Wearing only bathrobes and fluffy slippers, Kerrie Latimer and I watch Dave Compton’s van chug along Woodford Road and turn left into Rectory Lane. The vehicle is heading for Havant railway station, where Padraig and Eamonn will soon begin the journey back to the industrial north-west. Their filial duties done, the boys are eager to resume the carefree independence they’ve come to take for granted.

Let them enjoy it while they can.

“They’ll have a story or two to tell,” says their mother, sweeping back the longer side of her dark brown hair.”Especially Pad…”

I ignore the insinuation. All I did was accept her son’s offer to take me out for a drink. Wasn’t I supposed to be upset after the meeting with my husband had gone so badly? Why would I pass up the chance to enjoy myself for an hour?

And it’s not as though anything untoward happened. True, we spent rather longer in Rosie’s kitchen than I’d planned, but it was all relatively prim and proper. I’m not going to take myself to task just because I was completely unprepared for a move I really ought to have seen coming, or nurture feelings of guilt about how far I allowed things to proceed before I brought them to a halt. I need to get used to that sort of intimacy even if it doesn’t excite me, so that I can take it in my stride and perhaps begin giving back as good as I get.

At least I resisted Padraig’s attempts to push his tongue between my lips more successfully than I did with Cunningham.

I only hope that when he finally worked out that if he felt my tit I’d give an involuntary gasp of surprise he thought the four or five minutes of proper snogging that followed were worth the wait.

At the side door Kerrie lays a hand on my forearm.

“Have you thought any more about this afternoon?”

“We’re just meeting Gerald at the library, aren’t we?”

“And Rosie for lunch. At the Queens, remember? She’ll be with a client, so it’s important that we don’t show her up. Why don’t you grab a pair of tights from my room and nip next door to put your face on while I sort something out for you?”

Yes, let’s put on a show for Rosie’s benefit. Never mind that a few years from now we might both have been turned into bald-headed fanatics helping to hunt down the few pockets of women who are still human.

Or be in thrall to the military dictatorship that emerges when it becomes clear that there’s no other way to stop the country from being taken over.

But as it’s my last day here I suffer Kerrie’s ministrations with virtuous fortitude, surfacing from them in a dark grey jacket, a sleeveless black top, a fashionably full patterned cotton skirt and black, medium-heeled shoes. She, on the other hand, elects for a light green suit and pearls — which suggests it might not be Rosie she’s out to impress.

We have time for coffee before we leave to catch the bus into Portsmouth. Kerrie hands me a mug and sits at the kitchen table, gesturing for me to join her. As I arrange the folds of my skirt I sense the vexation she’s been holding in check since we waved the boys away break free from its restraints. I haven’t told her everything about my encounter with Susan Dwyer and she knows it.

To avoid her eyes I open my bag and take out my vanity case so I can fuss with my fringe. The centre parting I put in after I showered has gone on its travels again; once I’m back in Northcroft I’ll let Janice loose on my recalcitrant locks, treat them to a reprimand they’ll be slow to forget.

Kerrie fingers her pearls.

“I’m going to Scotland,” she announces without warning. “Dunoon, where the Macready family live. I need to talk to one of those women myself.”

Make way for the chickens coming home to roost.

I sip from my mug, wondering how on earth I can deter her from making a trip that if she’s lucky she’ll come to look back on as a complete waste of time.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” I ask her, when what I really ought to be saying is you haven’t a bloody clue what to expect because I didn’t have the courage to tell anyone.

“I know what I’m letting myself in for, sweetheart. Gerry told me how distressed you were yesterday. He said he’d have pulled into a lay-by and given you a cuddle, but you might have thought that was forward of him.”

“I think he realised I’d have just burst into tears.”

“He’s a lovely man, isn’t he? I only wish he was able to come with us.”

Us?

She’s having me on. She must be.

“There you go again,” I sigh.

“I don’t understand…”

“Making assumptions. Demands.” I cover her hand with my own. “Look love, I know you need to find out how your dad knew Helen Sutton, and I wish you all the best, I really do. But I’ve had enough. I just want to go home.”

And make the most of my new life before the world turns to shit.

Kerrie smiles, but not with her eyes.

“I suppose I’ll have to fly solo, then.”

“How are you going to get there? Okay, Cockburns will have fixed your car by now, but you can’t drive it until you’ve had your insurance documents replaced.”

“I wasn’t thinking of going this week.”

“And what about Norah? She isn’t going to put up with me taking another three or four days off, next week or next month or whenever it is you decide to drag me into the wild blue yonder. She’s not just my employer, she’s my landlady as well. If I lose my job at the Gladstone I’m out on the street.”

“I can deal with her.”

“I mean, do you even know where Dunoon is? Do you know which port the ferry sails from? Can you actually get on a boat without someone there to…”

She slides her hand from mine, and I realise at once that I’ve gone too far.

A muscular arm pushing me roughly aside, its owner fully aware of the bulging maternity dress beneath my coat.

The memory only lasts for a moment, but it’s enough.

Kerrie survived the sinking of the Loch Garman. Her unborn child didn’t.

That’s why she was so ill at ease on the Isle of Wight ferry. Every inch of the crossing, every nut and bolt on that vessel reminded her of the baby she lost.

I begin to apologise, then think again. She’d ask me how I knew, and I’m not sure I can answer that question. Even if I could, I’m determined not to tell her any more lies.

Better for us both if our friendship sputters out like a camp fire in a sudden shower.

*

Bucovina

Province of Romania on eastern slopes of Carpathian Mts, roughly size of Yorks + Lancs combined

Part of Habsburg Empire 1775 — 1918

Northern Bucovina annexed by USSR in 1944

Population 1,600,000

97.5% Romanian, rest Ukrainian, German, Roma (gypsies)

Largest city Suceava (118,000)

Most towns + industry in NE

SW mountainous, economy based on logging, pastoral farming

Famous for painted monastries (Romanian Orthodox)

No history of Islam anywhere in province — mosque somewhere else or built specially for kuzkardesh gara? If so where did money come from?

Vatra Bucovinei

Small town at confluence of Dorna + Bistrita rivers

Near border with Transylvania (Borgo pass = vampires!!!) on main road from Cluj - Suceava

Railway from Cluj ends in mountains

So does line from Suceava its like the middle bit was cut out

Cant find Dragoiasa in index - maybe its too small

I put down my pen and close the encyclopaedia with a thump that draws a censorious glare from the middle-aged library assistant. In retaliation I flick back my fringe, then make as much noise as I can getting up from the chair. He’s still frowning, so I pretend to rub at a stain on the side of my skirt, lifting the hem a good eight or nine inches above the knee. I’m only sorry I’m wearing tights and not stockings; a flash of suspender would have his specs steaming up so badly he’d need an ice bucket to clear the lenses.

It’s that time of the month, I guess.

At the other end of Portsmouth Central Library’s reference area Gerald and Kerrie are each scribbling their own set of notes. As I reach the table Kerrie takes off her glasses and puts them in their case.

“How did you get on?” she enquires, and if there was the slightest doubt that we’re no longer friends it’s removed by the stare she throws at me when I place my sheet of A4 in front of Gerald instead of her.

“Bucovina’s in the north-east corner of Romania,” I tell him. “I had a look in the atlas — it’s about as far off the beaten track as you can get.”

Six months ago I would have drawn him a map, and a damn good one too. Now I’d just be wasting ink.

Gerald glances up from the weighty tome he’s consulting. The title’s got something to do with the Silk Road — he thinks the belief system I told him Susan Dwyer described to me could easily have been influenced by Buddhist teachings, so he’s concentrating on areas where they might have diffused into Islamic culture.

“Romania...” he muses. “Yes, there are bound to be a few Turkish enclaves left over from the days when it was under Ottoman rule. Mainly on the Black Sea coast, I imagine.”

“This place is up in the mountains, this Vatra however-you-say-it. Dracula country. I can’t think for the life of me what a mosque might be doing there.”

Kerrie picks up her bag.

“I’m going to phone home, find out if Niamh’s back yet,” she says to Gerald. “Won’t be long.”

While she’s gone I skim through the three pages she’s written about the various branches of the Islamic faith that have been condemned through the ages as heretical. Although there are more of these than I’d expected, none of them involve women to a more significant degree than the mainstream. Nor did they develop a conception of their deity that differs in any fundamental way from that first espoused by the Patriarchs in the Old Testament.

“This is a waste of time,” I mutter to myself. “Susan said they didn’t believe in a God.”

Gerald pushes the piece of paper I gave him back across the table.

“Best to explore every possibility. She may have been trying to put you off the scent.”

“What, so I can’t tell when I’m being lied to?”

Yes, I think it’s safe to say that my period’s coming on.

Gerald doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead he’s jabbing his finger at the page in front of him.

“This may be worth investigating. It’s about an expedition to central Asia mounted by the University of Vienna in 1908.”

“Does it say anything about the von Witzleben woman?”

“It hasn’t mentioned her so far…”

Rather than pull a chair round, I move to stand behind him and lean forward, resting my palm lightly on his shoulder. The small portion of my brain that isn’t overdosing on female hormones warns me that I shouldn’t really let my right breast snuggle against his neck like this, but it’s a voice crying in an oestrogen-drenched wilderness. If anything I press it closer as I make a last-ditch effort to concentrate on the task at hand.

The team left Austria on July 26th, and sailed from the port of Trieste...

He seems comfortable enough with this…

...from Rawalpindi over the Hindu Kush into Chinese Turkestan...

He didn’t flinch or anything…

...the Tarim Basin, much of which is taken up by the Takla Makan desert, one of the most hostile places on earth. The name translates into the local tongue as ‘if you go in, you don’t come out’...

He won’t think I’m trying it on…

...the lost cities where according to legend a federation of tribes known to Chinese historians as the Yueh-chih...

He’ll know I’m just being friendly…

...and despite a search lasting several weeks no trace of the expedition was ever found.

He must attract this sort of attention from women all the time…

Cool it, babe. You’re all over the guy. What are you going to do if he comes on to you? That ring you’re wearing tells him you’re no blushing virgin. It doesn’t matter how big a thing he’s got for Kerrie, if he thinks he’s on a promise with you he’ll expect it to be kept.

I shift slightly to the left so my tit isn’t in danger of brushing Gerald’s cheek; I could take a step backwards and still see the text, but I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve suddenly decided to shy away from him.

“So they all died in the desert,” I conclude. “That’s a shame.”

“I wonder...”

He gets up and walks briskly over to the shelf containing the encyclopaedias. When he comes back he’s carrying a volume entitled Who Was Who.

“It won’t have foreigners in there, will it?” I frown.

“Chrysanthemum’s an English name. It may just be that...ah, here’s the lady we’ve been looking for! Our Frau von Witzleben was born Miss Whitmore in 1876. Her husband Werner was an anthropologist based at the University of Vienna. According to this she was quite an authority in her own right.”

I follow Gerald’s finger with my own, not quite able to prevent them coming into contact with one another.

“And they both died in 1908. Presumed killed in Chinese Turkestan.”

It was composed in an extraordinarily old-fashioned style, like something from the Victorian era. No eighteen year old could possibly have written prose that elaborate and long-winded.

Were the letters the Collingwoods received dictated by Chrysanthemum herself? It’s not out of the question, though she would have been nearly ninety when Sarah-Jane was converted. Or is it that every kuzkardesh gara is somehow imprinted with Chrysanthemum’s command of her mother tongue? If what Susan said was true and they share a common subconscious, that might not be such a ridiculous idea.

What did the von Witzlebens find out there? What elemental force did they awaken? And why does Chrysanthemum appear to be the only member of the expedition that survived?

“I think we ought to congratulate ourselves, my dear,” smiles Gerald. “We’ve gone some way towards solving a seventy year old mystery.”

I wouldn’t want him betting his business on it. I’ve a feeling we’ve only just started assembling the clues.

*

There is a point at which the unthinkable, having mutated almost unnoticed into first the improbable, then the possible and from that to the very likely, finally becomes the inevitable. As I stub out my seventh cigarette since we returned to Woodford Road two and three-quarter hours ago, I have no choice but to accept that the process has run its course.

Cathryn Simmons and Niamh Latimer are missing.

Kerrie is pacing backwards and forwards in the living room. Dave, Rosie, Gerald, Sinead and I look on helplessly as she becomes increasingly distraught.

“She’d ‘ave called by now. In’t that right, Ro? Wouldn’t she ‘ave called by now? Of course she would. Then why ‘asn’t she? They’re in trouble. I know they are. It’s them two, in’t it, Ruth? First me car, then Sunday night, and now this. I’m right, aren’t I?”

I stretch my legs in front of me, smoothing the front of my skirt for no other reason than to give my hands something to do. My mouth remains shut; I can’t say anything helpful without referring to the conversation I had in London with Egerton, and that would lay me open to all sorts of accusations.

Why did he have to put me in this position? Now the woodwork is creaking with secrets waiting to pop out from it.

Next time I see that wanker I’ll cut off his balls and fry them in their own semen.

“You should try calling St John’s again,” suggests Gerald, giving me a stare that tells me I should have said something, no matter how vacuous.

“Haven’t you been listenin’?” Kerrie rounds on him. “Millicent goes for ‘er transfusions on Tuesdays. They usually keep ‘er in overnight, and Celeste stays in hospital wi’ ‘er till she falls asleep. She might not be back till nine or ten. What do we do in meantime? We can’t phone police, they’ll just say it ‘asn’t been long enough.”

Sinead digs me in the ribs.

“I don’t understand,” she whispers in my ear. “What’s in this book you and mum found that they want so badly?”

“Two or three old photographs, that’s all. We didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“Looks like you were wrong.”

“Yeah, it’s all my fault. None of this would have happened if I’d told your mum to get stuffed and she’d travelled back here on her own, would it?”

“She asked you to come with her? So all that about your husband–“

“Was a load of crap. Happy now?”

The need to replace my tampon provides me with an excuse to spend a few precious minutes in the peace and quiet of Rosie’s bathroom. After that I sit on the bed, doing my utmost not to think of Yvette de Monnier sweeping aside Niamh’s beautiful coppery tresses and touching a small metallic device to the smooth skin covering the top of her spine.

Ending the girl’s life as surely as if she’d fired a bullet into her brain.

I’ve just decided to risk being dismembered by Rosie for ignoring her rule about not smoking in the house when her ex-husband appears at the door.

“Any news?” I ask without much hope.

“We’ve agreed to wait until nine o’clock, and if she still can’t get through I’ll drive David down to The Hard so we can catch the last ferry over.”

I look at my watch.

“Nearly an hour…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand the tension that long. God, what a mess.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

Gerald steps towards the bed, reaches for my hand and pulls me to my feet. One look at his face tells me I might be about to discover a side to his personality I won’t enjoy.

“What’s the matter…?”

“I’ll tell you what the matter is. I don’t like to see someone for whom I care deeply being made to suffer. Nor do I have very much time for those who prove economical with the truth.”

I meet his gaze full on. Anything else would be as sure an admission of guilt as a signed affidavit.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“‘Susan said they didn’t believe in a God.’ That was the comment you made this afternoon when you were reading Kerrie’s notes. Yesterday you told us she’d confirmed your original idea, namely that the kuzkardesh gara were — and I quote — ‘an offshoot of Islam’. You can lock the door against a thief, but a liar…”

“I didn’t lie. Well, not as such. Okay, I did. It’s complicated.”

“Then you’d better simplify things for me, young lady, because you’re not moving from that spot until you do.”

Think fast, babe. The longer you prevaricate, the less convincing you’ll sound.

It all comes down to why Egerton and de Monnier have gone to so much trouble to get their hands on a list of names and a few snapshots.

The casket was sent to Helen as a trigger...it was an instruction to turn herself into a kuzkardesh gara and begin spreading the infection around.

A trigger that also began to work on Susan Dwyer, who was with her in Bucovina.

We don’t want her to have it. That goes for the photographs as well.

But Kerrie can’t have been there. She was eight months pregnant with Niamh at the time, and had four other children to look after.

So why does she need protecting?

Unless it’s someone else they’re worried about.

Someone close to her.

Someone who may well have visited Bucovina during her years as an archaeologist.

She says I’m gifted.

Jesus Christ, no...

“Tell her to call the police!” I cry. “Right this minute! I think Cathryn’s–“

“Gerry? Ruth? Where are you? She’s talking to Celeste!”

We race downstairs in response to Rosie’s news. Following her next door, all we can do is listen as the daylight fades and with it any chance that I might be mistaken.

“That’s ridiculous...she wouldn’t, not without telling me, I mean she just wouldn’t...I’ve known her for years, Celeste, she would never...’instructions’? What d’you mean, ‘instructions’? What do they say?”

At least a minute goes by, then Kerrie puts the phone down and turns to us, her face ashen.

“Cathryn’s gone,” she says in a barely audible voice. “She’s taken Niamh and gone. Celeste has been told to place Millicent in a nursing home and arrange for St John’s to be sold off. The shop as well. She isn’t coming back.”

Everyone seems to begin talking at once. Everyone except Gerald, who grasps my elbow and marches me into the garden.

“I want the truth,” he growls. “And I want it now.”

I yank my forearm free.

“Give me a break. I’ve only just worked out what’s going on.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Okay, but you’ll think I’m making most of it up.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

I’m desperate for a cigarette, but my bag is still in the bedroom. When will I learn never to let it out of my sight?

“It all goes back to last November when Tim and I split up,” I begin, speaking slowly to give me the time I’ll need to construct a credible version of the previous Ruth’s story and mesh it with my own. “We were lab technicians attached to a project financed by the MoD. It was all very hush-hush, and I knew when I handed in my resignation I’d be sworn to secrecy and all that. What I didn’t expect was that they’d pack me off to Northcroft in January as a spy.”

I pause for effect, but Gerald Cooper has seen and done a lot in his time, and he’s several steps ahead of me.

“They recruited you as a sleeper. They’d managed to cover up the fact that Helen Sutton was a kuzkardesh gara when she died, but they were anxious to have someone at the scene they could call on if any loose ends needed tidying up. As you were familiar with the area from your childhood, you must have seemed the ideal choice. Not that they’ll have told you any of this, am I right?”

“You’re dead right. All they said was I’d be contacted if my services were required. I had no idea they were behind this business with the will. It was only when I found out that the Navy had lied to the Collingwoods about their daughter that I began to put two and two together. I’ll be honest here and admit that I didn’t say anything to Kerrie because first I didn’t have enough to go on and second, well I mean how was I to know she was who she said she was? It’s the easiest thing in the world to forge a solicitor’s letter if the only person you’re going to show it to is a barmaid.”

“Yet in spite of your misgivings you agreed to accompany her here.”

“By that time Egerton and de Monnier had revealed their true colours. Kerrie tried to put a brave face on it, but I could tell she thought she was in real danger. That pair had gone to absurd lengths to steal the casket, so it stood to reason they’d make every effort to get their hands on the notebook as well.”

“As was proved on Sunday evening.”

“Exactly. The thing that bothered me most was why they didn’t take the casket earlier, when it was sitting at the bottom of a wall closet in an empty house. Then I remembered the struggle we’d had to get into that room because of the crate someone had wedged on the other side of the door. Burglars, obviously — or so we assumed. And they’d been in quite recently, judging by the lack of dust on the window ledge. But why leave the casket behind? Anyone with half a brain could see it was worth a couple of hundred quid at least. Unless of course they put it there for us to find.”

Gerald’s eyes darken.

“You mean for Kerrie to find.”

“Knowing she’d take it back with her as a present for Cathryn. Egerton and de Monnier didn’t want the casket for themselves, they were trying to stop Kerrie from showing it to her. Cathryn had something to do with what happened in Bucovina. I think that’s what this has been about from the start.”

I don’t have time to expand on this theory, as Kerrie is standing in the kitchen door beckoning us to join her. She looks drawn but calm and in control.

“A spot of good fortune. On Thursday David overheard Niamh mention Dover on the phone. It seems this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“She can’t take Niamh out of the country,” Gerald assures her.

“You don’t know Cathryn. She can do any damn thing she likes when she puts her mind to it. Anyway, David’s been on to the harbour police and given them full descriptions. We’re setting off straight away, so we should be there not that long after midnight. Sinead’s staying with Ro. I know it’s a lot to ask, Gerry, but–“

“You’d like me to go across to Ryde, and see what I can uncover at that end. Consider it done.”

“You’re a love,” she says, squeezing his hand. “But go easy on the maid. She’s ever so timid.”

“I may be able to help there,” I put in.

“I agree,” says Gerald. “Ruth’s met the girl. I haven’t.”

“I thought you were keen to get home,” Kerrie frowns at me.

“Yeah, well things have changed.”

“There’s a lot Ruth hasn’t been able to tell you,” Gerald explains. “She had her reasons, and after listening to them I believe she acted in what she felt were your best interests.”

“Is that true?” Kerrie demands to know.

“It wouldn’t have done you any good,” I contend. “It certainly wouldn’t have prevented any of this.”

“That’s hardly the issue. I trusted you.”

“And you were right to do so,” maintains Gerald. “In my opinion she–“

“Okay, okay!” cries Kerrie, holding up her hands. “We’ll continue this discussion once I’ve got my daughter back.”

She picks up her bag and walks over to the van. When the door closes behind her, it’s as if an epoch has come to an end.

My friend Cathryn brought it back from a dig outside Luxor. Of course she had to give all that up when her mum’s health began to fail.

Was that really only a week ago? It seems like months…

It’s a shame, she had such a promising career ahead of her, but you never know what’s around the next corner, do you?

No, I guess you never do.