Others (11 page)

‘Mrs Ripstone…’

‘Shelly, please.’

‘Shelly, can you remember the names of any of the doctors or nurses who attended you in maternity?’

Her still-pretty face took on a blank expression, then frowned in concentration.

The midwife, maybe?’ I suggested helpfully, hopefully.

‘It was such a long time ago.’ She closed her eyes and after a lengthy pause, began to say slowly, ‘Doctor… Doctor… Rhanji… Rhamsi… Rham…? Oh, I don’t know. Was it Djani? He was Asian, I know that. A young man, very nice hands, I seem to remember, long fingers, almost feminine.’

‘It’s okay, I can probably check with NHS records. Anyone else you can think of, perhaps not on the medical staff?’ I wanted an independent witness, someone who was around at the time and who knew Shelly had been pregnant and had had the child, someone over whom the medics had no influence. Because if the baby really had ‘disappeared’ then the medical authorities, for whatever reason, would want the matter kept quiet.

Shelly was slowly shaking her head, her eyes open once more. I sipped coffee and waited. The clairvoyant drank her tea.

There was someone…’ Shelly said after a while, the memory dredged up as if from a deep well. ‘I think he was another doctor, although he didn’t wear a white coat, or anything like that. Very… very distinguished looking. Like an actor, you know? I remember thinking that at the time. But I can’t place him, I think I only saw him twice. He never even spoke, although he did examine me. No, I don’t think I was even told his name.’

I put the coffee cup on the glass table and took out a notepad and pen. Quickly I scribbled down the selection of names she’d applied to the Asian obstetrician under the heading of Royal General Hospital, Dartford. Try to think, will you?’ I urged. ‘Just try to give me some more names. I mean, who else did you have conversations with?’

‘I was an unmarried mother in a ward full of happily married mothers. None of them were very much bothered about me.’

The ‘good old days’, I mused. How things have changed.

Well, what about your own relatives? They must have visited you.’

‘I left home at fifteen, Mr Dismas. I haven’t seen my parents, or brothers and sister, since. For all I know, and for all I care, my mother and father could be dead.’

Groaning inwardly, I lowered the pad. At this rate I couldn’t find corroboration that she had even been pregnant, let alone lost a baby. Louise Broomfield, following our exchange attentively, placed her teacup and saucer on the table close to my coffee cup. The spoon in the saucer rattled against china.

‘Look,’ I persisted. ‘How about the midwife? You must have had plenty of contact with her.’

The spoon in the saucer clinked against the empty cup again and I saw the clairvoyant look down at it.

‘Of course, yes.’ Shelly had brightened a little. ‘She was very kind to me. In fact, she was the one who delivered the baby, because the young doctor was out of the delivery room at the time.’

The midwife actually made the delivery?’

That’s what midwives are for, Mr Dismas. But she needed help at the end. That’s why she sent for the other doctor, the older one.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘Because I was having trouble with the birth, I suppose.’

‘No, I mean why didn’t she call for the normal doctor?’

‘I’ve no idea. I think the other one was more senior, or a specialist or something.’

Now Louise Broomfield’s empty cup rattled along with the teaspoon in the saucer and I assumed a heavy lorry passing by on the main road outside the house had caused a vibration.

‘You’re sure you can’t remember his name, this senior doctor?’ I said.

A firm shake of the head. ‘I told you, I didn’t even know it then. I never saw him again after my little boy was born.’

‘But he was there at the birth.’

‘I already said.’

I pondered on this a moment. ‘Okay, tell me more about the midwife. You say she was kind to you and you had lots of long chats. Surely you can recall her name?’

Shelly made a grumbling-groaning sound, frustrated by her poor memory. ‘I remember she had a foreign accent. She was German or something.’

‘You think she was German?’

‘I’m not sure. Probably.’

Think of her name.’

‘I’m trying to,’ she complained. ‘Why would that help anyway?’

‘Because if I can trace the midwife she might verify your story.’

‘You don’t believe me?’ She sounded mortified.

I changed tack. ‘She could validate the birth when I asked for a search of the records.’

The clairvoyant interrupted. ‘Surely the midwife will have brought hundreds, perhaps even thousands of babies into the world. Why should she remember Shelly giving birth, especially all that time ago?’

‘You got me there. But it’s all we’ve got.’ I noticed Louise looked very pale. ‘If I can find the woman and show her a photograph of Mrs Ripstone, then maybe, just maybe, she’ll remember her stay at the hospital. With luck she might also remember what happened to the baby. Are you okay, Louise?’

The clairvoyant looked momentarily surprised. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You’ve suddenly lost colour.’

Her hand went to her cheek as if she might feel the draining of blood. The teaspoon inexplicably slipped over the edge of the saucer and we all glanced at it, and then at each other.

Louise’s eyelids drooped and she closed them completely. ‘I can hear them,’ she announced quietly.

I sighed and shrugged dismissively; I wasn’t into that kind of thing and was more interested in discovering the identity of Shelly Ripstone
nee
Teasdale’s midwife.

‘You said she wasn’t English, possibly that she was German, so did she have a foreign-sounding name?’

Shelly screwed her face up again in concentration. ‘I don’t… wait… it’s there, I can… No, it’s gone. I almost had it.’

My head cocked to one side as I listened, not to the widow, but to something distant, something like whispers from another room. I looked around and saw nothing unusual. I glanced towards the empty doorway leading into the hall, glimpsed parts of a dining table and chairs in the room opposite, a corner of an etched mirror, probably Venetian or facsimile of.

They’re here,’ the clairvoyant said in a soft breath.

Who’s here?’ Shelly was alarmed. She craned her neck, trying to see into the hall. ‘I can’t see anyone.’

‘Can’t you hear the noise?’ I asked her.

Bewildered, she returned my stare. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

But I could, and so could Louise Broomfield. Whispers, slowly increasing in volume, a jumble of agitated murmur-ings, and they were not from another room: these sounds were there among us. My coffee cup, along with Shelly’s and Louise’s teacup, began to vibrate on the glass table and the portrait of the widow and her late husband above the mantelpiece began to tilt. Suddenly the teacup, with saucer, slid across the coffee table and fell to the floor, dregs of tea and tealeaves spotting the russet carpet.

The whispering became ever louder, the sounds swirling around the room as if borne by some fierce gale.

The clairvoyant reached across to grab my hand. Tou can hear them too.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

The voices? Yes, I can hear the voices.’ I snatched my hand away - her touch had been too cold. “Who are they?
What
are they? What do they want from us?’ I think my voice cracked a little.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I can’t understand what they’re trying to say. They’re so frightened, too frightened to make sense.’

‘They’re
frightened? They’re scaring the hell out of me.’

I looked around the room, this way and that, trying to locate the source. But the voices were ever-moving, never settling, not even becoming united. The long drapes at the windows were fluttering, fresh flowers on a side table were trembling in their vase.

‘Christ, make them go away, Louise,’ I appealed. ‘Isn’t that what you do? Don’t you control this sort of thing?’ I was perplexed, curious, and fearful all at the same time.

‘I can’t. It would be wrong to make them. They’re trying so hard… so hard… to tell me… No. It’s you they want to tell, not me. Please listen to them, Dis.’

Tiny sugar grains hopped and danced in their little China bowl. My coffee cup glided towards me over the glass, coming to rest precariously on the table’s chrome lip.

‘What’s happening?’
Shelly was sitting bolt upright, clutching the arms of her chair, her hands like claws over the ends.
‘What’s moving everything? Please make it stop, Louise.’

It was then that the voices seemed to find entry into my own head and they began their circling in my mind, the confused cacophony almost overwhelming, the excited whisperings and mutterings becoming thunderous. I clapped my hands to my head and shook myself, trying to rid my mind of the demons, afraid they would drive me mad with their incessant babbling, but instead, I sank into them, became a captive inside my own head, joining with their mutterings as though I were part of them, that their anguish was also mine. I leapt to my feet, fingers pressed tight against my temples, and was aware that the clairvoyant was reaching up to me, trying to calm me; but the voices inside drowned her words, and she seemed a long way away from me, beyond assisting.

I rocked on my heels, afraid for my sanity, the intrusion becoming too much to bear. I called out, not a word, just a sound, anything to counteract that inner noise, but it made no difference, the voices continued their tirade.

Louise was on her feet and Shelly had pushed herself further back in her seat as if trying to get as far away from me as possible, the horror on her face frightening me even more. I twisted my body as though that might help loosen the voices from their fierce grip, but still they persisted, tormenting me with their harangue. Louise held on to me and I saw her lips moving, but couldn’t hear her words, didn’t
want
to hear her words, because she was to blame for all this: innocent, even matronly, though she appeared, she was the catalyst, she was the one drawing these strange forces to me. I knew it, I could feel it! She had evoked those terrible sounds of wings that had haunted us the previous night, whatever sensory powers she really did possess had induced or provoked the phenomenon! But then I remembered the reflections in the mirrors. On neither occasion had Louise Broomfield been present. Christ, I hadn’t even known her!

It was the thought of those mirrors that sent me fleeing from the room and across the hall into the dining-room beyond.

On the wall opposite the door, mounted above a polished, walnut sideboard containing silver-framed photographs, candlesticks and a full fruit bowl, was the Venetian-styled mirror whose edge I had glimpsed from the lounge earlier. Fake or not, it was a magnificent piece with carved, bevelled edges, the tall oval centre framed by etched flower motifs and topped by an ornate mosaic floral design. Standing across the room from it, the long, walnut dining table between, I saw my own unpleasant image reflected in the glass.

But even as I watched, a new sound was rising not just inside my head but in the room itself. It came like approaching thunder, growing louder and louder, a low rumbling that began to drown the urgent whispered voices. Before my eyes, my reflection began to fade and in its place there appeared thousands of small fluttering creatures, birds of all kinds that flew against the glass as though trapped in the dimension on the other side. Their wings beat against the clear barrier, creating the noise: there were no screeches, no chirps, only the thrashing of those agitated feathered wings and the shifting of air.

I felt the presence of the clairvoyant and Shelly Ripstone, who had followed me into the room, felt them beside me, looking at my face and not at the mirror. Only then did they follow my gaze and look, themselves, into the chaos inside the glass.

Yet when I glanced away to see their faces, perhaps seeking assurance that I was not hallucinating, was not going insane, I realized they did not see the same as I in the mirror, for their expressions held no surprise, no wonder, but merely puzzlement. I faced the mirror again and saw that the images were fading, gradually vanishing, the noise - the flurry of wings, the turbulent air, the voices - abating.

In a few moments, the room was quiet again, and in the mirror was only the reflection of Louise, Shelly and myself.

But as Shelly Ripstone stared at herself, she was speaking, her voice almost distant as though she spoke only to herself and perhaps unconsciously.

‘I remember now,’ she said. ‘I remember the midwife’s name.’

She seemed to snap out of her distracted mood. She turned to us.

‘It was Vogel. The midwife’s name was Helda - no,
Hildegarde -
Vogel. God, it’s clear as day now. Hildegarde Vogel.’

12

Like most big town centres nowadays, getting to a specific place in Dartford had been screwed up royally by its one-way traffic system and I was forced to use a car park some distance away from where I wanted to be. Walking long stretches was always a problem for me and after the beating I’d taken on the beach the previous night, the bruising and stiffness in my limbs didn’t help much. It even hurt when I breathed too deeply, although I didn’t believe I’d fractured ribs - one particular kick I’d taken while I was down had merely left its mark, a deep purple and yellow contusion over my left rib cage. The afternoon was hot too, which had a draining effect on my energy as I walked.

Grumbling to myself all the way, I eventually reached my destination, the road where the Dartford General had once stood. It was a broad, busy thoroughfare with metal railings on either side to prevent idiots, children and dogs from running out into the traffic. On the spot where apparently the hospital in which Shelly Ripstone/Teasdale claimed to have given birth had stood was a massive, granite and glass office block, an insurance company’s name and logo over the main doors. I lingered outside awhile, leaning against the pavement rail, catching my breath and resting my legs, inspecting the territory at the same time.

On this side of the main road were mainly other offices, these broken up by a couple of estate agents, a betting shop and a bank, all of which looked comparatively new - at least built within the last ten years, that is. On the opposite side of the road, though, I saw what I had hoped to find. It was a longshot, but all I had.

That morning, my client had been quite certain of the midwife’s name. Hildegarde Vogel, a little, thin woman, not at all robust as you might expect one of her profession to be. And very kind. Shelly had impressed that on me: she recalled that Hildegarde had been very kind to her.

Both Louise Broomfield and the widow had been shaken by the mysterious storm that had erupted inside the Ripstone house, and further worried by my actions during it. Why had I fled to the dining-room to gawp into an ordinary if fancy mirror on the wall there? I told them both of the tiny birds I had seen trapped inside the glass and although Shelly had stared at me as if I were mad, the clairvoyant had merely nodded her head, not in comprehension, but in belief. The message was becoming stronger, she informed me. Somehow it would eventually make sense to us.

Shelly Ripstone was pouring herself a large gin and tonic when I left the house, while the clairvoyant tried to assure her that all would be well, that while the phenomenon might be unusual, there was no evil intent to it. I wondered how she could be so sure.

When I got back to the office, I had spent some time on the phone, checking out the midwife’s identity with the NHS, and after being transferred from one office to another, finally learned that yes, there had been someone on the Dartford General’s staff who went by that name. The records said she had been transfered from the Prince Albert Hospital in Hackney, in fact, their records did not go back beyond ten years, so she was only just on their list. Did I know that the Dartford General had burnt down? Ms Vogel certainly wasn’t on the NHS list any more, so if she had left the service there would be no record of her current address. Great. Another dead-end.

However, there are certain processes you can go through to trace an adult missing person: checking the electoral roll of the area where the person was last known to have resided is one, scouring through the local telephone directories is another. Or you can use specialist computer tracing companies, which are linked into data bases all over the country. Unfortunately, their services are very expensive. Speaking for myself, I liked to use the method that had rarely let me down: local enquiries, visiting the missing person’s old neighbourhood and asking around. It’s surprising what you can dig up by personal contact, which is why I found myself in Dartford on that hot summer’s afternoon.

I had to walk further along the road to reach a break in the pavement barrier where a pedestrian crossing would get me over the lively main road, my limp quite pronounced by now. I hobbled across, feeling the glares of drivers forced to stop - not their impatience, but their curiosity - then retraced my steps to a spot almost opposite the insurance block. The shop I sought out was a tobacconist/newsagent/ confectioner and although it had obviously been modernized some time within the last decade, I was hoping the shop itself had been around for a lot longer. A lottery ticket sign was on the window and through the plate-glass I could see magazine displays and stacked shelves full of sweets and chocolate. Just the kind of place that would be frequented by staff and visitors alike from the hospital that had once stood opposite, particularly if there had been no railings to prevent easy access.

There were few customers inside: a couple of little kids by the ice-cream treasure trove, an elderly man with a stick browsing the magazine shelves. The kids, a boy of seven or eight years old, a girl a year or so younger, regarded me with large, solemn, dark and beautiful eyes, and the boy slyly nudged the girl. She nudged him back, a little harder, so that he tottered.

‘Shabir! Farida! Behave yourselves or go into the back room.’

The youth who had admonished them had the same exquisite looks, but was considerably older, somewhere in his late teens. He stood behind the counter at the far end of the shop and his eyes revealed nothing as he watched my approach.

‘Can I ‘elp you, sir?’ His accent was a peculiar mix of Hindi and Estuary.

‘Uh, yes, you might be able to.’

The boy giggled.

‘Shabir!’ The youth said sternly and the two kids wandered off towards the shop’s entrance.

I showed the young shopkeeper my calling card - it meant nothing in itself, but many people assumed (mistakenly) that it carried some authority.

‘I’m from the Dismas Investigations agency and I’m trying to locate someone who used to work in the hospital over the road there…’ I indicated with a thumb ‘… before it burnt down.’

‘Oh, I’m very sorry, but I don’t think -‘

There’s a chance she used to shop here.’

‘I know nothing of any ‘ospital.’

‘It was destroyed about ten years ago.’

‘We -‘ spoken as
‘Ve’
‘ - were not here then. But wait -‘ ‘Fait” - a moment Perhaps my father…’

He called through the open doorway behind him. ‘Father, I have someone here who is enquiring about an ‘ospital.’

I heard the stirring from the room beyond and a middle-aged man appeared, a copy of the
Sun
newspaper in his hand, a curved yellow pipe with a large foul-smelling bowl drooping from his lips. What little hair he had stretched over his brown scalp was a contrasting mixture of black and white; his whiskers and the hair at the back of his neck were more abundant, bushy even, the white amongst it more dominant. Despite the heat of the day, he wore a threadbare green cardigan over a collarless shirt, and weary-looking slippers peered from beneath the folds of his baggy trouser legs.

He regarded me without expression before removing the pipe with his free hand and saying: ‘Yis, there used to be a hospital.’ No southern-sprawl accent here, although his English appeared to be good. ‘But that was -‘ again, the was ‘ - long time ago, before we came here.’

Bugger, I thought. ‘I don’t suppose anyone who
used
to work there still comes in?’ I ventured without much hope.

‘Oh no, I do not think so. Why do you want such a person?’
Vy do you vont such a person?

‘Just making enquiries for a client. No problems involved, but it is important that we contact this person or anyone who knew her.’ I thought quickly as father and son watched me, neither one saying a word. ‘How long have you been running this place?’ I asked.

‘My father has owned the shop for eight years,’ replied the youth.

‘Nine years,’ the older man corrected. ‘You were ten years old, Rajiv, and the little ones had not even been born yet’

‘Ah,’ said the son.

I rested a hand on the counter between us and shifted my weight to my good leg. ‘So the people you took over from would have been here at the time of the fire and presumably for some time before.’

The man and his good lady-wife owned the shop for many, many years. I am told the business was passed on from generation to generation, but the couple had no children of their own to keep it in the family.’

My heart sank a little. They were elderly?’

They were of near retirement age and the closing of the hospital affected custom considerably. I think they had had enough of life’s hard toil so they were very pleased to sell to me at a good price.’ He was watching me shrewdly, sucking on the pipe between replies. Scented smoke drifted my way.

‘D’you know if they’re still alive?’ I asked hopefully.

That I do not know, sir. We kept in touch for a while -they advised me on supplies and stock requirements, that sort of thing - but I have not spoken to Mr and Mrs Vilkins for many years now. So my answer is that I do not know if they are still among the living.’

‘But you still have their next address?’

‘Oh yis, I believe so. It would be in the book.’ He turned to his son. ‘Rajiv, go and fetch my big red address book to me. Hurry for the gentleman - you’ll find it in the cupboard under the television set.’

He gave a little bow in my direction as his son disappeared into the back room. Then he took the pipe from his mouth and gave me a benevolent smile.

Thank you, Mr…?’ I said gratefully.

‘Dahib Sahab is my name and I am most pleased to be of assistance.’ Without any embarrassment, he studied my crooked form as if wondering how it could possibly function. Then he nodded as if satisfied that he had figured it all out. ‘Very unlucky this time, no?’ he said to me.

‘What?’

He pointed the stem of his pipe at me and was about to say more when his son returned carrying a battered red-covered book, many of its pages loose and threatening to spill on to the floor. The shopkeeper took the address book and opened it out on the counter.

‘Let us see,’ he murmured to himself as he leafed through. I noticed that the little girl had wandered back down the shop and was leaning against the counter, her wonderful dark eyes peeping up at me. I did my best to give her a friendly smile and was relieved when she smiled back, not at all afraid.

‘Villeins, Vilkin…’ the father was muttering as his stubby finger slid down the pages. ‘Ah yis. George and Emma Vilkins.’ He turned the book around so that I could see the name and address he was pointing at.

‘Wilkins,’ I said.

‘Yis
,
Vilkins,’ he agreed.

‘May I write it down? The address and phone number?’

‘Please.’
Pliz.

I took out the small notepad I always carried with me and jotted down the information I needed. ‘Ramble Avenue,’ I said as I scribbled. ‘Is that far from here?’

‘Not very.’ It was the son who spoke, his eyes slightly suspicious, as they had been throughout the exchange. ‘On the other side of the motorway, going towards Swanscombe.’

‘Great,’ I said, studying my note. ‘And you say you haven’t spoken to Mr and Mrs Vilk… Wilkins… for some time?’

The shopkeeper shook his head mournfully, as though the lapse made him sad. ‘I did not like to bother Mr Vilkins too much in his retirement. In any case, the business is not difficult, so there was no need.’

The girl, Farida, was touching my arm as if to feel if I were real. I gave her another smile, which she returned again, continuing to run her fingers along the sleeve of my jacket.

‘Uh, thank you very much,’ I said to the shopkeeper and his son. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

The older man accorded me another small nod of his head, but the son merely walked away and began tidying newspapers further along the counter. I turned to leave, then glanced around at the shopkeeper again.

What did you mean when you said I was unlucky this time?’ I asked him.

For a few moments he said nothing. Then, his gaze going beyond me, focusing on something in the middle-distance, he replied: ‘If you do not know yourself, my friend, then it is not for me to say.’

Gathering up his ragged, loose-leaved address book, he retired to the backroom.

The sun was hard on me as I traipsed back to the car park, its harsh rays pounding my head without respite. I peeked longingly into the open doorways of pubs that I passed, but bravely resisted the urge to drop in for a cold beer and shade every time. In my line of work, it presented a bad image to make enquiries with alcohol on your breath.

I was still puzzled by the Asian shopkeeper’s last remark, wondering what was behind it, precisely what was he getting at? He had said it so sagely and with such inscrutability, as though he were the Keeper of Hidden Knowledge and I was the poor sap who didn’t have a clue. I remembered that the Hindu religion subscribed to reincarnation, so maybe that was what he was getting at: I’d come back this time in a less than lovely form. Shit, what nonsense! What would have been the point in that? Yes, I really was clueless.

When I finally got to my car I collapsed on to the front seat, leaving the door open wide to get rid of the build-up of heat inside. Giving myself a minute or so to get my breath back and to rest my aching legs, I struggled out of my jacket and threw it on to the passenger seat, first taking my cellphone from a pocket. I wiped my face with my shirtsleeve before tapping out the Wilkinses’ phone number with my thumb.

There was no reply, but at least the line was still in service. I sat and pondered awhile, enjoying the comfort of the car. Okay, I was down in this neck of the woods so I might as well drive to the Wilkinses’ last known address; even if they had moved away, or passed on in the terminal sense, the neighbours would be able to tell me either way. Stretching over to the back seat I picked up the Greater London Street Atlas I always kept in the car - it covered all the streets in the suburbs as well as the city itself and was invaluable in my line of work - and consulted the index before flicking through the pages to find the area I wanted. Ramble Avenue wasn’t far away, a couple of miles at most. I closed the car door, flicked the isolation switch (yes, even in a car park I still took precautions, out of habit, I suppose) and started the engine, turning the cooler on to full blast.