Midnight is a Lonely Place (13 page)

Slipping and sliding Kate scrambled down into the trench herself and picked it up with a frown. It was a dagger.

She turned it over in her hands, looking thoughtfully at the pitted corroded blade. It was ice cold to the touch.

Marcus

It was a whisper in her ear. A sigh on the wind. It was her imagination. Behind her, above the wood, the stars were emerging as the sky grew dark.

Scrambling out of the hollow she turned and began to walk swiftly back towards the cottage, the dagger still held in her hand, point down towards the ground, as though it were still potentially sharp. Which it was.

Indoors she slammed the door against the swiftly coming darkness, locked and bolted it and put the dagger down on the kitchen table, then she reached for the phone.

There was no answer from Redall Farmhouse.

She let it ring for several minutes, then at last she put the receiver down. If Alison wasn’t at the farmhouse, where was she? Thoughtfully she walked into the living room and switched on the table lamp. She had begun to draw the curtains when she glanced at the stove. She couldn’t believe it! It was out. And there were no logs in the box.

‘Damn!’ She stared down at it in dismay. She didn’t want to go out, even to the log shed. She did not want to open the front door again. Suddenly she was shivering and to her astonishment she found she was near to tears.

Idiot. Idiot woman. Missing Jon. Frightened of your own shadow! Come on Kennedy where’s your guts? What would sister Anne think of you if she could see you now? Firmly she put her jacket back on.

In the early dusk she could just see the nearest trees, their trunks glistening from the damp as she turned resolutely towards the shed, the empty box in her arms.

Alison’s tools lay in the doorway higgledy piggledy as though she had thrown them down in a great hurry. Kate groped in her pocket for her new torch and shone the beam into the darkness of the shed. It caught the trowel lying on the ground, just inside the door. She bit her lip. What had made the girl leave so suddenly that she had left possibly her best find yet lying in the grave, and the tools of her trade, at first so neatly put away, thrown haphazardly down?

Better not to think about that. She had probably grown bored on her own. With a half-smile Kate remembered the ghetto blaster. Swiftly she tidied up the tools, then she loaded the box with logs and kindling. Now that it was heavy she could not spare a hand for the torch. Reluctantly she switched it off and pushed it into her pocket. After the bright torchlight the garden seemed very dark, but after all, she could see quite clearly by the light streaming out of the kitchen window.

And the headlights.

She paused, easing the box higher into her arms, watching them coming down the track, jerking up and down as the Land Rover slithered through the woods across the clear grass area and jerked to a stop outside the front door. Invisible in the darkness Kate waited as the door opened and the driver climbed out. He went to the cottage door and pushed it open.

‘Hello?’

To her disappointment the voice was a deep baritone. Not Roger. Greg.

‘Hello.’ Kate had the satisfaction of seeing him jump violently as she came silently round the corner of the cottage, the box in her arms. ‘Good evening.’

‘Christ, you frightened me!’ He looked at her for a moment, then long-ingrained chivalry, drummed into him by his father over the years, prevailed over intentional boorishness as he saw the weight of her load. ‘Here. Let me take that.’

She handed over the box gratefully and preceded him into the cottage. ‘I’ve been in Colchester. The fire’s out, I’m afraid.’ She pushed the front door closed, making sure the latch had engaged, then she went through into the kitchen and drew the curtains, cutting off the cascade of light which shone out onto the grass. The garden sank into darkness.

‘I’ve come up to find Alison. Is she here?’

Kate swung round and stared at him. ‘You mean she’s still not at home? I’ve been to see if she was digging out there, but there’s no sign of her.’

They stared at one another, the hostility which crackled between them suddenly muted. Greg lowered the box to the ground. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

Behind Kate the phone rang from the kitchen. She turned to answer it. Greg followed.

It was Roger. ‘Tell Greg she’s with a friend. Silly child didn’t think to leave a note. Apparently she went up through the woods to the Farnboroughs’. She’s spending the night with them.’

‘I knew she would be OK.’ Greg shook his head in exasperation when she told him. Then he leaned across to the counter and picked up the box of matches lying there. ‘Do you want me to light the fire for you while I’m here?’ His voice was curt, almost as if he were offering against his will.

‘Would you.’ She did not allow herself to sound too grateful. ‘The lighters are over there. I’ll get us a whisky.’

‘All done.’ Greg came back moments later. ‘Good lord, what’s that?’ He had spotted the dagger lying on the table near the coffee pot. Curiously he picked it up and examined it. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘In Alison’s excavation.’

He frowned. ‘I thought she asked you not to touch anything there.’

‘She did, and I had no intention of doing so. This was lying on the ground at the edge as though she’d dropped it. Another tide and it would have been lost.’ She poured the two drinks and pushed one towards him. ‘I told you, I went out to see if she was still there. There’s a terrible mess at the excavation.’

He raised his glass and sipped the whisky, still holding the dagger. ‘I thought she was doing it carefully.’

‘She was. She showed it to me only yesterday. It must have been that storm last night. It’s full of seaweed, and half the side has fallen in. I expect that’s how that came to light.’ She nodded in the direction of the dagger.

Putting down his glass he examined it more closely.

‘Is it Roman do you think?’ He glanced up.

Kate missed the sudden amusement in his eyes. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it might be earlier but I’m not an archaeologist. I do think she ought to get some experts here. She could be doing irreparable damage, poking around the way she is.’ She still had not mentioned the torc.

‘The way you describe it the sea will do a lot worse than anything she could do. At least she’s saving a few things this way.’ Greg put the dagger down. ‘You’d better bring it when you come to dinner tomorrow.’

‘I shall.’ She met his eye. For a minute they studied one another, measuring each other up.

‘So. How are you liking Redall Cottage?’ he said at last.

‘Very much. But I’m sorry you had to leave so I could come.’

‘You mean you’d like me to move back in with you?’ He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

‘No.’ She did not flinch. ‘I’m paying for my privacy.’

‘And I’m interrupting it.’ He put down his glass.

‘Not for another thirty minutes. I allow myself the occasional break. Have another?’ Picking up the bottle she gestured towards the glass. He intrigued her. Handsome, boorish, presumably talented, he was something of an enigma.

‘Why not. I can hardly get done for drunk driving in that thing. No one would notice the difference.’

As Kate led the way through into the sitting room he followed her. She poured his whisky then she glanced at him. ‘Someone broke in here last night.’

‘Broke in?’ His expression was bland; politely interested. If he was surprised he didn’t show it.

‘They seemed to be looking for something.’

‘Have you told the police?’

She shook her head. ‘Whoever it was had a key.’ She sat down, cradling her glass on her knee.

‘Oh, I see. You think it was me.’

‘No. It was a woman.’

That did surprise him. ‘You saw her?’

She shrugged. ‘Not quite. But I know it was a woman, and I smelt her perfume. I thought at first it was Alison messing about, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it was a friend of hers.’ She paused. ‘Or of yours.’

He did not rise to the remark. ‘Is anything missing?’

‘No. At least, nothing of mine.’ She took a sip from her glass, not looking at him. ‘Did you mean to leave those pictures upstairs?’ she asked after a moment. She sat staring at the wood-burner. The fire inside roared like a wild beast.

Greg raised his foot and kicked the damper across. ‘I did. There’s no more space in the farmhouse. Why, don’t you like them?’ He threw himself down into the chair opposite her. There was a challenge in his eyes.

‘Not much.’

‘Too strong for you, eh?’ He looked puzzled suddenly. ‘Did you mean to imply that one of them is missing?’

‘No, they were all there, I think. And yes, I suppose so,’ she conceded. ‘They are disturbing.’

‘They depict the soul of this place. The cottage. The bay. The land. The sea. The sea will drown all this one day, you know.’

‘So I gather.’ She refused to be rattled by the dramatic declamation. ‘And sooner rather than later if that digging is anything to go by.’

He frowned. ‘It’s strange. None of us knew that was there. Allie found it a while back – the signs of the dune having been dug by men and not just being natural – then only a few weeks ago a great section split off like a ripe rotten fruit and it started spewing out all these bits and pieces.’ His voice was quiet, but his choice of words was deliberate. He had not taken his eyes off her face. ‘It exudes evil, this place. It’s in my paintings. I’m amazed Allie can’t feel it. But she’s an astoundingly insensitive kid. Perhaps it’s because she anaesthetises herself all the time with that noisy crap she calls music.’

Kate smiled. ‘I saw the scarlet machine this morning.’

He was right. She had felt it. The evil. She gave an involuntary shudder and was furious to see that he had noticed. He smiled. Pointedly he put down his glass and, standing up, he went to the stove. Opening the doors he loaded in another log. ‘Do you want me to get in touch with the police about your visitor?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing was taken. I’m sure it was a schoolgirl prank. I’ll bolt the door in future.’

‘And you’re not worried about staying here alone?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t a burglar at all. Perhaps the woman you saw was a ghost. I told you this place was haunted. Haunted and evil. The locals won’t come near it.’

Was that it, then? Was this all a ploy to frighten her away? She laughed. ‘Being a writer of history I’m happy to live with ghosts.’

‘I trust you’re not tempting providence with that remark,’ he said. Throwing himself down in his chair again he crossed his leg, left ankle on right knee and sighed. ‘I used to find it very oppressive here after a while. My paintings would change. They would grow more and more angry. Whilst I am by nature quite a sunny chap.’

She was watching him closely.

‘At the farmhouse I paint differently. With more superficiality,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘If I ever paint a masterpiece it will be in this cottage.’ For a brief moment it was as though he was talking to himself. He had forgotten she was there; forgotten he was trying to scare her. Remembering her again he glanced at her. ‘Art, it seems, must wait for commerce.’

Straight from the hip. She took it without flinching. ‘Don’t you sell your paintings then?’

‘No.’

The reply, loaded with scorn, was succeeded by a long silence. She did not pursue the subject. Studying his face as he stared morosely into the flames she was conscious suddenly of the lines of weariness around his eyes and the realisation that Greg Lindsey was a very unhappy man. The moment of insight struck her dumb. The silence dragged out uncomfortably as she, too, stared into the flickering fire.

The crash from upstairs brought them both to their feet. ‘Shit! What was that?’ Greg put down his glass.

She swallowed. She had heard a crash like that before and her investigation had found nothing. ‘The wind must have blown the door shut,’ she said at last. ‘I’d better look.’ She did not move. The room seemed suddenly warm and safe. She did not want to climb the stairs.

The noise seemed to have shaken him out of his introspection. He looked at her, noting her white face and anxious eyes and was astonished at his own reaction. He should have been pleased that she was scared but his studied hostility wavered and for a brief second he felt a wave of protectiveness sweep over him. ‘I’ll check.’

Taking the stairs two at a time he went first into the spare room. The room was empty save for her cases and boxes, and his own pictures, standing where he had left them behind the door. He noted briefly that they still faced the wall, then he ducked out of the room and switched on the light in the main bedroom. After the stark businesslike aura of the living room downstairs with its computer and books, the bedroom – his bedroom – shocked him by its unaccustomed femininity. He glanced round. Nothing was out of place. Both doors had been open. Nothing appeared to have fallen – he checked the painting on the wall. One of his, it was uncharacteristically pretty, depicting the bluebells in Redall Wood. He scowled at it. His mother must have brought it over, for it used to hang in the spare room at the farmhouse. Having ascertained that there was no reason for the bang that he could see, his gaze travelled more slowly around the bedroom for the second time, noting her towelling bathrobe, thrown across the bed, her slippers near it, both a bright flame which would suit her rather mousy colouring. He found himself picturing her in the robe for a moment. On the chest of drawers lay a heap of silver bangles – she had been wearing them the day she arrived, he remembered – and next to them a glass filled with winter flowers she must have gathered in the wood. The naturalist in him noted periwinkle, small velvety-red dead nettles and a sprig of daphne she must have found in what was once the cottage garden. Continuing his quick perusal, he studied the small collection of cosmetics. On neither occasion that he had met her so far had she been wearing any makeup at all, but obviously when the occasion demanded she was happy to gild the lily. He turned to the low windowsill where she had put several paperbacks – poetry and social history, he saw. No reader of fiction, this author.