Shona tutted. “Like, I had it a second before you said it. I want that on record. You might’ve said it first, but I figured it out before you.”
“You did,” Logan said, failing to mention the fact that he’d been leaning towards the date theory since she’d first opened the lock on her side and his had failed to match it.
“But what’s it a date for?” Shona wondered, taking out her phone. She tapped the numbers into a search, and hummed quietly while she waited for the results to come up. “Right, here we are, so…” She flicked her finger across the screen, scrolling the page. “…absolutely nothing whatsoever happened on that date. Like, literally nothing except a new episode of ‘Harry Hill’s TV Burp.’ I can show you a clip of that, if you like?”
“It’d be safer all round if you didn’t,” Logan warned. “More likely to be a date of personal significance, anyway, rather than some big event.”
Shona nodded. “Or it might be something else entirely. Like a phone number. Or… part of a phone number.”
Logan closed the briefcase and got down off the stool. “I mean, it’s not impossible,” he conceded. “But I’m pretty confident on the date thing.”
“Speaking of which,” Shona said, patting him on the chest. “I believe you were taking me to dinner.”
She caught sight of her reflection in the glass panels of the door again, and had another bash at smoothing down her hair. Then, when she realised it was an impossible task, she shrugged and left it to its own devices.
“Probably best if we don’t go anywhere too fancy,” she suggested. “And somewhere without too many people. Or, if there are people, ideally they’ll all be blind or partially sighted.” She bent her head forward and gave herself a sniff. “But without the enhanced sense of smell they’re supposed to have.”
Logan smiled, picked up the briefcase, then held a hand out. She took it in both of hers and clung to his arm like it was a life ring on the surface of a dark unending ocean.
“I think,” the DCI began. “I know just the very place…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was after nine o’clock when Dave Davidson pulled up at the gate of the field that housed Westerly Wellness, his car’s tyres practically glowing red with heat.
He had long since mastered getting himself out of the car and getting his chair out of the backseat by using the open doors for support.
Unfolding the wheelchair was always the most fiddly part, and given his current excitement levels, it proved even more difficult than normal to expand the chair to its correct size.
Once he’d finally achieved that, he flopped down onto it, shut and locked the car doors, then wheeled himself across the grass towards the gate.
Inside the field, someone who appeared to be Jesus of Nazareth was heading to meet him, an old-fashioned oil lamp held before him to drive away the oncoming darkness.
Dave reached the gate, and fought the urge to rub his hands together with glee when he spotted three women wandering from the main marquee to a smaller satellite tent over on the right. They were dressed in the same long white robes as the man making his way towards him, but their shoulders were bare and, frankly, they just wore them better than the guy did.
Based on DI Forde’s description—“He’s a dead ringer for Jesus”—then this had to be André Douville, the man who would ultimately decide if Dave was being granted access to the retreat. Dave had called on the way down the road, and been told that they usually didn’t accept new arrivals out of the blue so late in the evening, but André had eventually agreed to meet him to discuss it in person.
“Good evening, mon ami,” said Douville.
To the untrained ear, the accent would’ve sounded fine. To Dave, it was so bad that it bordered on parody.
He had spent some time in France in his late teens and very early twenties, and had picked up a fair bit of the language during his travels. This tube, on the other hand, seemed to have based his studies on the BBC wartime sitcom, ‘Allo ‘Allo, and specifically the character of the undercover British police officer.
Dave did not fail to spot the irony.
“You are the gentleman I spoke to on the telephone, yes?”
“Aye, that’s me,” Dave confirmed. He held up his mobile and waggled it. “Impressed you get a signal out here. I lost mine miles back.”
“We use satellite here. Expensive, but necessary, oui?”
“Ah, oui. Nous devons continuer à faire fonctionner les affaires, non?”