‘What’s up?’ said Bel.
‘If he sees us behind him, he’ll know we’re headed the same place he is. How many houses do you think are up this road?’
‘Probably just the one.’
‘Exactly, so we can’t really lose him, can we? We’ll sit here for a minute, then move at our own pace.’
‘What are we going to say when we get there?’
‘Nothing, not this visit. We’ll just take a look at the place, not get too close.’
I looked in my rearview mirror. Not that I was expecting any other vehicles.
The gate behind us was shut.
I turned in my seat, hardly able to believe the evidence in the mirror.
‘What is it, Michael?’
There were figures outside the car. One of them pulled open the passenger door. Bel shrieked. The figure bent down to look at us. He was big, cold-looking and soaked, with a beard that looked like it could deflect blows.
‘Keep on going up the trail,’ he said, his accent English. ‘It’s another mile or so.’
‘Can we give you a lift?’ I offered. But he slammed the door closed. I counted four of them out there, all of them now standing behind the car. If I reversed hard enough, I could scatter them and maybe smash my way back through the gate. But it looked like a quality gate, and since we were where we wanted to be, we might as well go on.
So I moved forward slowly. The men followed at walking pace.
‘Michael...’
‘Just remember our story, Bel, that’s all we need to do.’
‘But, Michael, they were waiting for us.’
‘Maybe they always keep a guard on the gate.’ I said this without much confidence. The man hadn’t asked us what we wanted or whether we’d taken a wrong turn. It was true, we were expected.
Well, they might be expecting us, but I doubted they’d be expecting what I had in the car-boot.
The MP5.
The commune sat in a glen with a stream running through it. It reminded me of one of those early American settlers’ communities, just before the bad guys rode into town. The houses, little more than cabins, were of wooden construction. There were a few vehicles dotted about, only half of them looking like they were used, the rest in a process of cannibalisation. Solar heating panels sat angled towards a sun that wasn’t shining. A large patch of ground had been cleared and cultivated, and some lean black pigs were working on clearing another patch. I saw goats and chickens and about thirty people, some of whom, all women, were helping unload the VW bus. The VW’s driver nodded at us as we stopped the car. I got out and looked at him.
‘You want to make an offer on it after all?’ he said, slapping the van.
An older man emerged from the largest cabin. He gestured for us to follow him indoors.
The cabin’s interior was spartan, but no more so than a lot of bachelor flats or hotel rooms. It was furnished with what looked like home-crafted stuff. On one table sat a lamp. I ran my hand over the gnarled wooden base.
‘You’re the carpenter?’ I said, knowing now why we were expected.
The man nodded back. ‘Sit down,’ he said. He didn’t sit on a chair, but lowered himself on to the floor. I did likewise, but Bel selected a chair. There was a large photograph of a beneficent Jeremiah Provost on the wall above the open fireplace. He looked younger than in some of the newspaper photos. There was a tapestry on another wall, and a clock made from a cross-section of tree.
‘You’ve been asking about our community here,’ the man said, eschewing introductions.
‘Is that a crime?’ Bel asked. He turned his gaze to her. His eyes were slightly wider than seemed normal, like he’d witnessed a miracle a long time ago and was still getting used to it. He had a long beard with strands of silver in it. I wondered if length of beard equated to standing within the commune. He had the sort of outdoors tan that lasts all year, and was dressed for work right down to the heavy-duty gloves sticking out of the waistband of his baggy brown cord trousers. His hair was thin and oily, greying all over. He was in his forties, and looked like he hadn’t always been a carpenter.
‘No,’ he said, ‘but we prefer visitors to introduce themselves first.’
‘That’s easily taken care of,’ Bel said. ‘I’m Belinda Harrison, this is a friend of mine, Michael Weston. Who are you?’
The man smiled. ‘I hear anxiety and a rage in your words, Belinda. They sound like they’re controlling you. Their only possible usefulness is when you control them.’
‘I read that sort of thing all the time in women’s magazines, Mr...?’
‘My name’s Richard, usually just Rick.’
‘Rick,’ I said, my voice all balm and diplomacy, ‘you belong to the Disciples of Love, is that right? Because otherwise we’re in the wrong place.’
‘You’re where you want to be, Michael.’
I turned to Bel. ‘Just ask him, Belinda.’
She nodded tersely. ‘I’m looking for my sister, her name’s Jane.’
‘Jane Harrison? You think she’s here?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because when she ran away, I went through her room, and she’d cut pieces from newspapers and magazines, all about the Disciples of Love.’
‘One of them,’ I added quietly, ‘mentioned yours as being the only British branch of the sect.’
‘Well, Michael, that’s true, though we’re about to start a new chapter in the south of England. Do you know London at all?’
‘That’s where we’ve come from.’
‘My home town,’ Rick said. ‘We’re hoping to buy some land between Beaconsfield and Amersham.’
I nodded. ‘I know Beaconsfield. Any chance that Jane might be there, helping set up this new... chapter? I take it she’s not here or you’d have said.’
‘No, we’ve got nobody here called Jane. It might help if I knew what she looked like.’
Bel took a photograph from her pocket and handed it over. I watched Rick’s face intently as he studied it. It was the photo I’d taken from the flat in Upper Norwood, the one showing Scotty Shattuck and his girlfriend.
‘That’s her,’ said Bel, ‘about a year ago, maybe a little less.’
Rick kept looking at the photo, then shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never seen this woman.’
‘She may have cut her hair shorter since,’ Bel pleaded. She was turning into a very good actress.
‘Take another look, please,’ I urged. He took another look. ‘She ran off with her boyfriend, that’s him in the photo.’
‘I’m sorry, Belinda.’ Rick handed the photo back.
‘And you’re sure she couldn’t be helping start off your new branch?’
‘They’re called chapters, Michael. No, there’s no possibility. We haven’t bought the land yet, there’s another bid on the table. None of our members are down there at present.’
I saw now that in a corner of the room beyond Rick sat a fax machine and telephone.
‘The estate agent contacts you by phone?’
Rick nodded. ‘Again, I’m sorry. Bel, why does it worry you that Jane has left home? Isn’t she allowed to make her own choices?’
Maybe the acting had proved too much for her. Whatever, Bel burst into tears. Rick looked stunned.
‘Maybe if you fetch her some water,’ I said, putting an arm around her.
‘Of course.’ Rick stood up and left the room. When I looked at Bel, she gave me a smile and a wink.