I glanced down at his hands. No wedding ring. He caught my gaze.
‘So,’ he said, cleared his throat and grinned. ‘What’s Manningtree like? Where Hopkins commenced his hunt? Is it very rural? I’ve never been.’
‘Oh,’ I said, a little shamefacedly. ‘I haven’t actually visited the place yet.’
Felix’s eyes widened in mock horror. ‘But the home of the beast himself! You must go. I say one can learn a lot about a man, or woman, from their home and surroundings. It might make interesting reading.’
He was right, of course. ‘I’ll stick it on my list of things to do,’ I added. ‘In fact I’ll schedule it after Colchester. I’m planning to go there next week. That’s where the witches were gaoled. Haven’t been since I was a school kid.’
‘Ah. Colchester. What day are you planning to visit?’
I shrugged. I liked to keep my diary flexible in case any local jobs came up.
‘If you make it next Monday,’ he was saying, ‘I might just be able to accompany you to the castle. I quite fancy the idea. One of my authors has moved down to that neck of the woods and she’s due a conversation about her last edit. Could kill two birds with one stone? Visit said writer, and combine a short tour of the city with another from the Portillion fold.’ His eyes arched expectantly. I saw, with a mild buzz of appreciation, that they glinted with splinters of quartz. For a second it looked like he was holding his breath.
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘But remember – I haven’t been for a long time. I won’t be a very good guide I’m afraid.’
Felix wagged his hand playfully. ‘Then we shall be on an equal footing. And you can bring me a progress report on the book. Are you happy with your timescale?’
He wanted the first draft submitted within five months. A little bit of a push, but as I had the research and structural outline already, I thought I could make it. Plus the money would come in very handy indeed. ‘Yes. That’s fine.’
‘Excellent. Then shall we drink to the deadline?’
‘We shall,’ I said and raised my glass.
It’s a funny old phrase – the deadline. Comes from the American Civil War. Refers to a line drawn around prisoners. If they crossed it, they’d be shot.
Obviously it never struck me then, but on first meetings, why drink to a finishing point? Why not to a profitable association or ongoing success?
But Felix had elected to drink to the deadline. The line of the dead.
His choice was to be uncannily prophetic.
Chapter Seven
On the train home I realised I was a little tipsier than expected. Felix was such a genial host, and never let my glass go empty, so I had no idea how much I’d drunk. Now I was feeling rather drowsy and there was nothing for it but a little nap. I woke up to the sound of my mobile bleeping. A text from Maggie: it was the birthday of Mercurial’s art director, Felicity, and they were celebrating in Leigh Old Town. I was welcome to join them. Her mis-spellings suggested they’d been there a while, which suited me quite nicely. I made a mental note to get off the train a stop earlier.
The next call set my heart racing. It was from Sally. When I looked at the screen and saw the name of the hospice flash up I went into a reflexive panic. Then I remembered that the worst had happened and instantly my spirits, that had been so giddily high after lunch, plummeted back to the abyss of reality.
‘Hi Sadie. How are you going?’ Sally’s voice still conjured up sympathy and cups of tea.
I told her I was getting on.
She murmured heartening phrases about Mum wanting me to do exactly that, and not to dwell on things, then she asked me straight out. ‘Have you seen Dan yet?’
I told her that there was still no word on his whereabouts.
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
I asked what the matter was.
She seemed reluctant to tell me, but then I heard the sound of an inner door shutting and her voice reduced to a whisper. ‘Don’t repeat this. Promise?’
I swore I wouldn’t.
‘Doctor Jarvis looked at Dan’s medication yesterday. He’s rather concerned. It seemed that although the prescriptive label on the bottle was accurate the tablets inside were like nothing he’d seen for that drug before. He’s sent a couple off to the lab for analysis. But,’ said Sally, ‘if there’s been some kind of a mix-up, then it means that Dan may have unwittingly stopped taking his medication.’
‘Shit,’ I said, for want of anything better to express my alarm. ‘Which means?’
‘Possible onset of depression, psychosis, delusion … the list goes on. The main thing is he needs to see a doctor, pronto. Have you any idea where he is?’
I shook my head. ‘No, not at all. I tried everywhere I could think of before Mum …’
Sally huffed out a sigh. ‘Michael managed to speak to his department. They still haven’t seen him. All they’ve had is some message that he’s taken leave to sort out a personal matter. Any ideas?’
‘No,’ I said, though this news was somewhat positive. There’d been forethought at least. He hadn’t suddenly gone off the rails. ‘So, what can we do? For Dan? Should we call the police?’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to get them involved. Keep an eye out. If you see him or hear from him, tell him about the mix-up and get him to his doctor’s at once. He’ll understand the urgency.’
I thanked her and told her to phone me if she had any more news. She gave her word.
After all that I was a bit wired and completely forgot to get off at Leigh. Instead I disembarked at Chalkwell station, popped into the flat, changed my boots and swapped my dress for jeans and t-shirt.
Afternoon had become early evening. Though we were at the late onset of autumn it was not yet cold and I decided to stroll down to the Old Town via the cinder path, hoping the fresh ionised air would cleanse my aura of its Dan-centred worries.
It was a lovely walk, running the length of the shoreline from Chalkwell station to Leigh Beach. Peaceful too. Above me an aeroplane, flying its passengers to warmer climes, chalked its stubby vapour trail across the fading pinky-blue sky. On the horizon Kent warped in a cloudy mist. Twenty metres out in the estuary a solitary seagull arced high above a moored yacht, flapping its wings without cawing. Closer to land an old guy worked his way up the tidemark, swinging a metal detector back and forth in time to the slow lulling rhythm of the waves.
The evening sun hung low over the chimneys of Canvey Island. There was no wind that evening and everything felt very still.
I dawdled past the Wilton, a former navy warship, now used as a clubhouse by the Essex Yacht Club. The gentle tinkling of glasses and faint chat of the members drifted up across the water. It was an uplifting sound, full of conviviality and good humour, and for a moment I had the feeling that there was a change on its way.
Of course, at the time I assumed it would be for the better.
When I reached the corner of the beach that met Bell Wharf, I paused for a moment to take in the view. A fishing boat was returning from a day out in the North Sea. A man on the front deck wearing plastic orange waterproofs waved at someone out on the wharf.
‘Psst!’
I continued watching the boat chug along the creek, leaving a widening trail of froth.
‘Psst!’ Same voice. Behind me.
Assuming it was directed at someone else passing by, I didn’t