Characters in Crouch End

“Danny and Norma are back at the hotel . . . with the sitter . . . they’ll be sleeping . . . expecting him to kiss them when we come in . . .” “Now if you could just relax and tell us what happened—” “And where it happened,” …

I’m not even sure what happened, except that it was h-huh-horrible!” Vetter had taken out his notebook. “What’s your name, mum?” “Doris Freeman. My husband is Leonard Freeman. We’re staying at the Hotel Inter-Continental. We’re American citizens.” This time the statement of nationality actually seemed to steady her a little.

“I’ll just take a little stroll up with her, Evvie. Make sure she gets there all right.” “I’ll come along as well, then, won’t I?” Evvie said, and put an arm around Doris’s shoulders. “Now what is it, lovey? Did someone try to mug you?” “No,” Doris said.

Eventually she married a man in a safer line of work—Frank Hobbs is a bumper inspector on the Ford assembly line. It had been necessary to get a divorce from her Bob on grounds of desertion, but that was easily managed.

“A colleague of my husband’s. A lawyer named John Squales. My husband hadn’t met him, but their two firms were—” She gestured vaguely. “Affiliated?” “Yes, I suppose. When Mr. Squales found out we were going to be in London on vacation, he invited us to his home for dinner.

I’m not even sure what happened, except that it was h-huh-horrible!” Vetter had taken out his notebook. “What’s your name, mum?” “Doris Freeman. My husband is Leonard Freeman. We’re staying at the Hotel Inter-Continental. We’re American citizens.” This time the statement of nationality actually seemed to steady her a little.

“Danny and Norma are back at the hotel . . . with the sitter . . . they’ll be sleeping . . . expecting him to kiss them when we come in . . .” “Now if you could just relax and tell us what happened—” “And where it happened,” …

Or I’d say take a look at Petty, but you can’t very well, can you? Petty committed suicide in the summer of 1976. Our hot summer. It was . . .” Vetter seemed to consider his words. “It was quite bad that summer. Quite bad.

PC Robert Farnham left a wife and two-year-old twin girls. Sheila Farnham wrote a series of angry letters to her MP, insisting that something was going on, something was being covered up, that her Bob had been enticed into taking some dangerous sort of undercover assignment.

It scares me. So I have my lager, and then I’m not so scared. You look at Sergeant Gordon sometime, Farnham, and ask yourself why his hair is dead white at forty. Or I’d say take a look at Petty, but you can’t very well, can you?

Sheila Farnham wrote a series of angry letters to her MP, insisting that something was going on, something was being covered up, that her Bob had been enticed into taking some dangerous sort of undercover assignment. He would have done anything to make sergeant, Mrs. Farnham repeatedly told the MP.

And zipping up his windcheater, Raymond glided out. Farnham looked after him uneasily. He made that last up, he told himself. What a hard copper like Sid Raymond knows about the Druids you could carve on the head of a pin and still have room for the Lord’s Prayer. Right.

“I know he’s dead.” “Now, you just come along with old Ted Vetter and we’ll sort this out in a jiff,” he said, and helped her to her feet. She was still talking in a low moaning voice when he led her away with one arm snugged around her waist.

“She’s lost,” said the girl. “Lost her husband.” “Lost her way.” “Found the darker way.” “The road that leads into the funnel.” “Lost her hope.” “Found the Whistler from the Stars—” “—Eater of Dimensions—” “—the Blind Piper—” Faster and faster their words came, a breathless litany, a flashing loom.

Where’s Lonnie? What have you done to him?” There was silence. And then the girl said: “He’s gone beneath.” The boy: “Gone to the Goat with a Thousand Young.” The girl smiled—a malicious smile full of evil innocence. “He couldn’t well not go, could he? The mark was on him.