‘I see,’ Donald says. He’s sitting at his kitchen table with May and myself, arms folded and leaning back in his chair. It’s an odd look on him, but one he’s maintained the whole way through my account of the events at the hotel room. I relayed everything I’d been through for which I have no explanation as well, in case the extra context is of any use. At no stage did he seem particularly shocked. Whether this is due to inherent unflappability or prior knowledge I can’t be sure. ‘I was not aware of the depth of his… proclivities. I’m sorry, Owen, so sorry. Have you called the police?’
‘Yeah,’ I respond, ‘they said he’s probably wandered off. Said to call ’em again in a week if he hasn’t turned up.’
Donald nods. ‘That sounds about right. They’ll have received their orders, I suspect.’
My fists clench under the table. ‘Their orders?’
‘Oh, yes. I think I have an inkling of who took poor Martin, and they have quite a bit of influence in this town. No doubt the police are on their payroll to some extent. I imagine all towns have groups like it.’
‘So, do you know where they are?’ May asks.
‘I think I do, yes.’ He rises from his chair, motions for us to remain seated when we begin to follow his lead. He exits via a door that leads directly to his back garden and marches towards the shed.
I glance at May, who shrugs.
We wait, silent and pensive. My outward calm, however, is a paradoxical symptom of the seething rage that vibrates my bones. My eyes dart from one object to another in Donald’s kitchen, seeking any sign that he’s involved with Raincoat and the rest of my father’s clique. There’s nothing, of course. It’s an old man’s kitchen, exceptional in its ordinariness. The only suspect item I see is a cookbook in French; only arseholes read French.
May clicks her tongue. When I glance at her she nods towards the window, through which I see Donald emerging from his shed with a beaten and tired leather portfolio tucked under one arm.
He re-enters the kitchen and reverently places the folder on the table. He’s sweating, his jaw looks tight. ‘You may remember me mentioning that I moved here to join an architectural firm in the late seventies. Among the first projects I worked on was a building that would become a GP surgery serving the northernmost section of Ferenbrooke, a newly built estate called Farrow Park,’ he says. ‘Your father moved here about twelve years later, after he screwed things up with your mother. He stayed with me a while, largely unable to hold down a job long enough to stand on his own two feet. As the eldest, I always felt somewhat responsible for my siblings, though I’d barely known your father. He was still a child when I left Aberystwyth.’ He shakes his head then dumps himself down in his chair, rubs his forehead with the back of one thin hand.
May places a hand on Donald’s shoulder. She regards him with a look of deep sympathy. She looks so much like our mother. I feel a pang of vicious jealousy and immediately hate myself for it. It’s not her fault that I have to wear my father’s face.
Donald pats the hand on his shoulder and faintly smiles. He says, ‘So, while I was suspicious of Owen turning up quite out of the blue I viewed it as an opportunity to get to know him. He, in turn, seemed to take an interest in my work on the Fallow Park Surgery project. The organisation that was funding it, a sort of club which claimed as members damn near everyone of any wealth and influence in the county, was previously unknown to me but had a reputation for throwing money at particular social causes so long as the money was used in very specific ways. In terms of the surgery project, they had quite a bit of input into the design. It’s worth noting that basements in buildings such as this are uncommon around here; the ground isn’t well suited to digging deep. Too close to sea level.’
He opens the folder and pulls out an architectural plan. I bend over the table to examine it. The floor plan of the basement captures my attention. It’s a round building, the stairs down to the basement are at the bottom edge of the plan, marked as south. A hallway circles the diameter, rooms seem to work their way inwards towards a large central chamber. There’s a small triangular room off at the top, the only room that isn’t within the circle. No equivalent room exists on the floor plan of either of the other floors.
Donald nods at me. ‘When your father saw this, it sparked something in him, as it is in you now. I knew he was into some odd stuff, he collected old occult manuscripts and the like, used to shut himself away for days doing the oddest things. So, when he enquired as to the purpose of this building I quite naturally had my guard up a little. Eventually I softened and even had him do some of the grunt work, heading to the records office to pick up documents and the like. He attended a few of my meetings with the blokes in charge of funding the project, turns out he got along famously with them. Once the project, at least my part in it, was finished he took a job working for them and moved out quite quickly. He bought his house a year or so later and he barely had any time for me after that.’
He clears his throat and wipes sweat from his brow with a sleeve. ‘Now, things get a little off kilter here. The Fallow Park Surgery only ended up operating for six years or so. It was shut down when the owner, and sole practising doctor there, a fellow by the name of Fry, was indicted for performing unapproved therapies on his own daughter. The poor girl needed quite some time in a mental institution to get back on her feet, or so I’m told. I’m unsure of what happened to the doctor but the building has been left empty since.’ He taps the floor plan. ‘This is where they’ll be.’
‘What makes you so sure?’ I ask.
‘Doctor Fry was, perhaps still is, a member of that club. I call them the Spiral Society, because of this nonsense,’ he says, and traces his finger across the floor plan, going from the staircase to another point marked in red, then another, and so on, moving in a spiral pattern. ‘Each of these points is marked by a double helix, of silver and gold, embedded into the brickwork. Brass filament below the floor links them in the spiral I’m indicating here. That’s no coincidence, and there’s no reason for it. No reason I’m aware of, anyway. The Spiral Society insisted on it. That’s what got your father’s attention, that and the onyx plinth in the room to the north.’
I nod. ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘you’ve been a big help. I’ll go there and see what I can do. I’ll call you as soon as I can. If I can.’
Donald stands and shakes his head. ‘You’re a damn fool if you think you’re going without me, lad.’
May says, ‘Also, you can’t drive. So I definitely need to come, if only to ferry you around.’