Shona nodded. “Or it might be something else entirely. Like a phone number. Or… part of a phone number.”
Logan closed the briefcase and got down off the stool. “I mean, it’s not impossible,” he conceded. “But I’m pretty confident on the date thing.”
“Speaking of which,” Shona said, patting him on the chest. “I believe you were taking me to dinner.”
She caught sight of her reflection in the glass panels of the door again, and had another bash at smoothing down her hair. Then, when she realised it was an impossible task, she shrugged and left it to its own devices.
“Probably best if we don’t go anywhere too fancy,” she suggested. “And somewhere without too many people. Or, if there are people, ideally they’ll all be blind or partially sighted.” She bent her head forward and gave herself a sniff. “But without the enhanced sense of smell they’re supposed to have.”
Logan smiled, picked up the briefcase, then held a hand out. She took it in both of hers and clung to his arm like it was a life ring on the surface of a dark unending ocean.
“I think,” the DCI began. “I know just the very place…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was after nine o’clock when Dave Davidson pulled up at the gate of the field that housed Westerly Wellness, his car’s tyres practically glowing red with heat.
He had long since mastered getting himself out of the car and getting his chair out of the backseat by using the open doors for support.
Unfolding the wheelchair was always the most fiddly part, and given his current excitement levels, it proved even more difficult than normal to expand the chair to its correct size.
Once he’d finally achieved that, he flopped down onto it, shut and locked the car doors, then wheeled himself across the grass towards the gate.
Inside the field, someone who appeared to be Jesus of Nazareth was heading to meet him, an old-fashioned oil lamp held before him to drive away the oncoming darkness.
Dave reached the gate, and fought the urge to rub his hands together with glee when he spotted three women wandering from the main marquee to a smaller satellite tent over on the right. They were dressed in the same long white robes as the man making his way towards him, but their shoulders were bare and, frankly, they just wore them better than the guy did.
Based on DI Forde’s description—“He’s a dead ringer for Jesus”—then this had to be André Douville, the man who would ultimately decide if Dave was being granted access to the retreat. Dave had called on the way down the road, and been told that they usually didn’t accept new arrivals out of the blue so late in the evening, but André had eventually agreed to meet him to discuss it in person.
“Good evening, mon ami,” said Douville.
To the untrained ear, the accent would’ve sounded fine. To Dave, it was so bad that it bordered on parody.
He had spent some time in France in his late teens and very early twenties, and had picked up a fair bit of the language during his travels. This tube, on the other hand, seemed to have based his studies on the BBC wartime sitcom, ‘Allo ‘Allo, and specifically the character of the undercover British police officer.
Dave did not fail to spot the irony.
“You are the gentleman I spoke to on the telephone, yes?”
“Aye, that’s me,” Dave confirmed. He held up his mobile and waggled it. “Impressed you get a signal out here. I lost mine miles back.”
“We use satellite here. Expensive, but necessary, oui?”
“Ah, oui. Nous devons continuer à faire fonctionner les affaires, non?”
André stopped a few feet from the other side of the fence, looked briefly taken aback, then laughed and nodded. “Oui. C’est vrai,” he said with a laugh, suggesting a deeper understanding of the language than Dave had expected. Although, to be fair, it might have been a lucky guess. “I see you are in a wheelchair,” he said, conveniently switching both subject and language.
“Well spotted,” Dave said.
“Do you mind me enquiring… Was it an illness of some kind?” André asked, then he held up a hand to silence Dave before he could reply. He closed his eyes and tilted his head, as if listening to whispers on the breeze. “Ah. Non. An accident. You had an accident, oui? In traffic. A vehicle, I think.”
“That’s right,” Dave confirmed.
“And… oh! It was terrible. So much noise. So much… so much violence. And pain. So much pain and suffering.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a picnic, I’ll give you,” Dave said. He saw an opportunity. “And, eh, that’s why I’m here, actually. Sorry for landing myself on you out of the blue, but I’ve heard you work wonders.”
“You thought I could help you to walk again?”
Dave laughed. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to that, if you’re offering, but I was more thinking in terms of pain relief. I’m sick of taking the drugs they give you, you know? You’ve got no idea what’s in them, and I’m not even sure the doctors know themselves, half the time. I reckon nature can provide all we need. Far better than chemicals can, anyway.”
“Ah, bon. I share your sentiments exactly,” the man on the other side of the fence said. “But, I’m afraid we have set arrival and check-in times. There are processes and procedures we must adhere to for the safety of our other guests. You understand, oui?”
“Please,” Dave said, and there was a begging note to his voice. “I can do all that tomorrow. I just… I just need…” His voice cracked. Inside his head, he awarded himself an imaginary Academy Award for Best Actor. “I just need help to stop the pain.”
The light grew brighter around him as André brought the lamp closer. It danced off the fake Frenchman’s shimmering blue eyes as they examined the man in the wheelchair.
“Very well. Très bien,” André said, opening the gate. “Though, I should warn you, there is an additional fee for last-minute bookings like this. Is this likely to pose a problem?”
“My employer’s covering the cost, so it’s not going to be a problem at all,” Dave said, wheeling himself through the opening before the other man could change his mind. He glanced at the yurt that the three women had been heading for. “So, do we choose our own tents, or…?”
“Ah. Non. Your accommodation will be assigned,” André replied. The gate creaked as he pushed it, then rang out an ominous clang when it closed. “And I think I know just where to put you.”
Sinead sat cross-legged on the floor, peering down at the piles of newsletters spread out before her. She and the two constables had taken a short break to eat a couple of hours ago—microwave meals secured from the shop up the road—and had been hard at it ever since.
She’d noticed them both yawning a couple of times each in the last ten minutes. This wasn’t really any sort of testament to her observational skills, though, as neither of them had exactly been subtle about it.
When Constable Suzi Tanaka yawned for a third time and threw in an exaggerated stretch, she decided to call time.