‘Is she standing under an oak tree looking at a sheep?’
‘No, that was just an example.’
‘Do you have any idea where she might be yet?’
It was time, Brimstone thought, to dangle the bait. ‘I do have a picture – not an oak tree or a sheep – but I’m not at all sure where it might be.’ Which was a truthful lie. He wasn’t quite sure where Mella was now, whether she was alive or dead, but he was convinced he knew where she’d just been. From his experience of the Analogue World, the scene he saw was never American, but it might be British. It had occurred to him that Mella’s father – Consort Majesty King Henry – was a human, brought up in the Analogue World. What more natural for a girl of Mella’s age than to want to visit her father’s old home? Zero in on that and chances were you found the girl.
‘Where do you think it might be?’ Chalkhill demanded.
‘Buthner,’ Brimstone said promptly. He hesitated, then added, ‘Or Haleklind.’
‘Which one?’
‘I don’t know. But it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. The place I’m sensing is very distinctive: an escarpment with an enormous natural stone pillar that’s been carved into the representation of a smiling dragon with emerald eyes. I’m surprised it’s not known as a tourist attraction, but it’s bound to be known in its own country.’ He set his cocktail to one side and went on enthusiastically, ‘I thought what I would do is take a trip to Buthner and make some enquiries. Then, if the place I’m sensing isn’t there, I can visit Haleklind and do the same.’ He nodded soberly. ‘That’s why I’ll need expenses.’
Chalkhill said, ‘I don’t have time to send you traipsing around two different countries.’
‘Has to be done, I’m afraid,’ Brimstone told him piously. ‘What alternative do we have?’ He waited.
Chalkhill swallowed the bait. ‘You could describe what you’re sensing and I can check one country while you check the other. That would halve the time.’
‘So it would,’ Brimstone said. He looked at Chalkhill with admiration, as if the thought had never occurred to him.
Seventeen
There were two fire engines at the scene as well as an ambulance and three more police cars. More than a dozen uniformed men were climbing over the rubble. Four of them had police dogs on leads. Henry walked across to where an ambulance driver was talking to a burly man who had plainclothes copper written all over him.
‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘but has anyone been injured?’
He addressed the question to the ambulance man, but the burly copper butted in at once. ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you live along this bit of road?’
‘No, I -’
‘In that case, sir, you shouldn’t be here. Can’t have gawpers holding up the rescue operation.’
There was a time when Henry would have backed off apologetically: he’d been terrified of authority for most of his life. But that time was gone. He was King Consort of the Realm now and if he could hold his own with Blue, he could hold his own with anybody. He turned to look the big man directly in the eye.
‘I was brought up in this house,’ he said firmly. ‘My mother still lives here. That hardly makes me a gawper.’
The man’s tone and demeanour changed at once. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Should have realised they wouldn’t have let you through, if you didn’t belong. I’m -’
Henry cut him off. ‘You said “rescue operation”. Does that mean there were people in the house?’
The ambulance man said, ‘We don’t know, truthfully. We’re treating it as if there were – all we can do, really. We haven’t found any survivors, but the good news is we haven’t found any bodies either.’
‘How long have you been searching?’
‘Couple of hours.’
‘That’s a very short time,’ Henry said.
‘Don’t know about that,’ the ambulance man said. ‘The sniffer dogs should have picked up something by now if there was anything to pick up.’ He nodded towards the rubble. ‘Just look at them: bored stiff, the four of them.’
The burly policeman was pulling a notebook from his pocket. ‘Since you’re here, sir, you might help us by confirming a few details. Neighbours say the householder was a Mrs Atherton. You wouldn’t happen to know her first name?’
‘Of course I know her first name,’ Henry said crossly. ‘She’s my mother. It’s Martha.’
‘And I gather she lived here with another woman?’
Henry nodded.
‘And that would be Aisling Atherton, would it?’ the copper asked, consulting his notebook.
Henry glanced at him in surprise. So Aisling was still living at home, the lazy little cow. She must be nearly thirty now. Why couldn’t she lead her own life? ‘Aisling’s my sister,’ he said. ‘Did the neighbours say she was living here?’
‘Yes. Can you confirm it?’
‘Not really. I’ve been away rather a long time.’
The policeman seemed to accept it. ‘And your name, sir?’
‘Henry. Henry Atherton.’
‘But you haven’t been living here for a while?’
Henry shook his head. ‘No. Not for years.’
‘So it would just have been Mrs Atherton and your sister? Or is there a Mr Atherton?’
‘Divorced,’ Henry told him.
‘Recently?’
‘No, years ago.’
‘Any reason for him to blow up the house?’
Henry froze. ‘What?’
The burly man closed his notebook with a snap. ‘Mr Atherton, I’m Detective Inspector John Tyneside. I’m in charge of this investigation. Officially, we’re checking out the possibility of a gas main explosion. Unofficially, the first thing we thought of when the reports started to come in was a terrorist attack. I -’
‘A terrorist attack?’ Henry echoed. ‘Out here?’
D. I. Tyneside nodded. ‘I know: we dropped that theory once we found that it was a domestic residence. But I’ll tell you this, Mr Atherton. That house didn’t come down because of a gas main. Just look at it. That was one hell of an explosion. It’s a miracle the houses beside it are still standing. Some funny characteristics as welclass="underline" didn’t so much blow up outwards as inwards. We’re talking high explosive here, Mr Atherton, and not your usual Semtex either: something new, something we haven’t seen before. Your mother isn’t mixed up in organised crime, is she?’
Wouldn’t put it past her, Henry thought sourly. Aloud, he said, ‘No, of course not.’
‘Anybody want her dead? Sorry to ask. Your father wouldn’t be an industrial chemist, by any chance?’
‘Just a businessman,’ Henry said. ‘Management executive.’ On second thought he added, ‘Food processing. Nothing to do with explosives.’
‘Doesn’t hold a grudge against your mother, then? Because of the divorce?’
Henry shook his head. ‘He’s remarried and moved on.’
‘How does she get on with your sister?’
‘My mother? Like a house on fi-’ He realised what he’d been about to say and amended it hurriedly. ‘Very well indeed.’ A thought struck him. ‘Actually there’s someone else living here – Anais Ward.’
Tyneside opened his notebook again. ‘Neighbours didn’t mention that one. Who is she – a lodger?’
‘Lover,’ Henry muttered. Despite himself he felt a flush rise in his face.
‘Sorry?’
‘She’s my mother’s lover,’ he said firmly. ‘I think she’s still living here. As I said, I haven’t been for a while.’
‘We’ll check it out,’ Tyneside said, not at all perturbed. He looked directly at Henry. ‘Now you, sir.’
‘Me? What about me?’
‘You say you haven’t lived here for some years and now you’re saying you haven’t visited much either. Where have you been living?’
Fairyland, Henry thought. ‘New Zealand,’ Henry said.
Tyneside clicked a ballpoint. ‘I’ll need an address, sir.’
Oh God, Henry thought. But without hesitation he said, ‘Twenty-two, Palm Grove Close, West Wellington Road, Auckland. New Zealand, of course.’ It was completely bogus, but by the time they made the call to check it, he and Blue would be long gone.