees. He said: “Where are we?”
The pilot said over his shoulder: “A few miles south of Huddersfield. Holmfirth can’t be far away.”
He looked at his watch. It was nine-fifteen; he had been asleep for half an hour.
On the road, the Grasshopper ceased to be powered by jets; rotary drive took over, and the short wings retracted; in effect, it became a large car. A few yards further on, they halted at a crossroad; one arm of the signpost pointed to Barnsley, the other to Holmfirth.
Heseltine said: “It’s still early. I think we have time to pay a visit to Mr Pryce. Sergeant, get on to Information and find out where we can find Upperthong Road.”
The pilot dialled the computerised street guide. A map of Holmfirth flashed onto the television monitor, one of the roads illuminated in red. Parker said: “That’s lucky. We seem to be on it.”
It took less than five minutes to locate the house, an expensive bungalow of glass and fibreflex standing in a quarter of an acre of lawn; a spotlight illuminated the ornamental pond and the flower beds.
An elderly lady answered the doorbell; she looked alarmed to see three strangers. Heseltine produced his identification. “Is it possible to speak to your husband?”
She asked: “Is it income tax?”
Heseltine said soothingly: “No, no. Nothing to worry about. He might be able to help us with a piece of information.”
“Just a moment, please.” She disappeared inside.
Heseltine looked at the others and winked. “It’s obvious what she’s got on her conscience.”
Several minutes elapsed, then the woman came back.
“Come in, please.”
She led them into a curtained sitting room. A powerful elderly man in a wheelchair was seated at the table, with a cold meal in front of him.
Heseltine said: “Mr Arthur Pryce?”
“Yes.” He seemed unalarmed; only curious.
“I. . . think there must be some mistake. Do you own a Crystal Flame number QBX 5279L?”
“Ay. That’s mine.”
“Have you been driving it today?”
The woman interjected: “No. He can’t drive any more.”
The man said: “Shut up, Nell.” He turned to Heseltine. “Has it been involved in an accident?”
“Oh, no, nothing of the kind. We just want to trace the man who was driving it this morning.”
The woman said: “That’ll be Ned.”
“Will you keep quiet!”
Heseltine asked: “Who is Ned?”
The man glowered at his wife. “Our son. He runs the business for me since I had the accident.”
“I see. Could I have his address?”
The man said finally: “He only lives across the road. What’s it all about, then?”
“Nothing to worry about, I assure you, Mr Pryce. We’re trying to trace a missing person and thought he might be able to give us some information. What’s the number of the house?”
The man said sulkily: “One five nine.”
The woman, now reassured, showed them to the gate, and pointed to a house fifty yards away. “The one with the red curtains — you can’t miss it.”
The house with the red curtains looked appreciably less expensive than the other; the garden was tangled and overgrown. The car they were looking for stood in front of the garage door. When Heseltine rang the doorbell, a voice spoke from a small loudspeaker, “Who is it?”
“The police. Could we have a word with Mr Pryce?”
There was no reply, but a moment later, the door opened. A small; fair-haired woman was carrying a sleeping child who was far too big for her. She might have been pretty if she had looked less harassed and defeated. She peered out awkwardly from behind the head that rested on her shoulder and asked in a whisper: “What do you want?”
“Could we speak to your husband, please?”
“He’s gone to bed.”
“Could you see if he’s asleep? It’s fairly important.”
She looked from one to the other, evidently overawed by Heseltine’s quiet air of authority. “Well, I don’t know. . . You’ll have to wait a moment. . .”
“Of course.”
They watched her plod slowly upstairs, staggering with he weight of the child. Several minutes went by. Heseltine said, sighing: “It reminds me of my old days on the beat. I was never any good at intruding on people.” They stood staring into the hall, which contained a pram, a bicycle and a box of children’s toys. Five minutes later, a man appeared at the top of the stairs. As he advanced to meet them, Carlsen could see that he was red-haired and overweight, with an unhealthy complexion. He looked worried, slightly furtive.
He seemed reassured when Heseltine apologised for disturbing him and asked if he could spare them a few minutes. He glanced up the stairs, then invited them in.
In the lounge, the sixty-inch colour television was the only illumination. The man switched the sound down, then turned on the wall light. He dropped into the armchair, massaging his eyes with his fingers. His hands were muscular and covered with coarse red hair.
Heseltine said: “Mr Pryce, at about eleven-thirty this morning, you were up on the moor in the car that is now outside your house.”
The man grunted but said nothing. He looked as if he had been awakened from a deep sleep. Carlsen could sense his fatigue and alarm.
Heseltine said: “We want to know about the girl in the red and yellow striped dress. . .”
The man looked up quickly, then dropped his eyes again. He cleared his throat and asked: “I haven’t broken the law, have I?”
Heseltine’s voice was soothing. “Of course you haven’t, Mr Pryce. No one’s suggesting that you have.”
The man asked aggressively: “What’s this all about, then?”
It was Carlsen who sensed the right approach. He had been looking at the photographs on the shelf; in most of them, the man was smiling or laughing with a group of other men. It was the face of an extrovert who disliked being made to feel guilty. Carlsen sat down on a hard-backed chair, where he could look into the man’s face. “Let me be frank with you, Mr Pryce. We need your help, and anything you tell us won’t go beyond this room. We simply want to know what happened with the girl.”