He knows she’s right. ‘What instructions did they give you?’
‘Said again not to phone the cops. I’m gonna get a call within the hour telling me where to go. I told them I was in England and they said they knew that. Then they hung up.’
‘You said England?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘You’re not in England. You’re in Wales. It means they know you crossed the Atlantic and came to London, but not that you came out here to see me.’
‘Or,’ adds Dalton, ‘it means they don’t know they are separate countries.’
Owain sees tension on Mitzi’s face. ‘I’ll stand down the helicopter. Given the developments, you’re better off here than anywhere. Certainly, there’s no point flying you back to the US.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’ She becomes visibly more nervous. ‘I want to be as close to the girls as possible.’
‘I understand. But what if by travelling you miss vital contact with the kidnappers?’
She sees his point. ‘I don’t know. I’m not thinking straight. Give me a minute.’
‘What are you going to do about the FBI? Are you going to tell them about this call?’
‘I have to.’
‘Keep in mind that we’re better placed to help than they are. If they make one slip, then you know this gang will kill your daughters and flee.’
Mitzi chews a nail. ‘The bureau have a standard trace on my phone. They’ll have picked up that I received a call.’
‘They haven’t. There’s a communication shield around the castle. It makes it impossible for anyone to track your location or listen in.’
A thought hits her. ‘Were you? Were you recording and tracking that call?’
‘We were, but the kidnapper’s location is masked. There are anti-trace software programs that make it look like calls are coming from hundreds of miles away from where they are made. We can break it down, but it’ll take time.’
She looks desperate. ‘I don’t have time.’ Her phone rings. She looks down and sees that it’s Donovan’s direct line. ‘This is my boss. I have to take it.’
‘It’s up to you.’ He touches her arm. ‘You have to decide whether to trust the FBI, who’ve been dealing with kidnappers for decades — or us — an organization that’s been doing such things for thousands of years.’
126
Sandra Donovan explains that she’s with Fracci and is putting her on speakerphone.
‘Mitzi, it’s Eleonora.’ The Italian leans over her boss’s desk and talks into the spider-shaped conferencing unit. ‘We’re going to do everything to get your children back, I promise.’
‘I know you will. Has anyone called the local precinct?’
Donovan answers. ‘No. They’re in the dark and we’re keeping them that way. Have you fixed a flight?’
She hesitates. ‘I thought I might stay here for a while and see if the kidnappers make contact. I don’t want to be mid-air if they call. Have you got any breaks?’
‘Not yet,’ says the assistant director. ‘We’re figuring this woman who approached your sister was working with at least one man, probably more. Eleonora’s just spoken to Ruth and she said she thought she had a Californian accent.’
‘Ruthy is smart on accents; she used to be a teacher and could pick out exactly where every kid came from.’
‘We’re going to work on a sketch too. We can do a lot over a secure video link to Ruth’s home computer. It’s not as good as being there with her, but it’s close.’
The Italian leans towards the mic again. ‘We got a trace on your husband. He’d been in a bar brawl and spent the night in a cell in Oakwood. The custody sergeant knows you from way back and is about to kick him out without charge.’
Mitzi huffs in exasperation. ‘Alfie never changes. I’ll give him half an hour, then call. Can you have someone look out for him?’
‘We will,’ confirms Donovan. ‘We’ve met with the Child Abduction Response Department and they need to go through your case. I’ve asked Eleonora to get the files from Vicky and bring them up to speed. I know this is tough but can you think of anyone who might bear a grudge and be behind this — guys you’ve locked up, gangs you’ve crossed?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure this is down to whoever killed Sophie Hudson for the memory stick she took from Goldman’s store.’
‘Which you’ve still got?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got it all right.’ She can feel Owain’s eyes on her. ‘It’s in a place where no one’s gonna find it.’
‘If you’re right,’ says Donovan, ‘this stick is what you’re going to have to trade for your girls.’
‘I know. And to be clear, evidence or no evidence, if it means I get the girls, I’ll trade it in a blink.’
Eleonora senses the call’s about to wrap up. ‘Can you have Bronty call and bring me up to date?’
‘He’s not here. He’s following some religious leads on Lundy.’
‘Lundy? Where is that?’
‘Off the west coast. I’ll have Bronty contact you.’
‘No, leave it. I’ll call him. You have enough to deal with.’
‘Thanks.’ She finishes the conversation and looks around.
Dalton and Sir Owain have left the room.
In their place is the tall, thin, white-bearded man she saw in the garden.
127
The storm the weathermen predicted is now battering the tiny island.
Most of the thirty people who live here are holed up inside cottages in the south, but Bronty is braving the elements, in an all-too-thin waterproof borrowed from the tavern.
So far, he’s come across the remains of a granite quarry, scattered farm buildings, a small camp site, a couple of dozen holiday cottages and that’s about it.
To many people Lundy would be hell, but not him. The peace and seclusion bring a spiritual satisfaction he’s not felt outside of the seminary.
As well as the Giants’ Graves where skeletons up to eight feet tall were said to be found, Old Dan listed other places with rich historical or religious connections. They come with exotic names, like Needle’s Eye, Devil’s Slide and Shutter Point, but for now he’s making do with a rain-lashed walk along the low stone walls of Beacon Hill Cemetery. Like many graveyards, it’s been built on the highest available peak, the point ancients thought closest to the gods and the heavens.
Bronty takes a slow look around. He gazes out over the sodden green pastures to the endless miles of surrounding waves. Somewhere out there is the confluence of the Bristol Channel and the Celtic Sea, a mixing of great waters and stirring of untold myths and legends.
As the minutes pass, he becomes aware that all that separates him and his homeland in America is water. He looks around and remembers the ferryman’s remarks that to ancient Celts this must have looked like the end of the world.
The rain stops. Grey clouds shift. Shafts of sunlight warm his face. There’s a glorious wind-free silence. Then comes the sound of screaming birds, flapping high and wheeling across the brightening sky. He makes a visor out of his hand and picks out herring gulls, starlings and blackbirds.
He lowers his gaze to the glistening grass and spots the graves. Four isolated standing stones you wouldn’t give a second glance if you didn’t know their history.
He walks closer.
The severely weathered pillars remind him of the Celtic crosses that adorn Cornish and Welsh churchyards. He struggles to read the inscriptions. On one, he makes out the letters OPTIMI, which is similar to the Latin male name Optimus. Another looks like RESTEVTAE or RESGEVT, which could be the female name Resteuta or Resgeuta. The third and fourth are even harder to discern. One looks like POTIT, or it could be PO TIT and the other IGERNI, TIGERNI. He wonders if it was originally Tigernus.