Island-in-Waiting (20 page)

The afternoon wore on. At about five there was a phone call for Neil to say the police were waiting at Staff House to interview him and he left immediately. Soon after a police woman, fair and neat in her uniform, arrived to take down my statement. She read back what she'd written and I signed it. It all seemed frighteningly formal, the kind of procedure familiar from police serials on television, but which you never expect to experience personally.

By nine o'clock I was exhausted. At Martha's suggestion I took some asprin and went to bed.

When Martha casually mentioned the next morning that the sitting-room was due for a thorough cleaning, I set to work dusting, polishing and sweeping in a frenzy of frustrated energy, but the remorseless circling of my fears would not be blotted out.

“I'll come with you to the life class if you like,” I offered at lunch time. “I don't want to stay here alone and you said the boys need another sitting.”

“Fine. Thanks.” After a moment she added, “I wonder who'll take over Ray's classes. I'll probably have to go in full-time for a while.”

“Until he turns up,” I said carefully.

“Of course. That's what I meant.”

There was an air of unhealthy excitement about the college that afternoon, a whispering in corridors and excited speculation in the classroom which broke off abruptly when we went in. It was obvious that everyone from the youngest boy upwards was well aware that I had been with Ray on Saturday. Everywhere I went I was conscious of eyes following me, speculating, wondering. I began to regret my impulse to accompany Martha.

The lesson finished at last and I went with her to the staff-room. Here the atmosphere was supercharged with tension, no-one quite meeting anyone else's eye. Only Neil's steadying smile comforted me. Nicholas Quayle came over with odd, disjointed little murmurs of concern for my alarming experience; Phyllis Lathom gave my hand a brief consoling pat when I went for my tea.

I looked round their uneasy faces: Philip, who had heatedly warned Ray to stop his scandalmongering; David Clay, who had left the group under his taunting; Pam, whom he'd reduced to tears; John Stevens, Mark Cunningham – even Hugo and Neil. Not one among them had liked Ray. Perhaps, though they could never admit it, they were relieved that he had gone.

The pervading sense of unease followed us home and supper was a silent meal. Hugo seemed wrapped in his own thoughts and when Martha twice had to repeat a question, she put a hand on his arm. “Has anything happened, darling? Something you haven't told us?”

He stirred unhappily. “Nothing very definite, but I'm afraid things seem to be taking a rather more serious turn. Apparently the forensic boys were up there today. There's a rumour going round that minute traces of blood were found.”

Detachedly I watched the colour leave Martha's face.

“Oh God.” She swallowed, glancing at me. “It's a wonder they found it after all that rain.”

“It was on the canvas stool, apparently. You know how these people work, scraping up things no-one else can even see and being able to tell someone's life history from them.”

Martha's tongue moved over her lips. “Do you gather they're treating it as a case of murder now?”

The words rattled uselessly against my eardrums. I heard them; I even understood them, but I couldn't assimilate them. On the other hand, they were what I'd subconsciously been waiting to hear since Saturday afternoon.

Hugo met my entirely empty gaze. “It wouldn't surprise me. After all, they're pretty certain he didn't simply have an accident, or he'd have been found long before this. If he'd left voluntarily everyone seems to agree he'd have taken the painting, and certainly his car. And if he'd had a sudden brainstorm and rushed down the hill into the sea, his body would have been washed up by now. His family hasn't heard from him and there's been no sign of him at the docks or airport. He's – simply vanished into thin air.”

Martha's eyes swivelled to me and I knew what she was thinking. If it was indeed murder, I was presumably the last person to have seen Ray alive.

The doorbell rang and we all started guiltily. Hugo and I were still at the table when Martha came back with Detective-Inspector Quiggin.

This time the questioning was in far greater detail. What had Ray and I been talking about during the sitting and over lunch? What kind of mood had he been in?

“I gather there's been some unpleasantness between Mr Kittering and several other members of St Olaf's staff. Did he refer specifically to any of them?”

From a long way off I heard myself say, “I don't remember.”

“Try to think, Miss Winter, it might be important. I've had various statements about the flare-ups at the sherry party on Friday evening. There have also been one or two independent reports of an argument later that night between Mr Kittering and Mr Sheppard, which appeared to become quite heated. Did he mention that?”

My lips were paper-dry. “Only in passing.”

“Do you happen to know the reason for the confrontation?”

“Inspector –”

“Please, Mr Winter. It's essential I have this in your sister's own words.”

“He didn't give me any details. Neil's the one who can tell you.”

“Any comments Mr Kittering made to you could be helpful.” He paused but I only shook my head. “Well, let's move on to this impression you had of someone hidden in the mist. Have you remembered anything further which could strengthen it in any way – a scent of tobacco – aftershave – anything like that?”

“No, it was really only an animal awareness until the twig snapped.”

“And the only person you actually saw was Mr Sheppard?”

“Later, yes.”

“Were you expecting him?”

“No, it was – quite a surprise.”

“Now think carefully, Miss Winter. How much time had elapsed between hearing that twig crack and coming face to face with Mr Sheppard?”

“It's hard to say. I started to run immediately, but I didn't know which way to go and I think I went rather a long way round. It could have been three or four minutes.”

“Time enough, in fact, for someone who did know the right direction to circle round in front of you and appear to be coming up the hill?”

“It wasn't Neil,” I said through juddering lips. “He'd only just arrived. He told me so.” My teeth had started rattling together and uncaring I thrust my tongue between them to still the noise.

“Did he offer any explanation as to why he should happen to be climbing the hillside in the mist?”

“He was coming to look for me.”

“In spite of the fact that he knew you were with Mr Kittering, with whom he'd had a violent quarrel the previous evening? Did he imagine he'd be welcome, do you suppose?”

“He thought I might be in danger,” I said in a whisper.

The inspector pounced. “And why should he think that?”

“Because – it sounds silly, but – I'd told him about a dream I had of being lost on a hill in the mist. Sometimes my dreams come true.”

He frowned slightly. “What exactly was this dream?”

“That I was looking for someone and couldn't find him.”

“That's all?”

“And I realized someone else was there and started to run away.”

“And?”

“The mist began to thin and I saw the figure of a man turning towards me.”

“You're not trying to tell me you dreamed it was Mr Sheppard coming to the rescue?” Inspector Quiggin's voice was heavy with disbelief.

“No, in the dream the figure was part of the threat – the man I'd been running from.”

It was Martha's indrawn breath that made me realize what I'd said. For long minutes the clock ticked remorselessly into the pool of silence. Then the inspector cleared his throat and stood up. Automatically I too rose to my feet.

“Right, Miss Winter, I think that will do for the moment. If you remember anything else, however vague, you can reach me at this number day or night.” He handed me a small white card but the writing on it was a blur. As Hugo went with him to the front door, Martha put a tentative hand on my arm.

“Chloe, love –”

“I'll pour her a drink,” Hugo said tightly, coming back into the room. “I think we could all do with one. Sit down, Chloe.” I tried to obey him but my knees were locked rigid and would not bend. I went on staring sightlessly at the card, its edges cutting into my fingers.

The drink shocked me out of my temporary paralysis and I heard myself start to laugh. “They can't really imagine Neil had anything to do with it! It's too ludicrous for words!” Without warning my eyes were full of rushing tears. I dropped the glass on the table with a clatter and ran from the room.

For a long time, incapable of stemming the streaming tears, I stood at the uncurtained window while my double, superimposed on the dark garden beyond, wept with me. Whether I cried for Ray or Neil or myself, I had no idea.

At last I turned away and started to splash water on my swollen face. The cataclysm had calmed me and although my breath still came in long, gasping sobs, my mind was beginning to function again. Wearily I started to undress, and as I opened the wardrobe door my eyes fell on the tartan skirt hanging inside. With a sigh I ran my fingers down its soft folds, stopping abruptly as they encountered something small and hard. Memory clawed at me as I fumbled for the pocket and withdrew the silver lighter I had found beneath Ray's palette. The numbing events that had followed its discovery had completely driven it from my mind.

So I had unwittingly removed something from the ‘scene of the crime' after all. In the morning I should have to phone the inspector and confess. Not that I imagined one small lighter could throw any light on the mysteries surrounding Ray's disappearance.

I turned it over in my hand and my eyes focused on an inscription on the back of it. With nothing more than mild curiosity I moved under the light to read it. In small neat lettering was engraved:
Neil from Daniel. 11.2.1970.

I slept that night with the lighter under my pillow and it permeated all my brief, tormented dreams. I shouldn't after all be phoning Inspector Quiggin; not, at least, until I had spoken to Neil. He would be able to explain how the lighter came to be on the hilltop, I assured myself endlessly, and closed my ears to the echo of his voice:
I can think of at least six people who would cheerfully slit his throat. I could myself.

“Chloe, I'm sorry,” Martha said at breakfast, “I have to go into college this morning. Ray's A-level class is at nine o'clock. Would you like to come?”

“I don't think so.” What I had to say to Neil couldn't be said at college. “You'll be needing your car, then.”

“Were you wanting it?”

“I just thought I'd like to get out of the house for a while.”

“All right, I'll go in with Hugo. I should be able to persuade him to run me home at break.”

“You will be careful, won't you?” Hugo said anxiously.

“We may very well have a murderer in our midst and if he suspects that you were with Ray he might be afraid you could identify him, mist or no.”

Against my breast the little lighter lay like a lump of lead. “I'll be careful,” I said woodenly.

As soon as the car had turned out of the gate I hurried to the phone and looked up the number of Staff House. I should just be in time to catch Neil.

“Chloe – has something happened?”

To my over-sensitive ears his voice sounded raw with strain.

“In a way. I have to speak to you. How soon can you manage it?”

“Hell, I've a very full timetable today. You're not coming in with the others?”

“No, I – I'd rather we didn't talk at college.”

“Can't it wait till this evening?”

“Not really.” Every minute could be of vital importance, to my peace of mind if nothing else. Also, I should eventually have to explain to the inspector why I hadn't contacted him at once.

“I might be able to slip out for ten minutes during the Fourth Form lesson if I set them some work, but that's not till three-thirty. I honestly can't make it any sooner; I'm even coaching in the lunch-hour.”

“That'll have to do, then. I'll wait for you at the gates.”

“Are you all right? You sound a little strained.”

“I'm all right,” I said steadily, and hoped it was true.

For once my eyes were dulled to the beauty of the scenery as I drove down the country lanes. I turned in the direction of Andreas, principally because it was new to me and held no memories either of Neil or Ray. Memories were dangerous things that day. I met no other traffic on the road. It was almost as though the island respected my need for solitude, and the loneliest place of all was the bleak, northernmost tip of land at Point of Ayr.

I parked the car by the lighthouse and walked across the springy turf to the cliffs, where I stood gazing out across the sea to Scotland only sixteen miles away. The strong wind brought tears to my eyes and over my head the inevitable gulls dipped and soared as they had above my ledge three short days ago. But the empty spaces offered after all no escape from the doubts and fears I was trying to resolve and I returned dejectedly to the car.

I don't know at what stage I realized that I was heading for Peel and Granny Clegg. By the time it filtered through to my consciousness the decision was fully formed. Granny would help me. She had been fond of Ray and tried to warn him with her strange riddles.
Begun in September, done ere November
– and Ray had disappeared on the thirtieth of October! Could there be some solution here? What was it he had begun in September?

It was exactly one week since I had come this way with Ray. I jolted over the uneven cobbles and came to a halt outside the remembered doorway. Kirree Clegg was waiting there, her face grave, her beautiful eyes transparently troubled.