‘Can you speak louder …? Is it Carol? She’s nodding now and laughing and holding up the bangle. Now she’s drawing something in the air … still laughing … teasing us, I think … she’s drawing big circles with her arm. I don’t know what they’re meant to be … she’s saying you … yes, that you took her to the fair. She went with Kerry –’

‘Kenny … her brother Kenny, my son. Oh, they did, we did, we all went to the fair and she went on the big wheel. It is Carol!’

Iris looked at the woman opposite. She was smiling and crying at the same time, and wiping her eyes on a tissue someone had handed her, so that her mascara smudged and smeared her cheeks.

The medium’s face had not changed and now her voice had taken on a strange, expressionless tone, as if she was talking in her sleep. Iris wondered when Harry would come – if he would, among so many other people. He had been shy, he hadn’t liked groups of strangers. Maybe he would rather not get in touch here.

The person to Iris’s right clutched her hand suddenly, making her start. The woman was staring huge-eyed at Sheila Innis but holding on to Iris. Something Iris would never have imagined or believed was happening, something she did not understand, and could never have described or explained afterwards. She’d heard of it somewhere but dismissed it as a joke. Looking at the medium now, she saw that it was no joke.

Sheila Innis was not Sheila Innis any more. Her face was changing as they watched. Instead of a pale middle-aged woman who looked as if she were asleep, the face was ageing and caving in at the mouth, the nose seemed larger, and the cheeks more sunken, the chin more prominent. The face was that of a very old woman, scowling and unpleasant, with a malevolent stare out of intense, pinprick dark eyes. Iris gripped her neighbour’s hand in return.

‘Someone did away with me. I was put away. I was locked up. Someone didn’t want me to see the light of day. Was it you? Was it you? I know which one of you it was and you know, don’t you? You never thought I’d come back to accuse you, you thought you could get rid of me, out of sight out of mind, and take the money when I was dead. Well, you took the money and much good it did you. Your conscience can’t be clear, can it? Are you going to speak to me. You know my name. You know who you are and I know who you are. Look at me, look at me, look, look …’

There was a slight movement. The younger man had bent his head but his face was a terrible yellow colour, waxen and sick. His hands were on the table and the fingers were locked together. He said nothing.

They went on staring at Sheila Innis who was no longer Sheila Innis, speechless and horrified.

But what came next was almost worse, and it came so suddenly that Iris thought she might faint, her heart seemed to freeze and then leap painfully in her chest; she could not breathe easily.

The old woman was fading from the medium’s face and for a second it seemed as if it was returning to the familiar pleasant face of Sheila Innis. Then out of her mouth came a series of yapping barks, the noise made by some small ferocious dog defending its territory. The barks would not stop, they grew louder and more frantic until Iris wanted to put her hands to her ears, or run out of the room. The dog sounded as if it were trying to escape from somewhere, the barks became yelps, and then the yelps were painful, and mingled with whimpering and whining, then more strangulated barks.

Iris became conscious of Jim Williams at her side. He had pushed back his chair and when she looked at him, she saw that his face was flushed, his eyes wide open in horrified astonishment. He put his hand to his throat. The barking went on and on, the medium’s mouth was opening and shutting and her head was shaking, making her hair flop down over her eyes.

Jim stood up. ‘Skippy,’ he said pleadingly. ‘Skippy. Skippy. Where are you? What’s happening to you? Skippy …’

None of them knew what to do. Jim stood with his hand to his throat, his shoulders heaving.

The lights went up abruptly. Sheila Innis was sitting with her eyes open, looking as if she had been woken out of a deep sleep. Jim Williams slumped down into his chair.

A minute later the door opened and a man with a moustache and a blue shirt and tie came in carrying a large tray of teacups and saucers, which he set on the table, smiling round as if, Iris thought, he’d happened into a meeting of the WI instead of a seance that had become sinister and frightening.

People began to move and take the cups. The man left the room and then reappeared, with a second tray, of teapot, milk, sugar and biscuits.

Sheila Innis smiled. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said.

Everything seemed normal, nothing might have happened. Jim Williams’s face was still flushed and distressed; when he reached for his cup his hand trembled.

‘Are you feeling all right? That upset you, didn’t it?’

He managed a gulp of tea, then quickly set it down again, fearful of spilling it in his agitation. ‘I lost the little dog,’ he said. His voice was husky. ‘Skippy. She sounded just like him. That was Skippy.’

‘It’s terrible losing a pet. People never realise. If they haven’t had one they think it can’t be much, not like losing a person, but it is for a while, it really is.’

‘He went. Just vanished. I blame myself, I should never have let him off the lead, Phyllis never did, never would have, I used to think she was making a fuss but she was right, you see, I shouldn’t have let him off, and when I did, he vanished. And that barking was him. He’s dead then. It must mean that.’

‘Where did you lose him?’

‘On the Hill. He just vanished into the bushes. I called and called, I’ve been up there almost every day, until this police business.’

‘That poor girl?’

‘And the other. There was another went missing, you know, an older woman, before Christmas. I saw her. I’ve told the police. I told them about Skippy as well but of course they weren’t really interested, well, you can’t blame them, if it’s people and a dog, well, there’s no contest, I can see that. But I feel as if I’ve let Phyllis down. She trusted me with Skippy, you see. I’ve let her down.’

‘But he might come back. Don’t give up hope. Dogs run off, they lose their scent of home, he might have been picked up by someone … Have you tried the dog rescue? Or you could put an advert in the free paper, have you thought of that?’

Jim shook his head. ‘I might have done,’ he said. ‘Not now. Not now I’ve heard that.’ He looked up at the medium.

She was standing behind one of the others, holding her teacup, chatting. As if it was all normal, as if nothing had happened and her face had never turned into that of an evil old woman, and there had been no yapping dog. If it hadn’t been for Jim, Iris might have thought she was going mad. She’d given up hope of hearing from Harry now. He wouldn’t come with all of this going on.

‘My husband died,’ she said to Jim. She hadn’t known she was going to say it. He patted her hand. ‘Just before Christmas. It was a merciful release, he’d been so ill, only … well, it’s still hard, isn’t it? Still really hard.’

‘Have you heard from him? She gets a lot of people coming through … sometimes there’s four or five. Don’t give up, like you said about Skippy. He might come, you know.’

‘Do you come every week?’

‘Mostly. Well, it’s interesting. I find it interesting. And it’s company. I read a lot of books about the spirit world. I’ve made quite a study of it.’

But it hadn’t prepared you for hearing Skippy bark, she thought. He seemed better; his tea was finished without a spill, and his face looked quite cheerful. She imagined coming every week, just out of interest and for the company. She’d rather sit at home for a month without seeing a soul.

‘How are you, Mrs Chater? I do hope we hear from your loved one in the second part of the evening. I’m sure several will be waiting to come through now. I use the board this time. I get very good results.’

Iris stood up. ‘I’m afraid I have to go, I have to be back for … my neighbour. She isn’t well. I promised I wouldn’t be out for long, you see.’

Sheila Innis put her hand out and placed it on Iris’s arm. It felt warm. Soothing. Iris stared at her face, trying to see the old woman again, but there was no resemblance, none at all.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Chater. Sometimes things are a bit strange, perhaps even worrying, when you’re new … Of course, I don’t know what happens, I’m in trance, I don’t have control over any of it. It’s very different from the individual sittings – well, you’ve gathered.’

But Iris had her handbag over her arm. The room felt hot and something in it smelled strange, sickly sweet and unpleasant in her nostrils.

‘I’m sorry.’

Jim got up, pushing his chair back. ‘I hope you come again. I hope you like the company.’ His eyes were watery and they pleaded with her.

‘And I hope you find your little dog. You try putting in that advert.’

People were talking together. No one else took any notice of her going except the young man with the bitten nails and bad skin, who looked up and stared, out of pale, vacant eyes.

The hall was empty. There was no sign or sound of Mr Innis.

Iris opened the front door, slipped outside and when she had closed it quietly, leaned on it for a second, trembling, as Jim Williams had trembled, but with a great wave of relief. The air was mild and cool and smelled of hedgerows and car exhaust. It smelled wonderful, Iris thought, as wonderful as anything she had ever smelled in her life.

As she turned into the road, she saw that the light behind the drawn curtains in the front room had suddenly dimmed.

She realised that, in leaving the house so hastily, she had not asked to phone for a taxi, but because the evening was pleasant, she didn’t mind the thought of walking on into town. Taxis for hire never came down roads like this but perhaps she would be lucky and a bus might appear.

She began by walking fast, but after a few yards, she was so breathless, she was forced to stop. When she began to walk again, her legs felt watery and the breathlessness was worse. Iris sat down on the low stone wall of a house. There were lights on. If she felt no better, she would ring the bell and ask them if they would phone a taxi for her. People never minded being helpful in that way.

Yes. That was what she would do. She stood up, but then two things happened at once. She was afraid, quite suddenly, with an awful sense of foreboding and doom. It was not fear, it was mortal dread, it was the certainty that something appalling was about to happen to her. At the same time, a pain in her chest gripped her in metal pincers and crushed the breath from her. A second surge of pain. If she could get to the front door of this house, if she could make them hear. Iris struggled with the pain, struggled to stand, struggled against the wave of fear, tried to call out, but then she was safe, someone was coming. She managed to stand, even lifted her right arm a little to wave to the car, and it was all right. It was coming nearer and as it came, it was slowing down. She felt the brightness of the headlamps envelop her in warmth and light and safety. She looked up and saw the car stop beside her. The light was beautiful.

‘Harry,’ she said. But no more.

Thirty-Five

DS Freya Graffham had spent most of a long cold day with Nathan Coates and DC Gary Walsh, alternately hanging about an underpass of the Bevham road to the Sir Eric Anderson High School, Lafferton’s comprehensive, and visiting addresses on two housing estates.

For the rest of the time, they had sat in parked cars, watching, waiting and drinking paper cups of coffee. The drugs operation was in its fourth week and it was known that suppliers were using the underpass to target high school pupils. Also, though the heart of drug dealing in the area was in Bevham, the Hartfield Estate at Lafferton contained a major artery. Several characters had been picked up in the underpass, but they were next to nothing. It was the leading operators they needed to find and someone at Bevham had decided the Hartfield might yield one or two of them. It was unlikely. Large old houses at Flimby and Woodford Poins, detached executive homes on Mill Road were where the bosses would live, with private schools for their kids, Jaguar 3 litres for themselves and Gucci handbags and charity lunches for the wife. But there was no hard evidence. Without it, the rich and well connected of Lafferton and district would not welcome a knock on the door and a warrant card flipped open in their faces.

Freya was cold and full of the pent-up irritation that a pointless day without anything to show for it always brought on. Drug ops were the worst of all, and the next day looked like being equally frustrating as she trawled through more records, attempting to link thefts of white goods from newly built houses. Someone was working a clever scam, but trying to find out who by spending six hours or so at her computer was a depressing prospect.

The kids had long gone, the cleaners were in the school buildings and the underpass was deserted. The housing estate calls had turned up plenty of foul-mouthed residents and a dead cat. No one had even answered the door at most of the addresses they had.

‘OK, that’s it. Operation home time.’ Nathan gave a thumbs up and started the car happily. As they moved off, the one parked a few yards away flashed its lights and pulled out to follow.

‘Thought for a moment you was going to offer overtime, Sarge.’

‘Waste of police resources, Constable.’

‘Yeah, like the rest of the day. You going out anywhere special tonight?’

‘You sound like the girl who does the washes at my hairdresser’s.’ Freya imitated: ‘Got anything special planned for the weekend, then? Going somewhere nice for your holiday, are you?’

‘Well, are you?’

‘No. Choir tomorrow.’

‘Night in with the cat and the telly then. You should live a bit more, Sarge … come clubbing with me and Em one Friday.’

‘Sure, gooseberry really suits me.’

‘Nah, we’ll fix you up first. Some really nice young doctors at Bevham General.’ Nathan gave her a quick sideways glance. ‘Unless you’ve got your own arm candy lined up.’

‘That will do, DC Coates.’

‘Blonds, isn’t it?’

‘I said don’t push it, Nathan.’

‘Sorry, that was a bit out of order.’

‘More than a bit.’

‘Only, I like you, Sarge. I don’t want you pining away.’

‘I am not pining away.’

‘There’s a poem … dunno who wrote it, not my thing really, only Em heard it on the radio. It’s about how to cure love, know what I mean?’