The Gift

By Debbie Chase

Donna Lane has the sight or the Gift, as her grandmother encouraged her to call it, and through her dreams and interest in tarot, she intends to crack the mystery of the whereabouts of the missing girl, Esme Palmer. Newly arrived back in her hometown, Hampshire, and armed with her success of tracing the missing girl, Marie Nowell, in Paris, she approaches the police, only for her services to be declined.
Criminal Psychologist Baz Brady appears on the scene and, impressed with a tarot reading, he and Donna, despite an attraction, form a totally platonic partnership in order to solve the mystery. Set in the heatwave of 1976, where flared jeans, fab lollies, foot-stomping disco music and rogue ladybirds ruled the world, will the duo succeed in their quest and perhaps find romance in the process?

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jun 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960076861

Debbie Chase

Debbie Chase (married name Debbie Spink) was born in Emsworth in Hampshire in 1959, although she has lived in West Yorkshire since 1979. She is the eldest of five children (two sisters and two brothers) and has many nieces and nephews, great nieces and nephews, aunties, uncles and cousins, having come from a very large family. She has been married since 1984 and has one daughter, Lara and two cats Ruby and Teddy.She has always been a reader and has enjoyed writing since school. Her proudest moment being when she achieved an A+ for an essay! She has had many short stories and poems for adults and children published in books and magazines. She has written four books, the first being part fact/part fiction and called “You to Me Are Everything.” The second book based on a real-life pet sitting job is called “The Confessions of a Pet Sitter (from the Pet’s Point of View) and the third, the sequel to that book, “What A Catastrophe (Teddy’s Tale). The fourth book is a book of poems. All four books are available to buy on Amazon as a paperback or kindle. She has also had two pocket novels (“Planning on Love” and “Romance on the Run”) published with My Weekly magazine.Her other hobbies are running, walking, swimming, yoga, pilates and Tai Chi.After many years of office work she is now partially retired and works part-time in a baker’s shop and is also an Examination Invigilator in a local school!

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The Gift

by

Debbie Chase

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

WCP Logo 7

World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © Debbie Chase 2023

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9781960076854

eBook ISBN: 9781960076861

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, June 19, 2023

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: Karen Fuller

Editor: Karen Fuller

Chapter One

Emsworth, Hampshire - Summer 1976

You’ve got the gift, I remember my grandmother telling me a long time ago, when I was just a girl, and when I looked at her with a frown on my face, she laid a warm hand on my shoulder and, bending slightly, whispered into my ear, The sight…just like me...and your mother too.

I had dreams, strange dreams, which sometimes miraculously came true. I had what I perceived as messages from dead relatives, strange things like the flickering of lights and loud banging on doors, only to find nobody was there. Once, a harsh voice told me no when I almost stepped out in front of a speeding car. I was skeptical about my gift until I had the dream, the important dream where my gift was truly revealed.

Do you still think it was only a dream? my grandmother asked as I gazed at her face, her skin soft and powdery, framed by curly white hair, a slick of lipstick, and then further down to her small frame, clad as always in one of her very much in vogue crimplene trouser suits.

I shivered as once again I recalled the oozing slurry seeping down the hill like a thick black snake to engulf the building beyond, which I knew somehow in my heart was a school. A blue sky arched overhead, and the sun glimmered a bright yellow. I heard panicked screams. That was in 1966, just a day or two before the Aberfan disaster. I relived my dream on our little black and white television set, the news announcer’s face was grim, and my grandmother perched on the settee beside me. My mum, a handkerchief to her face, sniffing loudly as tears rolled down her cheeks.

I was only sixteen with a blinkered outlook and remember turning to my grandmother, my heart beating furiously, and saying, It’s not a gift…it’s a curse! I couldn’t warn them about this, could I? I pointed at the television.

Well, you must use it to help then, she said sternly. "If you do good things with it, then it will be a gift." I’d kept those words with me my whole life so far.

A strong male voice cut into my thoughts, Uh, Mrs. Lane? and this time, it wasn’t one of the voices in my head. I felt as if I’d been dragged from a dream. I hadn’t thought of that incident for a long time.

I looked up to see a tall man stooping over me. He wore thick black-framed glasses and had sparse sandy hair and a hooked nose. Ms., I told him, Ms. Lane, Donna Lane. I held out my hand and, reluctantly it seemed, he took it and, fingers barely touching, gave a limp shake. Holding his tie in place against his chest with one hand, he sank onto the hard plastic chair opposite mine. He wore dark trousers with a white shirt tucked in, the sleeves rolled up, showing freckled forearms. A jug of water and two glasses stood on the table between us.

Detective Inspector Ian Ford. He indicated the badge pinned to his shirt whilst putting a pad and pencil in front of him and a great square walkie-talkie to his side, its red and green lights flashing like traffic lights. How can I help you?

A sudden spurt of nerves rushed through me. This was the first time here, in Emsworth’s constabulary, even though my surroundings were very similar to those in Paris. The same white painted walls, a small window high up, this one splattered with seagull droppings, and the usual clanking paint peeling radiator wide enough to be used as a table, redundant at the moment, cold to the touch and a fan hummed just behind me for the day outside was hot and humid. The beginning of months of burning heat, or so we’d been told by our knowledgeable weather forecasters.

Detective Inspector Ford gazed at me intently as I hesitated. I’d helped the police before with my gift, albeit amidst raised eyebrows and smirks until I proved them wrong, proved myself and my talent, but, pushing all that aside, I took a deep breath and said, I think I may be able to help you with your investigations into the case of the missing girl, Esme Palmer.

He sat forward, his forearms on the table. He seemed eager, expectant, yet furrowed his brow, and pursed his lips, before saying, with a sigh, Oh…I see. What do you know? as if many people had offered help and he’d been disappointed. I could hear the faint cawing of gulls and imagined them strutting the sands like little old men, or flying, their wings outspread, great white shapes against the hard blue of the sky.

I can see her somewhere deep in the ground beneath a trap door…you know, I made a rising motion with my hand curled into a fist. Sort of like a bunker…I smell earth, something foisty and damp, cold even.

He leaned further forward, excited, You’ve seen her?

Well, no, I had a dream and….

He held up his hand palm forward, No, please, Ms. …. He glanced down at his notes, a fleeting look that perhaps he thought I wouldn’t notice. He’d forgotten my name already.

Lane, I said forcefully, Donna Lane. I….

Please….

We spoke at the same time, our words clashing together, like somebody mixing bread dough and adding too much salt or too little flour, until politely I held back, and he spoke, Ms. Lane, we go on facts here, not dreams, not visitations from Great Aunt Maud or Uncle Henry…. He gazed at me through his thick glasses, his hazel eyes shadowed and tired as he smoothed away impatiently with the tips of his fingers, the sweat that ran in tiny rivers down his face.

How rude, I thought before saying aloud, I’ve helped the police before, the Prefecture de Police in Paris. I led them to a missing girl, Marie Nowell. I helped to save her life through a dream, a gut feeling, something tangible that I could see and feel.

We stared adamantly at each other for a split second, And, I added, I haven’t got a Great Aunt Maud or even an Uncle Henry!

He smiled ruefully and shook his head, We have a guy here. Calls himself a Criminal Phycologist. He draws up a profile of the abductor or the killer. We go on that, and most times, it doesn’t let us down. We don’t go on dreams. I’m sorry, Ms. Lane, thank you for coming in, but….

He made to stand up as I said even more forcefully, It’s not just dreams. It’s messages. I’m a physic, or a medium, a clairvoyant…these things work. People like me are becoming more accepted. I know I can help you. Just hear me out…please. I found myself standing, my palms flat on the table. I’d raised my voice, almost to a shout, the muscles taut in my neck, but I had to make myself heard in this world of dominant men. Heck, I was surprised that this room was so sparse. Surely the walls should have been decorated with pictures of Page 3 girls.

He sat back down and reached for the walkie-talkie. Okay, I’ll get Baz in, and when I looked at him enquiringly, The Criminal Phycologist….

Before I could say anything, he spoke quickly, Hi…Laurie? Get Baz will you? There was a short silence, and our eyes met again, his shadow through the glasses, telling me nothing. Okay…tell him I need him now if possible…interview room one. Oh…and tell him it’s concerning Esme Palmer.

Why? I thought, Why is he getting the Criminal Psychologist in? Huh, to make me look stupid, no doubt.

There was a tense silence as the Inspector scribbled on his notepad. The fan whirred, yet the room grew hotter, the air dense as treacle poured onto a sponge pudding. Sweat trickled down my back, and I longed for a cool breeze and maybe a cool drink. Just as I thought that, the Inspector poured us both water from the jug and passed me a glass. I drank it gratefully. It tasted like nectar, a nectar of the Gods, and the best I’d had in my life. The Inspector sat back on the chair now, relaxed, legs stretched out in front, his hands laced behind his head. The door suddenly screeched open, and a man walked in.

Ah, said the Inspector, sitting up straight, Thanks for coming so quickly, Baz…um, this is Ms. Lane…Donna Lane thinks she might be able to help us in the Esme Palmer case. His voice rose at the end of the sentence as if he was asking a question when he wasn’t.

The man reached out a hand and gave me a smile so charming my stomach flipped, and my face burned. Hello, Ms. Lane, I’m Baz Brady, ah, he hesitated briefly, I’m a Criminal Psychologist. You know something about Esme Palmer? I felt a jolt like electricity pass between us as we shook hands.

He sat down, a powerful looking man, his shoulders broad beneath a shirt as bright white as the Inspector’s. I couldn’t help staring at the chest hair that sprawled from the open neck. He was bald, his head smooth and round making him as attractive as our lolly pop sucking hero, Kojak, and his eyes, gazing at me so intently, were a deep brown. Stubble coated his chin and his cheeks. My face burned even more, my cheeks aflame (maybe it was just the heat and not the effect of this man, Baz Brady), and I felt breathless, inwardly quivering like jelly. What was wrong with me?

He looked worriedly from me to the Inspector, as if sensing tension, when I said, I’m a clairvoyant, Mr.Brady. I see things. I think I see where Esme Palmer could be.

Ah, he said, with understanding now, Hmm, well, we don’t usually work that way, Ms. Lane. He tapped his pen against the desk.

Donna, I said.

Um, Donna. I make a profile and….

Oh, I interrupted, and before I could stop myself, said, You mean you make the usual profile. I counted on my fingers. Number 1, he’s a loner, keeps himself to himself. Number 2, he also lives alone, seems very quiet and unassuming. Number 3, he hates his mother. Number 4, it’s definitely a man. No way would a woman murder alone. Number 5, he has pictures of his victims plastered all over his bedroom wall…oh, I could go on and on.

Oh my God, I thought, What am I doing? They’ll chuck me out now, for sure.

Both men chuckled like comrades that worked for the blue team whilst I worked for the lowly red, as the Inspector said, Yeah, that’s pretty much it, Ms. Lane, and it works for us.

I saw the Aberfan disaster before it happened, I told them quietly. I turned to Baz Brady, And, as I told the Inspector earlier when I lived in Paris, I helped the Prefecture de Police with their investigations, most especially into the missing girl, Marie Nowell. Do you remember her?

Yeah, rings a bell, replied Baz.

We found her alive, I said proudly, Tied up, bruised and tear-stained but alive. Give me a chance. I can help you. After all, you’ve nothing on this case at the moment, have you?

We’re doing okay, said the Inspector, turning to look at Baz, Aren’t we, Baz? He gave him a nudge.

Well, yeah, yeah, of course, we are.

Huh, I said, riled up now, I don’t believe you. I don’t think you’ve any leads at all. I looked at them, my gaze skittering from one to the other.

Well, that’s not something we can divulge, said the Inspector. We’re working through our findings.

Hands on hips, head thrust forward like an angry bull, I said, So you don’t want my help then?

They shook their heads slowly as the Inspector said, Well, let’s just say, if we need your help in the future, we’ll contact you…okay?

And Baz finished off, Is that okay, Ms. Lane? which at least was accompanied by a shamefaced smile.

Do you see me as a threat or something, Mr. Brady? I asked him.

No, not at all, he said, somewhere between a pained and incredulous look on his face.

Okay, I said, But I really want to help. I’ll leave my card just in case either of you changes your mind. I placed a small square business card on the table between them as, without a backward glance, I picked up my bag and, swinging it over my shoulder, walked out of interview room one, trying very hard not to slam the door behind me.

***

Fuming, I walked quickly out of the police station, out onto the stoop and down a flight of concrete steps, and onto the cobbled Emsworth High Street. The heat, quivering in the air, hit me hard. Overhead the sky shone a deep blue and the sun a bright white pulsating glow. Perhaps our clever weathermen were right this time, and we really were at the beginning of a heatwave. The sea lay ahead, flat and calm as a silver mirror, a triangular shape in between the houses and pubs at the end of the street. The air smelled of the heat interlaced with salt and the greasy smell of fish and chips and baked pasties. Seagulls swooped and dived, making their strange cawing sound like somebody laughing.

The benches outside the pub, The Bluebell, were already full with people enjoying a liquid lunch and reveling in such a gorgeous day after a long dark winter and a somewhat tepid spring. Heart-rending music streamed from the open doorway, I’m not in love, so don’t forget, it’s just a silly phase I’m going through….

I hummed along to it, calmer now since my rejection from the