Midnight is a Lonely Place (29 page)

She glanced up at his face then she felt in the pocket of her jeans for her spectacles. Reaching for the wallet she flipped it open and pulled the photos out. The room was silent as she studied them. When she looked up at him again her face was even whiter than before. ‘You could have faked these.’

‘Oh come on. I would hardly bother to go that far.’

‘Have you shown them to Allie?’

‘Obviously not.’

She looked down at them again. They had come out well in spite of the strange light. Every grain of sand was visible, every line of strata, every trail of weed and every shell. In three of them there was, clearly visible, something else, something which she had not seen when she took the pictures.

‘What do you think it is?’

Greg was leaning over the desk beside her. He pointed to one of the pictures. ‘It looks like something spinning: a dust devil; a whirlwind perhaps. What did it look like when you took the pictures?’

She shook her head mutely. ‘I didn’t see it. I didn’t see anything odd at all.’ She gave an involuntary shiver. ‘The light wasn’t very good. To be honest I didn’t think they would come out.’ His head was very near hers as they leaned towards the desk. She was surprised to feel a strange tingle of something like excitement as his shoulder brushed hers. Cross with herself, she moved away sharply. Taking one of the photos she carried it to the lamp where he had been sitting. The entire periphery of the photo was clear and fully in focus but about one third of the way down, slightly to the left of centre was a strange, swirling, bright mass. ‘Do you think my camera was letting in the light somehow?’ she said slowly. She held the photo closer to the lamp.

‘I don’t think so. The whole picture would have been spoiled. If you look at the edges of that thing you can see everything completely clearly. Here. Try this.’ He picked up a magnifying glass which had been lying on the desk. ‘You see, the thing, whatever it is, is clearly superimposed on the background. It was in front of it, blocking it off.’

Taking the glass from him she squinted through it. ‘What is your theory?’

‘I think it’s an energy field.’

‘And where do you think the energy is coming from?’ Her question was guarded.

‘The way I see it, there are only three possibilities. The first is a human source. You.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Could you have been projecting some kind of force field? Repressed anger, perhaps? Indignation? Frustration?’ He grinned. ‘I should imagine you’ve been feeling all three since you arrived at the cottage.’

‘Very probably,’ she retorted tartly. ‘But not in sufficient quantities I think, to create a whirlwind.’ He was standing very close to her again, staring down at the picture in her hand. This time she did not move away. ‘What are your other two suggestions?’ she asked.

‘That it was just that, a whirlwind, and somehow you missed seeing it. Or the energy came from the earth.’

‘The former is out of the question.’ She hoped he hadn’t noticed the sudden tremor in her voice.

‘And the latter?’

‘Earth energy? Like ley lines, you mean?’

‘That or perhaps from some external source in the ground.’

There was a long silence as she digested his words. ‘Greg. What are you trying to say?’ When she looked up at him his face was very close to hers. He was, she noticed for the first time, unshaven. The shadow of beard was a rich golden colour, far brighter than his hair.

He shrugged. ‘I’m just wondering whether perhaps it could come from something that is buried there.’

‘Something or someone?’

‘It is someone, I’m afraid.’

‘But we can’t be sure. And surely it is the best reason to try and find out.’ Again the slight tingle of excitement as his hand brushed her shoulder.

He reached for the photo. ‘I think we can be sure, Kate. Look at this other one. See what you think.’ He turned to the desk and shuffled through the prints. ‘Here. Look at that corner. On the sand face.’ His forefinger was smudged with a grainy smear of cobalt blue. Taking the print her hand accidentally touched his. He did not move away.

She stared through the magnifying glass, angry to find her hand was shaking suddenly. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at? There’s no sand devil on this one.’

‘There. Wait, let me point with a pencil. Look.’ The fine point also trembled slightly, she noticed. She screwed up her eyes, staring at the fine definition of the photo. The sand, the lines of peat, the shells, all were startlingly clear, and there, at the edge of the photo was something protruding from the sand face.

‘Dear God!’ she whispered.

‘It’s part of a hand, isn’t it,’ Greg said softly.

She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Did you put it there?’ Their faces were only eighteen inches apart.

‘No.’

This time she believed him. Suddenly there wasn’t a shadow of doubt in her mind. She could feel the fine hairs on the back of her wrist standing on end as it held the photo. ‘We have to go out there and see.’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you tell Allie about the photos?’

‘That I put them in too late for the one-hour service so they would be a couple of days. She seemed quite relieved.’

‘She’s terrified of the place. She wants nothing to do with it anymore,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And yet she still wants it excavated. That’s strange. Dangerous.’

He nodded. ‘So, we are on the same side.’

‘Is it a question of sides?’ She shook her head thoughtfully. ‘No, Greg. The grave must be investigated, surely you can see that. If there is a body on the beach, a coroner has to be informed for a start, however old it is. Probably the police too, for all I know.’

‘It’s hardly a murder enquiry!’

He had said the words laughingly. Throwing back his head he took the print from her, all the anger gone, his thoughts a delicious mixture of clandestine intrigue with a bulldozer, coffee in the kitchen and the woman standing so near to him. She was, he realised suddenly, really very beautiful when she wasn’t being so stroppy.

The sudden drop in temperature took them both by surprise. It was as though someone had opened a freezer door nearby. For a second the atmosphere in the room was electric.

‘
Marcus
.’

The whisper came from Kate’s mouth. Without realising it she had clutched at his arm. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, Greg, what is it?’

He shook his head. ‘God knows. Come on. Obviously we’ve touched a chord somewhere. Let’s get out of here. And not a word to the others. Not yet. Not until I’ve had a chance to think.’ Dropping her arm, he opened the door and ushered her through it into the hall.

She followed him, glancing back over her shoulder as she did so. The room looked perfectly normal. There was nothing there to frighten them; nothing out of the usual at all. The temperature, she realised as she closed the door behind her, was as warm as it had been before. Only one thing was different. The smell of paint and varnish and linseed oil had been eclipsed totally by an all-pervading smell of wet, cold earth.

XXXV

Her eyes were blinded by tears as she parted the clump of elder with a
shaking hand and peered through. She could see him standing only a
few yards from her, naked now, his arms raised in salute towards the
eastern sky, his fists clenched against the crimson clouds. Behind him
the priests were waiting. She saw the golden knife, the ligature, the bowl
which contained the sacred mead. As she watched, he turned. For a
moment she saw his face. His expression was closed, cold, impassive, as
though his spirit had already fled
.

The priest stepped forward with the bowl. With a bow he handed it
to Nion. The young man turned back towards the east. He raised the
bowl towards the red clouds. On the distant horizon, two miles away,
where sea met sky, crimson colour bled upwards from below the rim of
the earth. Behind him the priest raised his knife. They all waited, motion
suspended, their eyes on the distance where the sun would appear
.

Claudia bit back her tears. She clenched her fists. He would not see
her, or hear her pain. Her eyes, too, went to the horizon. As she watched,
the smallest segment of scarlet appeared out of the crimson mist
.

Nion tensed. His knuckles whitened on the rim of the bowl. For a
fraction of a second he seemed to thrust it further towards the sun, then
he threw back his head and began to drink. She saw the movement of
his throat; she saw the golden liquid spill over the side of the bowl, onto
his chin, run down his arms and splash onto his chest. He drained the
bowl to the dregs and flung it into the marsh, then he crossed his arms
on his breast and knelt
.

Behind him the two priests stepped forward. She saw the red reflection of the sun glinting on the knife blade as it was raised. And she saw the garotte as it was slipped swiftly and dextrously about his throat
.

The meal had been excellent. Bill sat for a long time over his coffee. At his side
The Times
lay beside his cup, neatly folded to expose the crossword. In the last hour he had managed only two clues and he was feeling discouraged. He glanced up at the window. Outside the sleet appeared to have stopped. A slash of palest stone-washed denim blue had appeared between the clouds. Staring up at it he felt a sudden uplift of his spirits. Damn it, it was only twenty miles or so further.

Slotting a couple of carriers full of Marks and Spencer food into the boot of his car he tucked four bottles of wine in beside them and slid into the driver’s seat.

He had no problems until he reached the track down through the Redall woods where the slush and rain had turned it into a quagmire. Parking on the side of the road he climbed out. Behind him a tractor was lumbering along the road. It drew to a halt behind his car. Bill walked up to it. ‘Hello, Joe. Do you think I’d be mad to take the car down to the cottage?’

Joe laughed. He scratched his head. ‘I reckon you were mad to come at all,’ he shouted over the clatter of the engine. ‘I tell you what. You come and leave your car up at the farm and I’ll run you down to yours. Best that way.’

Bill gave up the effort of competing with the huge engine. With a grin he gave a thumbs up sign and turned back to his car. At least this way he wouldn’t get trapped by the weather.

It was an hour later that Joe delivered him to his door. Waving his good Samaritan off he inserted his key in the door and pushed it open with his shoulder. The smell of cold and damp assailed him at once and he grimaced. ‘Bloody fool.’ He meant himself.

The front door led straight into the living room. The furnishings were shabby and not very pretty – good enough for weekends, but not so good they would get nicked. It always depressed him a little when he arrived, but he knew from long experience that once he had put a match to the fire – a resolution he had never once broken was to leave it laid ready when he left for London at the end of each trip – and turned on the lights and the radio the little house would spring to life. He found he was humming as he walked through into the kitchen – basic with an old, deep sink, a barely functional electric cooker and a pine table and chairs which were probably by now worth a fortune as antiques. Once he was settled he would dig out his wellies and stride out through the mud to visit Kate.

It had never crossed his mind that she wouldn’t be at home. He peered through the windows of her cottage. The woodburner was alight. He could see the glow of the fire through the closed doors. He shaded his eyes as he leaned closer. Her desk was untidy, as though she had got up and left it in the middle of some work. And the lamp on the table in the corner was switched on. He glanced over his shoulder towards the beach. Perhaps she had gone for a walk.

His wellingtons sliding wetly on the sand and shingle, he made his way down towards the sea, standing on the foreshore at last, shading his eyes as he stared up and down the beach. The rain and sleet had drifted inland. Overhead the cloud was still thick, but it was higher now, and there was still the odd patch of blue. His hands wedged firmly into his pockets he threw his shoulders back and inhaled deeply. It was a rash move and led to a spasm of coughing, but at least he was getting the desired fresh air. He chuckled to himself, and turning north up the beach began to walk briskly over the sand. The sea was sullen, heaving menacingly on the horizon, a shifting solid mass of seemingly waveless water. The tide was midway up, he guessed, creeping nearer half-heartedly, dribbling each progression of weed and shells onto the beach before sliding back into the black depths to gather itself for another inroad onto the sand.

He didn’t walk far. The wind in his face was not strong but it was bitingly cold. Turning, he glanced back the way he had come. There was no sign anywhere of Kate. No footprints on the sand to show where she had passed. Disappointed, he retraced his steps. Blow fresh air. You could get too much of that. He walked down the beach as far as the end of the dunes and climbed up to get a view across the estuary. It was alive with geese. Bustling with activity. He could hear them now, gossiping, squabbling, murmuring to each other as they spread out across the still water onto the low-lying islands and the saltings. He grinned to himself. He liked the geese. They were jolly chaps, and with them there it wasn’t possible to feel lonely. He couldn’t understand why people had to shoot them. But then some people would kill anything that moved, given half a chance. Shrugging himself deeper into his thick quilted jacket he turned away and pulled up short. There was a woman standing in the distance on one of the other dunes. His heart leapt. ‘Kate!’ he shouted. ‘Over here.’ He waved.