with my thumb and forefinger, I rushed into the drawing
room just as the child did.
It took
several seconds for the father to react. That deadened gaze he held
as he stared over the half empty contents of his crystal tumbler
was hard to shift. Then his child walked straight in front of
him.
And he broke
down. Throwing the glass to his side, and letting it smash against
an expensive bookshelf full of rare tomes, he pushed himself from
the chair, and plunged down to his knees. Lips shaking, eyes
filling with hot tears, he brought his arms around and pulled her
into a hug.
He kept on
repeating her name, and she just stood there, half crying, though
not as ferociously as her father.
By now the
other Bobbies in the house and outside on the street had become
aware of what was happening. Behind me I could hear them descending
the stairs and then marching along the corridor.
Managing to
wrench my gaze from the child and her father, I turned to them and
offered a nod.
That was it.
For I could not offer an explanation. I had no idea how the child
had just walked in through the front door. Well, that was not fair;
I understood perfectly the mechanics involved in walking oneself up
a set of stairs, down a corridor and into the library. What I
didn't understand was how on earth she had escaped from her
kidnappers.
I attempted to
maintain a respectful distance for as long as I could, however when
it seemed the father had regained enough composure to let go of his
child, I cleared my throat. I was still hovering near the doorway,
barely one step inside the room, my hands clamped behind my back,
my jaw shifting back and forth as I tried not to stare too
hard.
‘ My God, Detective,’ the father finally looked my way, and it
was with an expression of complete adulation and thanksgiving, ‘I
cannot begin to thank you enough.’
I shook my
head sharply to the side. ‘I have done nothing, sir; your daughter
walked in off the street of her own accord.’
The father’s
expression faltered. As it did, his brow crumpled over his eyes in
a tight move. ‘Jennifer,’ he still had a hand clamped on her
shoulder, and I watched as his fingers twitched tighter, his thumb
slipping off the pale-pink lace of her nightgown, ‘what happened,
where have you been?’
Jennifer had
wide-open eyes, and she glanced at her father with a fixed, clearly
frightened look. Several seconds later, she flicked her gaze over
to me, then flicked it down to the floor.
Jennifer?’ her
father demanded again, a note of obvious insistence tightening
through his words.
‘ They came in through the window,’ she managed. Though her
voice was quiet, and her words hardly discernible, the effect of it
was like a spider inching slowly up my back. I even gave a shake of
my shoulders, clamping down hard on my jaw, trying to pull myself
together.
I took a step
forward. Placing a hand on the back of the leather couch, I cleared
my throat again, and nodded low at the father. ‘Who are they?’
Jennifer shook
her head. It was a frantic move, and though a single tear trickled
down her cheek, she wiped it away, and no more followed. ‘Black and
white,’ she answered mysteriously.
I waited in
perfect, absolute silence for her to add to that bizarre statement.
She didn't.
‘ Black and white?’ I prompted with a dry, suddenly sore
throat.
‘ They were black and white,’ she clarified, hardly advancing
the conversation. Yet again, the way she spoke served to send
shivers escaping over my shoulders and deep into my
stomach.
‘ Jennifer, what the deuce are you speaking of?’ The father now
brought both his hands up again, pressing them into her shoulders,
and concentrating her attention by dipping his head low, and
bringing his concerned gaze close.
She took a
dramatic swallow. ‘I didn't see them, just a flash in the light
from the open window. Black and white,’ she repeated in a staccato
voice.
Realising I
had to pull myself together and take control of this
room just as the child did.
It took
several seconds for the father to react. That deadened gaze he held
as he stared over the half empty contents of his crystal tumbler
was hard to shift. Then his child walked straight in front of
him.
And he broke
down. Throwing the glass to his side, and letting it smash against
an expensive bookshelf full of rare tomes, he pushed himself from
the chair, and plunged down to his knees. Lips shaking, eyes
filling with hot tears, he brought his arms around and pulled her
into a hug.
He kept on
repeating her name, and she just stood there, half crying, though
not as ferociously as her father.
By now the
other Bobbies in the house and outside on the street had become
aware of what was happening. Behind me I could hear them descending
the stairs and then marching along the corridor.
Managing to
wrench my gaze from the child and her father, I turned to them and
offered a nod.
That was it.
For I could not offer an explanation. I had no idea how the child
had just walked in through the front door. Well, that was not fair;
I understood perfectly the mechanics involved in walking oneself up
a set of stairs, down a corridor and into the library. What I
didn't understand was how on earth she had escaped from her
kidnappers.
I attempted to
maintain a respectful distance for as long as I could, however when
it seemed the father had regained enough composure to let go of his
child, I cleared my throat. I was still hovering near the doorway,
barely one step inside the room, my hands clamped behind my back,
my jaw shifting back and forth as I tried not to stare too
hard.
‘ My God, Detective,’ the father finally looked my way, and it
was with an expression of complete adulation and thanksgiving, ‘I
cannot begin to thank you enough.’
I shook my
head sharply to the side. ‘I have done nothing, sir; your daughter
walked in off the street of her own accord.’
The father’s
expression faltered. As it did, his brow crumpled over his eyes in
a tight move. ‘Jennifer,’ he still had a hand clamped on her
shoulder, and I watched as his fingers twitched tighter, his thumb
slipping off the pale-pink lace of her nightgown, ‘what happened,
where have you been?’
Jennifer had
wide-open eyes, and she glanced at her father with a fixed, clearly
frightened look. Several seconds later, she flicked her gaze over
to me, then flicked it down to the floor.
Jennifer?’ her
father demanded again, a note of obvious insistence tightening
through his words.
‘ They came in through the window,’ she managed. Though her
voice was quiet, and her words hardly discernible, the effect of it
was like a spider inching slowly up my back. I even gave a shake of
my shoulders, clamping down hard on my jaw, trying to pull myself
together.
I took a step
forward. Placing a hand on the back of the leather couch, I cleared
my throat again, and nodded low at the father. ‘Who are they?’
Jennifer shook
her head. It was a frantic move, and though a single tear trickled
down her cheek, she wiped it away, and no more followed. ‘Black and
white,’ she answered mysteriously.
I waited in
perfect, absolute silence for her to add to that bizarre statement.
She didn't.
‘ Black and white?’ I prompted with a dry, suddenly sore
throat.
‘ They were black and white,’ she clarified, hardly advancing
the conversation. Yet again, the way she spoke served to send
shivers escaping over my shoulders and deep into my
stomach.
‘ Jennifer, what the deuce are you speaking of?’ The father now
brought both his hands up again, pressing them into her shoulders,
and concentrating her attention by dipping his head low, and
bringing his concerned gaze close.
She took a
dramatic swallow. ‘I didn't see them, just a flash in the light
from the open window. Black and white,’ she repeated in a staccato
voice.
Realising I
had to pull myself together and take control of this
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