The Camelot Code (29 page)

Mitzi’s dreams are filled with flashes of medieval knights on horseback, Irish’s tumbling car and fish.

Millions of tropical fish.

Her daughters are swimming in the San Francisco aquarium with them. They’re all down there together. Horses. Knights. Irish. His trashed car. The Ford’s windows are busted. Fish and her girls are swimming in and out of the holes.

Somewhere above water, back in the real world, a phone rings.

Mitzi breaststrokes an arm out of bed and grabs it. ‘
Urmgh
,’ is the best she can manage.

‘Good morning, Mrs Fallon. It’s the front desk. There is a driver waiting for you in reception.’

‘What?’

‘A driver, madam. From Sir Owain Gwyn.’

She squints at the bedside clock. 08.55.

‘Crapolla. Tell him I’ll be ten minutes.’

‘Yes, madam.’

She bangs the phone down, flies to the bathroom and quickly showers and dries. A look in the mirror shows her black eyes have morphed into large purple stains. Make-up deadens the ugliness a little but nowhere near enough to completely hide them. She drags a comb through her hair. Attacks it with hairspray. Dresses in black slacks and an unironed grey top, then grabs a jacket and heads downstairs.

The same driver is waiting in reception. The one that says nothing and throws the vehicle around like it’s a cocktail shaker. He smiles and walks outside.

It’s rained all night and is still raining when Bronty sticks his head out of the tiny farmhouse where he’s staying. It’s not the kind of warm, light drizzle that makes you feel good to be out in it but torrential rain that soaks you to the skin and leaves you cold and shivering for the rest of the day.

The American hurries to the Marisco Tavern, the island’s only hostelry and a place where a full English breakfast of bacon, eggs, fried bread and mushrooms costs less than a cappuccino in London.

Within minutes, he’s pointed to a man breakfasting in the corner of the tavern’s main bar, a ferryman from the Oldenburg called Dan Smallfellow. The old sailor is a personification of his surname. He’s a tiny sparrow of a man, with a bent back and wisps of white hair that refuse to lie down on his mottled bare skull.

‘So what do you want to know?’ he says, after Bronty has introduced himself. ‘Are you looking for oil, gold or legends? It’s usually one of them things.’

Bronty is amused by his candour. He takes out a copy of the sketch of the cross seen by Sophie Hudson. ‘Does this mean anything to you? Does it have to do with the island?’

Old Dan looks at it and takes a swig of tea. ‘It looks Celtic but different. Like it belonged to a special sect or clan.’ He puts the drawing down. ‘So it’s legends you’re chasing. There are plenty of them here.’

‘Like King Arthur and his knights?’

‘You’re a Yank, aren’t you?’

‘I’m American, yes.’

He takes a bite of toast. ‘And you’re trying to link that there cross with King Arthur and Lundy?’

‘Is it a ridiculous suggestion?’

‘Not at all. There are them that say the island is Avalon – Arthur’s resting place.’

Bronty suspects he’s being strung along. ‘I thought that was supposed to be in England, near Glastonbury?’

‘Propaganda. The English claim it’s in England. The Welsh claim it’s in Wales and the French claim it’s there.’ The ferryman looks at rain hitting the window. ‘They are all liars when it comes to legends. They smell the tourist dollar and lie, lie, lie. Not for nothing is Lundy known as
Annwyn
, the gateway to the Otherworld.’

Bronty valiantly refrains from launching into a theological lecture about heaven. ‘So if Arthur is here, where exactly would I find his grave?’

Old Dan slurps more tea before answering. ‘That would be a secret, wouldn’t it? Think of how King Richard the Third’s bones lay for centuries beneath common ground in Leicester; perhaps King Arthur lies out here in an unmarked grave.’ There’s a sparkle in his eyes. ‘Go and visit the Giants’ Graves or the Celtic Stones – you might find him there. Or, look out to sea and figure if he were rowed out from shore and laid to rest with the fish and sunken ships.’

‘I get the feeling you’re making fun of me.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not ribbing you. Everything is possible on Lundy. It’s a place of magic. The longer you stay here the more you’ll find I’m right.’

Deer mooch at the edge of a copse of beech then scatter as a speeding Range Rover breaks the morning peace. Hares and rabbits skittishly head for cover. Fat sheep rise from slumber and plod damp morning grass.

The 4x4 stops by the main entrance.

Mitzi’s out of the back before the driver can walk round to her door. She flaps it shut and without looking round, heads towards the castle.

‘You’re the American, aren’t you?’

The deep male voice has come from nowhere.

She turns and is startled to see an old man, shrouded in long white hair, straggly beard and full-length black coat.

‘Holy friggin’ hell! Where did you come from?’

‘I am Myrddin.’ His skinny hand levitates towards hers. ‘It is my pleasure to have encountered you.’ His eyes roam her face and he remembers his vision at the Font of Knowledge –
two women,
one known, one a complete stranger. Both in danger. Both will see death.

She takes a long stare into his pale green eyes as she shakes his hand. ‘Mitzi Fallon. In future, you should go easy with your surprise
encountering
.’

‘Eyes tell you very little,’ he says, disarmingly. ‘If you are searching for the true nature of a person you should look instead to their mouth. The lips and tongue are the slaves of the brain; they are stupid and far more likely to make mistakes than the eyes.’

Unwittingly, she shifts her attention to his mouth. The teeth are plentiful, well-shaped and unstained. The lips youthful, plump and moist. All features more fitting a far younger man.

In return, Myrddin pointedly studies her. ‘Your mouth is well used to truth. You are a good person, but it is not right that you are here.’

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘You seek the men who entered the Cave of Past and Present, those who slayed the Keeper of Time —’

‘I seek
what
?’

‘— you pursue them and also the silent brown beast that carries the disciples of Death.’

‘Aah.’ She gets it now. The poor old guy has a screw loose. ‘Very nice to have met you, Mervyn.’ She smiles politely and shakes his hand again. ‘I have to go now and see Sir Owain in the real world, you take care.’

Mitzi wants to walk away but for some reason she can’t. Her feet are so heavy she can’t move them.

Myrddin lets her hand drop. His eyes narrow and those soft lips of his speak slow and persuasive words. ‘You must return the shadow of knowledge. Give back the light of tomorrow or else you will cry endless tears.’

‘Lieutenant!’ The voice is Owain’s.

She turns her upper body to find him.

‘Good morning.’ He walks briskly towards her. ‘How are you today?’

Her feet free up and she stumbles forward. ‘I’m, er… I just met Merv, here —’ She turns back to gesture to the old man.

Only he’s gone.

‘Are you all right?’ Owain takes her arm and steadies her. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Ruth Everett wakes with what feels like the mother of all hangovers. First comes the agonizing pain in her head. Then a whoosh of sickness, followed by the realization she is fully dressed and lying on the kitchen floor staring up at the ceiling.

But the worst is yet to come.

The moment when she remembers what happened.

The nice woman who had broken down outside her house
…
 

…
had attacked her.
 

She’d let her use a landline to call the vehicle rental company and while they waited for the breakdown truck, she’d started to make some coffee. She’d been stood at the window getting mugs out of the dishwasher when the woman stuck something sharp in her neck. That sneaky bitch had spiked her, slapped a hand over her mouth and then forced her to the floor where she passed out.

Ruth gets to her feet. Struggles to the sink to pour some water. She pictures what’s she’s about to find. Her purse will have been emptied of cash and credit cards. No doubt all her jewellery will be gone. Maybe even the car off the drive.

The twins
.

She hadn’t thought of them at first because she was so messed up by the drugs, but she does now.

‘Jade! Amber!’

Her throat hurts as she shouts. ‘Girls – where are you?’

They were on the patio when the woman rolled up. Maybe they’ve run to neighbours for help. She rushes to the hall. Looks in the lounge and TV room. There’s no sign of a disturbance. No fight. Nothing stolen.

‘Girls – you upstairs?’ She feels dizzy as she hauls herself up the treads.

In the master bedroom, Jack’s books are still piled high on the table next to his side of the bed, a page marker stuck a third of a way through a novel he never got to finish. Bracelets and rings shine out from a crystal jewellery holder in the middle of her dressing table. ‘Oh my God.’ She sinks on to the bed as reality hits her.

A note lies on the quilt.

It has a simple seven-word message.

‘
CALL
THE
COPS
AND
THE
KIDS
DIE
.
’

Sir Owain guides Mitzi to a teak garden bench on a paved pathway a few yards from where he found her. ‘Sit a minute, then I’ll walk you inside.’

‘I’m fine. And I’m not a dog that needs to be walked.’ She looks out over the empty lawn. ‘Who was that old guy and where the hell did he go?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘I bet it is.’ Her cell phone rings. ‘You mind if I take this?’

‘Please.’ He steps away to give her privacy.

Caller display says it’s her sister. Probably unable to sleep and needing to rant about Jack and his wandering hands. ‘Hey Ruthy, I’m kinda busy right now – can I call you back?’

There’s a tense silence before she answers. ‘Mitzi, it’s the girls.’

She picks up the fear. ‘
What’s
the girls?’

‘They’re gone. They’ve been taken from the house.’

‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’ She thinks of Alfie. Maybe he’s picked them up without permission.

‘I let this woman in…’ Ruth starts to choke. ‘She said her car had broken down – and while we waited for the rescue truck she stuck something in my neck.’ She’s almost unable to speak now. ‘I just came round and found a note. It says if I call the cops the kids will die.’

Mitzi’s heartbeat goes off the scale. ‘Have you called them?’ She has to remind herself to stay calm and act professionally. ‘Who’d you call, Ruth?’

‘Just you.’ She breaks down now. ‘Just you, that’s all.’

‘Okay.’ Mitzi struggles to breathe and hears herself saying, ‘Do nothing. Lock the doors, sit tight and let me get back to you.’ She looks up at Gwyn. He’s stood a few yards away, his back to her, his eyes fixed on one of the castle towers.

Could he have done this? A follow-through on the warnings he’d given her?

She pockets the phone and charges at him. Hits him square in the back. The blow knocks Owain forward but not down.

He staggers and turns to see her wide-eyed with rage.

‘You motherfucking son-of-a-bitch. You think you can hurt my fucking kids?’ She throws a raw right-hander.

He plucks it out of the air like he is catching a baseball tossed by a toddler.

Mitzi boots out at his legs. A crippling kick, hard enough to shatter a shin bone.

He leans effortlessly away from it. Gently twists her hand so the wrist and elbow lock and she is forced face down onto the grass.

Mitzi knows the manoeuvre well enough. If she shifts an inch her wrist will break.

He bends close to her face. ‘I’ve done nothing to your children. Do you understand me?’

She doesn’t answer.

His grip stays tight and his voice calm. ‘Lieutenant, do you understand what I am saying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay.’ He lets go of her arm and helps her to her feet. ‘I’m very sorry I had to do that. Now please tell me what has happened.’

It’s a shack of a place. Way off the beaten track. Made from cheap clapboard and is little more than a big shed divided into a living room and kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom.

Just perfect for their needs.

‘Kidnapping sure is thirsty work,’ says Chris as he brings in a six-pack from the RV. ‘You want a beer?’

The twins are laid out on the floor, back to back. Tess is sat opposite them in a cheap chair, with a handgun on her lap. ‘Yeah, but get me a glass. I don’t like drinkin’ straight from the bottle.’

Things had pretty much gone to plan.

She’d stuck Ruth Everett with a sedative then called Chris, who’d been waiting in woods half a mile away. Once he’d gotten himself in position in the house she’d shouted the girls in from the patio, saying their aunt was sick. Chris had spiked them as easy as popping sausages on a BBQ.

Together they bundled them into the RV and headed out to where they’re now having a celebratory beer.

Chris takes a tumbler from a cupboard, rubs a dishtowel in it to get rid of dust and froths out the Bud for the love of his life.

Tess gets on her knees, puts her fingers across the wrists of the girls and checks their pulses. Too much of the sedative and they die. Too little and they’ll be a handful.

Seems from the throbbing vein beneath her fingers that she dosed them just right.

She checks their restraints again. Chris handcuffed and bound them, sealed their yaps with Duck tape and for good measure stuck loose, black hoods over their heads.

Everything’s just tickety-boo.

She sits back down and takes the glass from him. ‘Thanks.’ Tess enjoys a long drink before putting it on the floor.

He looks down at the twins as he raises his beer. ‘Pretty kids. It’ll be a real shame when we have to kill them.’