Spiritual Solutions

By Elin Säfström

Emma Bentley is a professional medium, and she’s the real deal: a kid-you-not, bona fide psychic. Not being up front about her abilities in the past has lost her the love of her life but now – and perhaps because of it – she’s more determined than ever to be who she is and not pretend otherwise. There are people in her life who know her well and fully accept her abilities but they constitute a rare group of believers. Using her talents, Emma gives her all to help both clients and friends, although more often than not, this proves to be no easy feat. Unable to control the flow and content of visions and information reaching her through the ether, she generally has to piece things together to make a qualified guess, which at times can leave her barking up the wrong tree.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312257801

Book preview

Spiritual Solutions

Spiritual Solutions

By Elin Säfström

Copyright

Copyright © 2010 Elin Säfström

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-312-25780-1

Cover design by Brandi Doane McCann

Chapter 1

The flames of the candles flickered when, suddenly, I exhaled; the effect was very satisfying. The woman sitting across from me at the round mahogany table stared at me in wide-eyed awe. I met her gaze.

She’s here, I said, in a husky, dramatic voice.

The woman gasped. She dared not move. Her eyes were fixed on me as if they’d been glued in place. Her hands were planted on the table, fingers clawed with tension.

Are you sure it’s her? she whispered.

I straightened my back and breathed deeply, then closed my eyes.

Are you the mother of this child? I said, letting my voice assume the perfect hint of a tremor. The woman before me was by no means a child – she was forty if she was a day – but I find using this word strikes just the right note of drama in séances designed to invoke the spirit of someone’s parent.

I paused, letting the question work its way into the silence. Suddenly, my entire body gave a start. I opened my eyes, and in a voice barely reminiscent of my own, I said Yes.

The woman let out a whimper. Mother?

I paused again. Then, keeping my mind focused intently on the client’s needs, I continued in that odd voice I’d been practising so hard, Yes.

Is it really you?

Pause.

It’s me.

The woman seemed unsure of what to say or do next. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps and her eyes wandered uncertainly in the air above the table. With her right hand she started twisting a thin silver bracelet on her left arm.

Shall I give you a sign that it really is me? I volunteered.

Yes. Her answer was almost inaudible. Her eyes kept darting around the empty space above her.

I gave you that bracelet, I said. It was pretty obvious.

The woman reacted as if she’d been slapped in the face. Her eyes widened impossibly and her mouth started working soundlessly.

It was getting difficult to concentrate. I wanted this to be over with.

Do not grieve for me, I said. I’m beyond the reach of this world’s pain.

The woman said something I couldn’t make out.

What was that, my darling?

She spoke up a little: Can you forgive me?

I could feel a serious headache coming on. I lifted my hands to my temples, as if it would somehow allow me to concentrate harder, even though I was really just trying to alleviate the tension that was building up.

There’s nothing to forgive, I said. It is I who should ask your forgiveness. I was a very bad mother, and I’m sorry. I love you very much. I spoke rather too quickly now to be really convincing, but it was getting unbearable.

The woman had begun weeping. Big, fat tears trickled down her cheeks, and I really felt for her. But I needed this to be over soon.

I’m sorry I never let you know how much I loved you, I continued. And still do. Nothing will ever change that. But you have to let go of me now. Get on with your life! And know how deeply I regret being such a horrible mum. I was losing my dramatic tone, but the woman didn’t seem to notice. She was crying uncontrollably.

I’m sorry … Mum, she sobbed. I’m so sorry I always disappointed you. I didn’t … mean to …

There, there, Sweetheart! You never disappointed me! I disappointed you! But no more. I am gone, and you must go on living, and try to forgive your old mother for being such a bitch. I was really out of it now; this was not how I usually spoke to my clients. The woman looked up at me through her tears, clearly shocked.

I’m sorry to be using such foul language, I said, but since I’m dead, it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? The important thing is that you are, and have always been, the best daughter a mother could wish for, and that I love you more than you will ever know. Goodbye now! Let me rest in peace!

The last few words came out harsher and louder than I’d intended. But who could blame me?

This woman’s dead mother was screaming obscenities inside my head.

Here’s the thing: people want drama. It’s what they expect, it’s what they pay for and that’s why I give it to them. Most of the time, they won’t accept anything less. Experiencing the paranormal in a mundane, everyday setting just won’t do – it just won’t.

Another thing people won’t accept is that the dead can be just as petty, small-minded, mean, and generally obnoxious as the living. And, agreed, in most cases they aren’t. Usually, even the people who are genuinely unpleasant in life tend to get a different perspective on things when they’re dead. Suddenly they see the earthly existence for what it is: a volatile state of being which doesn’t matter that much once you pass on to the other side.

Exceptions exist, of course. This horrible old woman was one of them – a bitter, malevolent spirit, as outrageously grudging and envious of her daughter in death as she had no doubt been in life. She kept screaming in my head that her daughter should have been the one who was dead, not her. Her squalling got worse and worse and more inarticulate until she ended up simply screeching indecencies. The wickedness of her presence was almost unbearable.

I do not, as a rule, lie to my clients. I make a point of being as sincere as possible, trying to redeem the somewhat tarnished reputation of my profession – because there are a lot of frauds out there, there really are – but in rare cases, such as this, I just can’t bring myself to act as the mouthpiece of such base malice.

I’d rather make something up. Something nice. Something that gives my client a warm, fuzzy feeling to take home with them.

I let my chin sink to my chest, concentrating hard on getting the savage screaming and taunting out of my mind. After a moment, I looked up, alone in my head again.

The woman was sobbing quietly into her hands. I gave her a tissue from a box I always keep handy whenever I conduct a séance (people often cry after coming into contact with the spirits of their loved ones); she took it and began dabbing at her eyes.

I’m sorry, she said in a small, choked voice.

Don’t be, I said, feeling immensely guilty about having lied to the woman, but at the same time knowing that I just couldn’t have told her the truth: that her mother was a mean, bitter soul, even in death. Your mother wants you to move on. She loves you dearly, and she wants you to have a great life. That’s all she wants. Well, there was no turning back with the lying now, so I might as well pad it out some more. If she knows you’re happy, then she’ll be happy, wherever it is that she’s going.

The woman looked up at me with tearful, rather accusing eyes. Don’t you know?

For a moment there I thought she was on to me, that she’d been hearing her mother’s ranting all along, but then I realised what it was that she was asking. People often presume that I know more about the afterlife than anyone else – which, in a way, I do, I suppose; at least I know that there is an afterlife, or a state of being that comes after life, at any rate – but, in fact, I know very little beyond that. I only communicate with the souls that linger here on Earth for one reason or another, and I have no idea of where they go once they leave.

No, I don’t know, I said truthfully, happy not to be lying about this at least. But I feel sure she’s going somewhere good. And this was also the truth. I don’t believe nice people go one way and wicked people the other. I like to believe that everyone goes somewhere on a sort of long and well-earned holiday and gets a chance to regroup before it’s time for the next stop in existence, wherever that might be. If the bad people are given the opportunity to put some distance between this world and the next and relax a bit in between, I’m confident most of them will come to their senses eventually and have a nice, fresh start at the next level of being. I really want to believe that everyone gets a second chance – even this woman’s horrible mother.

At the front door, just as she was about to leave, the woman turned to me. She smiled wryly, her tears dry now, the only trace of them a slight puffiness around her eyes.

You know what? That was the best conversation I’ve ever had with my mother. Ironic, isn’t it?

I gave her a pained smile in return.

Anyway. Thank you! She turned on her heel and left, walking down the stairwell

God, I felt so guilty! I had to make amends somehow. I reached out for her mind.

Hey! I called after her. The necklace is stuck behind the third drawer from the top of your work desk. It was the necklace matching the silver bracelet her mother had given her. She had been searching for it everywhere.

She was out of sight, but I heard her pause on the stairs, quiet for a while.

You really aren’t faking it, are you? she said eventually.

No, I said. Most of the time I’m not.

There was a moment of silence before she resumed her steps. Not until I heard the front door of the building close behind her did I retire into the recesses of my flat.

Chapter 2

Only a few minutes later, my doorbell rang. I knew who it was before I opened the door, but that had nothing to do with my psychic prowess; there was simply no mistaking that uniquely thrice-applied jing-a-ling of the bell, or, for that matter, the Yoo-hoo? Anybody home? that followed.

Hello, Nigel, I said, opening my door wide for the slightly overweight and balding man in a slinky, pink dressing gown. He sailed past me into the flat as though he lived there (which actually wasn’t that far from the truth – Nigel is my downstairs neighbour and he does love to drop in for a coffee or a cocktail, or both, on a regular basis).

Emery, he said, (for some reason he calls me by that nickname, even though no one else does – my real name is Emma) this is an emergency! He went into the kitchen and started rummaging about in my cupboards. When he reached the one above the refrigerator, something pitch black and sleek came out and landed on the kitchen floor with a little thud and an annoyed meow. Oops. Sorry, Larson, I didn’t know you were in there. Were you looking for Mummy’s gin too? But Larson, my great big tom, had already left the kitchen to seek out a more secluded resting spot. A bit grumpy today … Now, let me see. Where does the woman keep her gin?

I’m right here, Nigel.

He gave me a look. So you are. He turned back to his task. I was left studying the thinning hair at the back of his head. Ah! We’re all right! Here it is! He brought out the bottle and continued his quest in my refrigerator. Now, don’t tell me you haven’t got any tonic, he said with his slinky pink back to me and his head inside the fridge. That would be so like you! Ah! Here we are. Lucky us! he chirped, merrily waving a bottle of tonic water at me. Now isn’t it a stroke of luck that I just happened to bring my own lime? Out of one of the pockets of his dressing gown he produced the small, green fruit. You’re usually rather wanting in this particular department, you know, he said, admonishing me.

Fine. You just make yourself at home, and I’ll go and clear up after the séance. I went into the sitting room, where I usually see my clients, and began putting out candles and cleaning the incense bowl, throwing used-up incense sticks and tear-soaked paper tissues in the bin. After a while, Nigel joined me, thrusting a glass into my hand and sitting down on the sofa to enjoy his own drink. I took a sip at my glass and sat down beside him.

So, I said. What’s the emergency?

Hmm? he said distractedly. Oh! The emergency! We-ell! It just so happens that I’m going out on a date tonight– (he paused for effect) –with Hank the Hunk.

Oh! Congratulations! I said. He finally called?

Nigel gave a little cough. "Ye-es … Well, no … Not as such. But when I phoned him he swore he had been meaning to give me a ring any day now. And when I suggested dinner, he was glad to accept. I can tell about these things, you know."

That’s great, Nigel! I said. I really wanted him to be happy and I knew that he had a thing for Hank the Hunk, but I had my doubts as to the sincerity of the man. I didn’t want to see Nigel get hurt.

Now, he continued, it’s imperative that I make him jealous by wearing the earrings Michael gave me, but I can’t seem to find the blasted things. Very conveniently, I was reminded of whom one should turn to in such situations, when I heard you in the stairwell, shouting out to someone the exact location of a necklace.

Nigel is one of the few people who unquestionably believe in my psychic abilities – in his mind I’m the real thing, beyond a shadow of a doubt. And, more importantly, he doesn’t have a problem with it.

You see, there are more or less five categories of people. The first one is by far the largest; it comprises those who simply think I’m a fraud and a complete loony. I sometimes think they are my favourite category: they leave me alone, and I return the courtesy.

The second consists of people who don’t believe I’m the real thing and who openly put me down. They feel offended by the mumbo-jumbo I’m getting away with and want to stop me from deceiving others, more gullible than themselves. More often than not, they’re a real pain in the arse. First of all, they seek to prove me wrong, and when they can’t, they’re more convinced than ever that I’m a fraud – how else could I possibly know the things I know? I’ve been accused of being such outrageous things as an accomplished computer hacker, a burglar, a spy – an investigative journalist even – because people who don’t want to believe in the supernatural are prepared to believe anything that can at least be explained within the realms of their accepted conception of the world.

In the third category are people who desperately want to believe but are constantly doubt-ridden and just cannot seem to come to terms with and accept the existence of the paranormal. Actually, most of my clients belong to this last category. Nearly everyone who engages my services has their doubts about the ingenuousness of what I do. And that’s OK. I’m used to it.

The fourth category consists of people who believe I’m for real and who’re freaked out by it. They’re probably the worst of all, because they make you feel alien and outlandish and they really don’t do much to boost your self-esteem.

But then there’s the fifth category: the people who are at ease with me, with complete trust in my abilities. These are few and far between – in fact, I can probably count them on my fingers – but the few real friends that I have all belong to this category of believers. Whenever one of them comes along, I just can’t afford not to make friends with them. Nigel is one of these people, and has been from the moment we met, about two years ago, when I moved into this flat and put a plaque up on the door that says:

Emma Bentley

Spiritual Solutions

Medium and psychic consultant

One day, about a week after I moved in, my doorbell had rung, and there he’d been, two glasses and one bottle of Champagne in his hands. I’ve always wanted to meet a medium, he said. I think this calls for a little celebration. And instead of testing me by trying to make me guess what he was thinking or wanting to speak to some deceased aunty of his, he’d simply settled himself down on my sofa, petted Larson (who rarely lets himself be petted by anyone but me), popped the Champagne cork and started chatting away as though we’d been friends forever.

Are you sure making Hank jealous is the best way to go here? I asked. Maybe it’ll just put him off.

Nigel patted my knee with a dainty hand. No offence, darling, but you just wouldn’t be my first choice as an adviser on romantic matters.

Ouch. He was probably right not to want my guidance in these things: my love life was non-existent, and not through any choice of my own.

Please, just tell me where those earrings’ve gone to, and let me worry about the rest.

All right, I said, putting my hand on top of his and closing my eyes for a few moments. "Oh, Nigel, you haven’t even looked properly! You don’t even bother trying anymore, do you? Just ask the psychic woman upstairs, right? They are in the bathroom cabinet. You just have too much junk in there! Look behind an old tube of foot cream on the middle shelf."

Nigel clapped his hands with delight (strange, yes, but he just has that type of body language). I love this! It’s like having one of those key-finding devices – you know, the ones that go beep when you whistle or something – attached to every single thing you own!

Nigel may have a relaxed attitude towards my abilities, but he simply loves watching me in action. Even though he knows this kind of trick is the oldest and simplest in the book.

Finding stuff for people is usually a piece of cake. More often than not, they really know where the thing they’re looking for is, at least on a subconscious level, and that makes it a trivial matter of reaching into their minds and giving them the answer that’s already there. That’s what I’d done with the woman who’d been by earlier, and that’s what I’d done with Nigel just then. She had known that she’d last seen the necklace in that drawer and that the only logical explanation for not finding it there was that it had somehow got stuck behind the drawer; he had put the earrings in that cabinet himself and then, on a conscious level, forgotten all about it. Finding things that are truly lost is much harder.

Nigel stayed and chatted while there was still something left in his glass but did not top up his drink in his customary fashion when he’d finished it.

Mustn’t keep the gorgeous Hank waiting! he said, air kissing my cheeks with loud smacking noises, Mwah! Mwah!

Have a lovely evening, I said.

Thank you, darling! I will!

He turned around on my doorstep, a frown on his face, as if he’d only just thought of something.

Emery, he said, fixing me with an intense stare, you really might want to consider dating someone too. You’ll be thirty in a few weeks. You don’t want to end up an old spinster.

Thank you, Nigel, for reminding me. Now, go away.

Nigel chuckled. He waved a hand airily, I’m just saying, darling. You should be out there, catching yourself a real stud. He winked at me, I know I will.

He turned and started down the stairs, whistling happily out of tune.

Good for you, I muttered, shutting the door behind his slinky pink back.

That night I stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror. I turned this way and that, scrutinising every inch of my body, perching on top of the toilet seat in order to get a full view. The freckles on my face and shoulders were in stark contrast to the rest of my pale skin. I had pinned up my shock of frizzy, red hair into a bun on the top of my head.

Bright, white bathroom lighting isn’t very kind to your complexion. It makes every irregularity of your skin stand out in relief. Or, rather, dent in, as it were. Either way, it made the back of my thighs look like bubble wrap. My bum could have been smoother too – and slimmer. Quite a lot slimmer, actually.

I got down from the toilet and faced the mirror to inspect my breasts. Large (which I supposed was all right), slightly different sizes (which wasn’t so good), and going a bit saggy (which made me feel like crying).

I sighed heavily. My short and stocky body was something I’d inherited – along with my read hair and fair skin – from my mother, and which she, in turn, had inherited from my grandmother. The genes on the maternal side of my family are very dominant, and they come with a hearty appetite and a tendency to gain weight easily. They also come with a strong psychic ability.

My mother and grandmother both sense the spirits of dead people and sometimes have premonitions about the future, just like I do. They too have a certain telepathic ability and some measure of clairvoyance – which makes playing a game of cards among the three of us a strange and irksome affair with all of us, rightfully, accusing each other of cheating.

What they don’t have is a stubborn urge to go public with their talents and try to make a living out of it.

I do. I’m not going to be put off because people think I’m a freak or a fraud. I want to get out there and help my fellow man.

Both my mother and grandmother find this very laudable, but also very stupid. Knowing full well, from first-hand experience, what it’s like to be psychic and what people are likely to think of you, they worry about me. Both of them have been very low-key about their talents all of their lives and both of them married at an early age.

And there you have it. Because that really is the crucial point: it’s terribly hard to meet someone if you’re completely open about being a hardcore psychic. As I said before, there are extremely few people in the fifth category – the one comprising all (three?) of my friends – and the chances of finding someone belonging to it, someone you want to spend your life with, and who wants to spend his life with you, are, well, infinitesimal.

Once, I did have a relationship lasting for all of a year. Sadly, that person turned out to belong to the fourth category – of people who believe you’re absolutely for real and who’re completely spooked about it. But that’s another story and I’d rather not dwell on it.

I proceeded to inspect my face in the mirror: round, freckly, and sullen. I tried a smile: round, freckly, and cheerfully toothy. I let my facial muscles slacken again. God, I looked tired with bluish bags under my eyes. And, wait a minute! Were those …? Could it be …? I leaned closer to the mirror. And, oh yes: crow’s feet in the corners of my eyes. Bollocks! I tried rubbing them away, but although the skin turned pink from the vigorous rubbing, the crow’s feet remained.

OK then. One more nail in my coffin. Great.

I put on my old plaid bathrobe and went into the kitchen, where I poured myself a large gin on the rocks, not bothering with such niceties as tonic or lime. I took my drink and went and curled up on the sofa in front of the telly. Zapping a bit, I found an ancient but comforting rerun of EastEnders. Life, I tried to reason, could have been worse. At least I wasn’t abused by my husband or HIV-positive or anything.

I was just old, saggy, and desperately alone.

Chapter 3

I woke up on the sofa, the TV still on, now showing some early-morning show for children, featuring a green hand puppet who talked in an annoying, squeaky voice. I patted the sofa down and eventually found the remote to turn the bloody thing off. Only when the TV went black did I notice the young girl sitting in my armchair.

Phew! I said. You startled me.

She had, a bit.

She said nothing, but looked at me with big, blue eyes. I smiled at her. She gave me an uncertain hint of a smile back. She was blond and slender, about ten or eleven years old, I guessed (but I’m not particularly good at determining children’s ages). Her hair was done up in pigtails and she wore a simple white dress.

What’s your name? I tried. She didn’t answer me, but just sat there, her blue gaze fixed upon me.

Her silence didn’t really surprise me. I find, most of the time, that spirits who manage to manifest physically don’t speak. There are exceptions, but I had a feeling this girl wasn’t one of them. Most likely she wouldn’t be able to talk.

I’m so sorry, I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. And I was sorry. Young children weren’t supposed to die – they were supposed to live!

I know it must be confusing for you. But you’ll be all right.

A tear appeared in one of the ghost’s eyes and trickled down her pale cheek.

Oh, sweetheart! Don’t be sad! I tried to keep an encouraging smile on my face. I wanted to hug and comfort her physically, but you can’t hug a ghost. It was all I could do to murmur soothing words of consolation to her. There, there, darling. You’ll be all right. Ssh, ssh. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. Just let go. Let this world go. Your place isn’t here anymore. Don’t worry about your family. They’ll be all right. Eventually.

Suddenly, her face contorted with rage, the girl sprang at me. I reacted instinctively, holding my arms up in front of me to take the blow. But, of course, there was none. The ghost vanished in mid-jump into thin air.

I have to admit, I was fairly shaken. The girl’s sudden lunge at me had taken me completely by surprise. I’d never experienced anything like it. Ghosts, at times, can be angry and frustrated, but usually they don’t aim their aggression at anything, or anyone, in particular (a notable exception to that rule had of course been the raging woman in my head the day before – she had been aiming her anger directly at her poor daughter). Sometimes, when they’re really upset they can set things flying across a room, which is what people usually refer to as poltergeist activity. That, supposedly, takes a lot of energy, and I’ve yet to see a ghost managing to manifest physically and throwing stuff around at the same time. To be honest, I don’t think they can.

I got up to make some coffee to calm my nerves. I felt so bad for that poor child, and I hoped she’d be back soon, so I could try talking to her some more. She needed to let go of this life, but given her state of mind, I didn’t think she would be able to do it on her own. She’d need guidance. I hoped I’d be able to give it to her.

Larson was waiting in the kitchen. He meowed his welcome and pushed himself against my leg. It wasn’t a display of affection as much as it was a reminder about breakfast.

OK, Lars. I hear you.

I filled Larson’s little bowls with dry cat food and water, respectively, and he set about eating as though he’d never seen food before. I went on to prepare the coffee for myself and while it brewed I thought about the dead young girl. Who was she? Why had she died? And why was she lingering here?

When the coffee was ready, I poured a cup and returned to the sofa in the sitting room. Larson had beat me to our mutual favourite spot in one corner of the sofa, and there was nothing for it but to settle for the other corner. We shared a pretty contented moment, in spite of everything, me sipping my coffee and him grooming himself thoroughly after his meal.

Then, all of a sudden, he cocked his head, as if reacting to a sound. I hadn’t heard anything, but of course his sense of hearing is far superior to mine. He pricked his ears and sat up straight, all attention.

Hey, Lars! What is it? I thought about the ghost of the girl. Sometimes Larson senses things I don’t; maybe she’d come back.

Larson took one leap across the coffee table and, ended up staring into the wall opposite me. He was on all fours, tense as a mousetrap about to spring. As a matter of fact, Larson happens to be the most efficient mousetrap you’ll ever find, and maybe, I thought, he’d simply heard some small rodent inside the wall.

Oh, dear, I hope they don’t mess up the electricity again. We’d had this kind of problem before, and although my heart went out to all furry, beady-eyed little vermin out there, I didn’t much appreciate housing them in the walls of my flat.

But then Larson did something he never does (and certainly not when going after small, defenceless animals): he showed his teeth and hissed. He continued to focus intently on the wall. Still, I could hear or sense nothing. I concentrated hard, trying to feel what it was he felt.

And then the phone rang. Both Larson and I snapped out of it. He returned to the sofa where he resumed grooming himself, and I answered the phone.

Spiritual Solutions. This is Emma Bentley speaking. How may I help you? It was my work mobile.

Hello? A woman.

Hello, I said, trying to sound extremely nice – clients are often quite nervous when they call, not knowing what to expect, and, more often than not, they feel like complete idiots contacting a medium in the first place. Can I help you?

The woman gave a brittle, mirthless laugh. I don’t know, she said. Can you?

I was all patience and friendliness. I hope so. Please, tell me the nature of your problem, and I’ll do my best to help.

The woman gave a shaky sigh. I’m sorry if I sounded a bit … sceptical just now. It’s just that I’ve never before even considered turning to someone of your … profession. I have to admit, I’m not sure I believe that you can help me with anything.

I was used to this. That’s quite all right. I can’t always help everyone, but I always try to.

Yes. Of course. You see … Her voice broke. Even as I gave her a moment to collect herself, I felt that something was seriously wrong, and when she spoke again, my heart sank. It’s my daughter. My daughter’s missing. My little girl is missing. And I don’t know who else to turn to.

I’m so grateful you could see me at such short notice. And on a Saturday too. The woman frowned. It is Saturday, isn’t it?

I nodded.

The woman shook her head, as if trying to clear it. Oh, dear, I just can’t seem to keep things straight. I’m worried out of my mind. She started weeping. My heart aching for her, I handed her a paper tissue. There wasn’t much else I could do. Except increase her pain immeasurably.

She was a thin, haggard-looking woman in her fifties. Her hair was dyed blond, but the outgrowth was a good two inches of pure grey. Her eyes were blue and the whites were bloodshot from crying. I had a feeling she hadn’t slept for days.

I dreaded what I would have to tell her. It would crush her completely. But I would just have to steel myself, because I simply couldn’t keep her in the dark about her daughter’s death.

I’m sorry, she said between sobs. I can’t help it. I just can’t stop crying.

That’s all right, Mrs Hammond, I said. I understand.

I would have to tell her. Now.

Still, I hesitated.

Mrs Hammond gave a deep, shuddering sigh, and sat up straighter in the very armchair where her daughter had chosen to sit, only a few hours ago. She cleared her throat and dried the tears from her eyes. She looked at me, her face set in grim determination.

"How does one go about these things, then? I suppose you’d like some background information. Like what I’ve already told the police a hundred times. The last time anyone heard from her was seven o’clock last Friday night. She’d talked to a friend on the phone. They were supposed to meet for drinks at nine. Laura – that’s my daughter – never showed up, which – as I told the police – is not like her at all."

I was a little slow processing the information, because of the discrepancy between what she was telling me and the notion already fixed in my mind.

They were meeting for drinks? I asked stupidly.

Yes. She and her childhood friend, Dana. Dana Ellis. A very nice girl. I’ve known her practically all her life. She’s worried to bits too. She knows that Laura would never, ever just disappear without telling anyone – like the police seem to think.

This was looking hopeful – at least in the sense that she could hardly be talking about an eleven-year-old. But I had to make sure beyond a doubt.

Um … How old is your daughter?

Twenty-eight.

And now that I thought about it, this woman was a bit old to have a ten- or eleven-year-old daughter – although I supposed it would have been possible. Anyway, I allowed myself to feel tentatively relieved. This meant there was still hope for Laura. (And, boy, was I happy I hadn’t prematurely given false news of her death. That would have been unthinkably horrible!)

However, we weren’t out of the woods yet. It