October skies

CHAPTER 57

Thursday

Hammersmith, London

Julian was still playing the news through his head as he let himself in through the glass doors of the small industrial unit that was Soup Kitchen’s office.

Sean dead?

He’d seen on the local news last night that a man had been stabbed to death whilst walking his dog on Wimbledon Common and, like every other viewer at home, he had sighed at yet another sign of the times; this was the result of allowing Britain’s troubled and tormented souls to wander the streets at will with no one supervising their care and medication.

Then this morning he’d emailed Sean at his work address for an update on how things were proceeding, only to get a response from a harried colleague that Sean was the unfortunate man who had been attacked.

Miranda came in for only a few hours every other day. Today wasn’t one of them, which was just as well. He wasn’t ready for a cheerful good morning and some bright and breezy banter. He flipped on the dim overhead lights of their front office, filled up the coffee maker and put it on, then booted up his PC as he waited.

His mind raced with conflicting threads of thought.

On the one hand he was surprised at how shaken he was. Sean and he went back quite a few years, and the poor bastard was leaving behind his wife and a little girl. Sean had been an all-round good egg, and now, out of the blue, he was gone.

Shit like that always seemed to happen so quickly — death just sneaked in and changed lives in the blink of an eye. He made a mental note to order a wreath, and write a few words to Sean’s wife before he headed to Heathrow tomorrow.

What is wrong with this evil fucking world?

He reluctantly pushed his mind onto other matters and felt like a mercenary bastard for doing so.

There was now no fast-tracked contract with the BBC being steered through the decision process. With Sean dead, the deal was dead too. Even if whoever replaced him finally got round to dealing with the in-tray and liked the sound of the project, it would probably be far too late to be of any use to Julian and Rose. Money was running out and they’d both need to go scare up some other work to keep the business going. He was halfway through a mental stocktake of clients they could tap for some quick tide-me-over work when another, unwelcome thought fluttered into his mind and settled like a crow on a telegraph pole.

You told Sean about the find and now he’s dead.

He shook his head. ‘Oh, come on.’

And was there not a click on your phone?

The coffee maker burbled and steamed that it was ready and he poured himself a cup, black.

… and someone was in your flat, weren’t they?

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Julian,’ he muttered, ‘now really isn’t the right time to start becoming a paranoid twat.’

His old office PC finally finished choking on Vista and connected to the internet to pick up his mail. Thirty-three spams chased each other into his in-box, one after the other, most promising to turn him into a sexual leviathan. But there was one email that attracted his attention.

He clicked on it. Mr Cooke, Yes, I would be interested in exchanging information with you. I am fascinated by the untold, unheard story of the Preston party. It remains a profoundly interesting mystery. What happened to all those people? It’s a story that has intrigued me for many years. And in all this time I have encountered no one else who has heard of it, let alone is actively investigating it. So it was very exciting for me to receive your email yesterday. I am based in America. I have business that takes me back and forth between the east and west coasts on a regular basis. If you are planning a trip to the States any time soon, I’m sure I can co-ordinate my travels to coincide with yours, so that we can meet somewhere and discuss what we both have. For my part, I have more biographical detail on William Preston than I have presented on the web page. I look forward to hearing back from you. Very best Arnold Zuckerman

Julian sat back and sipped his coffee. Now that was something he really hadn’t been expecting. The web page he’d stumbled on at the beginning of the week had looked like a dead site, something put up by someone long ago and forgotten about. Perhaps it would be something of a consolation if he could tie in a meeting with this Zuckerman whilst returning to pack things up. It might help fill a hole in the research. To Julian’s chagrin, he’d been unable to come up with anything at all on Preston. The man’s background was a gap they’d need to fill whether they made a documentary or a drama, especially if, as Dr Griffith had suggested, they were looking at a psychotic cult leader who had led his people to their deaths.

He hastily typed a response. Mr Zuckerman I’m due to fly out to the States tomorrow. Whilst I’m researching this story, my base of operations is a small town called Blue Valley, north end of California. It’s a quiet place where people go for camping and hiking holidays these days. It’s the nearest settlement to the site I mentioned in my previous mail — a day’s hike from it. I’ll be honest with you: I won’t reveal the exact location of the site, as it’s a site of historical importance and it would be inappropriate for me to share that information willy-nilly. However, I’d be willing to share with you the story of what happened out there. We have recovered a detailed account of the events, a journal written by one of the party, almost perfectly preserved and for the most part legible. I will be in Blue Valley for three or four days if you wish to arrange a meeting. Julian Cooke (Documentary Maker)