man, something with eyes which shine in the darkness.
Then the illusion passes. Shivering, although it is not especially cold, Charles looks away and hurries to the front door, feeling oddly certain that he has just been made privy to some bleak and consequential secret.
As he knocks, from somewhere nearby, in a room in the house of a neighbour or from a passer-by on the street beyond (or so, at least, he tells himself), he hears, quite distinctly, the sound of evil laughter.
The door is opened by his mother, eyes red-rimmed from weeping and, all at once, Master Charles Dickens does not believe that he has ever been so glad to see her.
NOW
I T IS A week after the lecture and Toby Judd is trudging home in the early afternoon sun, feeling, through a haze of lunchtime beer, simultaneously light-headed and glum.
He has spent the past two and a half hours in a pub (where, to his mild disquiet, he is beginning to be known) with a couple of beers, a plate of lukewarm scampi and a bulging A5 notebook. Its pages are filled with scribbled ideas—with theories, plans and patient workings-out, with any number of notions about how the Cannonbridge Conspiracy might have come about, with innumerable speculations as to its purpose and intention. The seeds of true obsession are here, in that book, taking patient root.
Now, on this long suburban road, his little house comes into view and he notices, feeling queasily uncertain of its significance, that a police car is parked outside.
As Toby comes closer, the car doors open and two people step out, neither of them in uniform. One is an older woman, a few years senior to Toby, straight-haired and serious, the other, a man, not yet thirty, built like a rugby player, bull-necked and eager.
Both look determined and rumpled and the effect is that of a headmistress and a junior member of staff who share an out of hours interest in violence. Toby is almost upon them.
“Dr Toby Judd?” This is the woman, firm yet discreet.
“Yes?” The word comes out in a croak. Toby, wondering if they can smell the alcohol on his breath, has never craved as much as he does now a packet of mints.
“I thought it must be you, sir.”
“You did?”
“Of course I recognise you, sir.”
“Really?”
“From the video, sir.”
“What video?”
“It might be easier if we took this inside, sir. I’m Detective Inspector Nia Cudden. This is Sergeant Isaac Angeyo.”
The man nods and both of them briefly flourish identity cards (so swiftly that they might just as easily have been bus passes or driving licenses).
“Oh,” says Toby. “Hello, then.”
“Have you got a minute for a quiet word, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
Toby starts fumbling for the keys, pulls them out, drops them.
Sergeant Angeyo, who has yet to speak, bends down, picks them up and hands them back.
“Thank you.” Dr Judd walks towards the door then, remembering his manners, turns back to his companions. “I’m terribly sorry,” he says. “I haven’t had a chance to tidy for a while. You’ll have to forgive the mess.”
“No problem, sir. I’m sure we’ve seen worse. Just lead the way.”
T HE MILK IN the fridge is rancid so Toby can only offer them black coffee or green tea. To his mild relief, they decline both. Once Toby has cleared away the detritus (the guests are too polite to mention the dust and the dirt), the two police officers sit together on the sofa while Toby perches on the room’s only chair. He is about to ask what this is all about when Cudden, with the patient deliberation of a woman who knows from experience that mistakes are more likely if things are done at speed, says: “Tell us, Dr Judd. Do you know a man named Russell Spicer?”
Toby shakes his head. “No. I don’t believe I do.”
The officers exchange looks of professional scepticism.
“Perhaps you’ll recognise his face, sir.”
This is Sergeant Angeyo, speaking for the first
Then the illusion passes. Shivering, although it is not especially cold, Charles looks away and hurries to the front door, feeling oddly certain that he has just been made privy to some bleak and consequential secret.
As he knocks, from somewhere nearby, in a room in the house of a neighbour or from a passer-by on the street beyond (or so, at least, he tells himself), he hears, quite distinctly, the sound of evil laughter.
The door is opened by his mother, eyes red-rimmed from weeping and, all at once, Master Charles Dickens does not believe that he has ever been so glad to see her.
NOW
I T IS A week after the lecture and Toby Judd is trudging home in the early afternoon sun, feeling, through a haze of lunchtime beer, simultaneously light-headed and glum.
He has spent the past two and a half hours in a pub (where, to his mild disquiet, he is beginning to be known) with a couple of beers, a plate of lukewarm scampi and a bulging A5 notebook. Its pages are filled with scribbled ideas—with theories, plans and patient workings-out, with any number of notions about how the Cannonbridge Conspiracy might have come about, with innumerable speculations as to its purpose and intention. The seeds of true obsession are here, in that book, taking patient root.
Now, on this long suburban road, his little house comes into view and he notices, feeling queasily uncertain of its significance, that a police car is parked outside.
As Toby comes closer, the car doors open and two people step out, neither of them in uniform. One is an older woman, a few years senior to Toby, straight-haired and serious, the other, a man, not yet thirty, built like a rugby player, bull-necked and eager.
Both look determined and rumpled and the effect is that of a headmistress and a junior member of staff who share an out of hours interest in violence. Toby is almost upon them.
“Dr Toby Judd?” This is the woman, firm yet discreet.
“Yes?” The word comes out in a croak. Toby, wondering if they can smell the alcohol on his breath, has never craved as much as he does now a packet of mints.
“I thought it must be you, sir.”
“You did?”
“Of course I recognise you, sir.”
“Really?”
“From the video, sir.”
“What video?”
“It might be easier if we took this inside, sir. I’m Detective Inspector Nia Cudden. This is Sergeant Isaac Angeyo.”
The man nods and both of them briefly flourish identity cards (so swiftly that they might just as easily have been bus passes or driving licenses).
“Oh,” says Toby. “Hello, then.”
“Have you got a minute for a quiet word, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
Toby starts fumbling for the keys, pulls them out, drops them.
Sergeant Angeyo, who has yet to speak, bends down, picks them up and hands them back.
“Thank you.” Dr Judd walks towards the door then, remembering his manners, turns back to his companions. “I’m terribly sorry,” he says. “I haven’t had a chance to tidy for a while. You’ll have to forgive the mess.”
“No problem, sir. I’m sure we’ve seen worse. Just lead the way.”
T HE MILK IN the fridge is rancid so Toby can only offer them black coffee or green tea. To his mild relief, they decline both. Once Toby has cleared away the detritus (the guests are too polite to mention the dust and the dirt), the two police officers sit together on the sofa while Toby perches on the room’s only chair. He is about to ask what this is all about when Cudden, with the patient deliberation of a woman who knows from experience that mistakes are more likely if things are done at speed, says: “Tell us, Dr Judd. Do you know a man named Russell Spicer?”
Toby shakes his head. “No. I don’t believe I do.”
The officers exchange looks of professional scepticism.
“Perhaps you’ll recognise his face, sir.”
This is Sergeant Angeyo, speaking for the first
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