Page 110 of The Instruments of Darkness

The way the question was posed made her sound like a therapist engaging with a patient. After all, the likely explanation was that my pain had caused me to conjure up visions of my dead daughter, to glimpse her where she could not possibly be, because the alternative—the acceptance that she was no longer in the world—was too much to bear. I might even have been inclined to accept this were it not for the fact that I knew Sam, my living daughter, also saw and heard Jennifer. This, though, I had not shared with Macy, and would not.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“She’s never spoken to explain her presence?”

“If I told you that I hear her in my dreams, it would only be half true, but easier to dismiss. As in a dream, the contact and the discourse are not always willed, because I’m both the observer and the observed.”

“I’m not trying to dismiss it, just to understand.”

“I wish you luck,” I said, “because I’ve struggled to understand from the beginning.”

I could have told her more. I could have explained how Jennifer had once returned to the house in which she had been killed in order to save my life. I could have described a conversation by a lakeside as I, wounded and dying, tried to decide whether to cease struggling and join her or remain with the living. Even speaking aloud of Jennifer made her seem less real. The impossible shies away from scrutiny and the numinous resists definition.

“Did you discuss Jennifer with Sabine Drew?”

We had not spoken more of Sabine since we’d left the Bar of Chocolate for Scarborough.

“She intuited that I could see someone. She said she hoped it was someone I loved.”

“That’s an interesting word to use about her,” said Macy, “?‘intuited.’ I don’t deny that she possesses a certain psychological acuity. She’s not quite a con artist—I may reluctantly accept that her intentions were sometimes good—but she’s not too far removed from one. Call it shared DNA.”

The smell from the marsh seemed to me to be growing oppressive, like low tide after a storm, underpinned by the remains of fish and birds rotting on the damp shore. I usually slept with one window slightly open, except in the worst months of winter, but now I got up to close it. Below, the marsh pools shone like mercury in the moonlight. I rested my head against the window frame, taking in the scudding of clouds across the moon and their reflection in an upside-down world.

“At the Bear, Sabine told me that she thought Henry Clark was in Gretton,” I said. “Maynard Vaughn, the man who purchased the money order used by Mara Teller, lives in Dexter. The money order was bought in Dover-Foxcroft. Draw a line from Dexter to Dover-Foxcroft, and two more lines give you a triangle with Gretton as its apex. But Sabine couldn’t have known about Vaughn, or Teller’s link to the area.”

“Couldn’t she?”

Macy joined me at the window, picking up a cotton blanket in which to wrap herself.

“Only if she was complicit,” I said, “and I find that hard to accept.”

“Why? There are still people who are convinced she murdered Edie Brook.”

“Seriously?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a killer tried to misdirect an investigation, or keep tabs while claiming to be assisting.”

“And Verona Walters? Sabine certainly didn’t kill her, but she did help locate the body.”

Macy didn’t reply. She sat on the window seat to face the night. She really was beautiful, but I didn’t know how long we could continue tiptoeing around in the hope of avoiding unwelcome scrutiny. Already, I felt sure, there were whispers. Nowak might even have heard some of them.

I knew what Macy was doing in expressing qualms about Sabine Drew. It was what any good investigator did: listen to what is being said, then ask why it’s being said. Knowledge was power, and seldom shared except as part of a transaction. How was Sabine seeking to benefit from the information she was offering? For Macy, Sabine’s testimony was tainted fruit, an effort at reintegrating into a community that had previously rejected her. But what if Sabine was telling the truth? In that case, what she wanted was peace: not only for herself but also for Henry Clark and his family.

“If you travel to Gretton,” said Macy eventually, “are you going to bring Sabine with you, like a psychic bloodhound?”

“I might, if she’s willing.”

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“She’s frightened.”

“Of Gretton? It’s a dump, but you’re not planning to forcibly resettle her.”

“Of what’s in there. Of whomever or whatever took Henry Clark.”

Macy tapped the glass.

“You see my reflection?” she said. “This is me scowling derisively.”

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