The Devil's Feather - Minette Walters [79]
Peter put it down to MacKenzie’s manipulation of my “fight or flight” response. In simple terms, I’d been conditioned to submit rather than rebel, but that doesn’t explain why one of my recurring dreams was an intensely physical one where I bludgeoned MacKenzie to death. The desire to kill him was always there.
Perhaps fear has to be taken one step at a time. Perhaps the mind needs to heal before it can switch from one automatic response to another. Perhaps we all need to suffer the contempt of a Jess Derbyshire before we remember that fighting is possible. Who can say? I do know that I had a new sense of purpose as I climbed the ladder to the attic.
The roof space ran the entire length of the house. I found a light switch beside the trapdoor which lit a series of bulbs that hung from the rafters. Half of the filaments had blown but there were enough still working to lift the gloom. A pathway of planks had been laid across the joists to make access easier, but I still had to navigate my way past two chimney-stacks before I found a decent signal. The whole place was filthy and draped with cobwebs, and from the odd skittering near the eaves I guessed I had bats and mice for company.
In the event, it was a wasted exercise. There was no answer from the flat or from Dad’s mobile. Rather than leave messages, I fished Jess’s piece of paper from my pocket and called the number of my mother’s new hotel, but when I asked to be put through to Marianne Burns’s room I was told she’d checked out.
“Are you sure?” I asked in surprise. “She was definitely there this morning. I was given this number to call.”
“One moment.” There was a pause. “Yes, I can confirm Mrs. Marianne Burns paid her account at three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Did she say where she was going…leave a number for me to call?”
“May I ask what your name is, madam?”
“Connie…Connie Burns. I’m her daughter.”
“I’ll check for you.” Another pause. “I’m sorry, Ms. Burns. There are no messages and no forwarding address. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No…yes,” I corrected immediately. “Did anyone come to collect her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you find out?”
“We’re a big hotel, Ms. Burns. Guests come and go all the time. We don’t keep track of their movements.”
“Then can you check if there was a phone call to her room? And if so, is there any way of finding out where it came from? I don’t understand why she left.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said again with pseudo-regret. “We can’t divulge private information about our guests. Would you like me to make a note that you called in case your mother returns?”
I thanked him and rang off, then redialled the flat and my father’s mobile. I left messages on both phones, just saying, “Please call me,” and for good measure sent a text to his mobile: “Where are you? What’s happening? Mum has checked out. Am worried. C.” I hoped he’d remember to call the landline, but as I climbed down the loft ladder, I placed my mobile on the frame of the trapdoor opening. There was enough of a signal for it to ring, although I wasn’t optimistic about reaching it before the messaging service kicked in. It was worth a try, however.
Of course I assumed MacKenzie was involved in some way—I was too paranoid not to—although I didn’t understand why that should have resulted in my mother leaving her hotel. How could he know where she was unless my father told him? I had enough faith in Dad to believe he’d sacrifice every fingernail before he put my mother in danger. And why would MacKenzie ask the question anyway? Why bother with my mother when it was me he wanted? It didn’t make sense.
I kept telling myself the more likely explanation was that Mum had staged her own little mutiny and decided to go back to the flat. But in that