Midnight is a Lonely Place (35 page)

The kitchen. He hadn’t checked the kitchen. ‘Kate!’ Suddenly he found his voice again. ‘Kate, where are you?’ Taking the short flight of stairs two at a time he threw himself at the kitchen door. The room was empty. He stared round frantically. She had to be here. Please God, let her be here somewhere.

But there was nowhere for her to hide, nowhere else she could be. On the table in the middle of the room he noticed suddenly the bottle of Scotch they had given her. It lay on its side, empty. The lid, he found after a moment’s hunting, was on the floor in the middle of another patch of damp wet earth; a cautious sniff told him the damp was whisky.

‘Oh God! Kate! Greg!’ He glanced round wildly, then turning on his heel, he ran to the front door and tore it open. All he could think about was getting home as fast as possible. Dad would know what to do. Dad would somehow make it all right.

Outside, the darkness was opaque, wet, like the bottom of the sea. He could see nothing, hear nothing but the wind. He was searching frantically for his bicycle when he heard the door bang behind him. Terrified he looked round. The bicycle wasn’t there. He couldn’t find it. It was gone.

For a moment in blind panic he thought of taking the Land Rover. He had driven it before, on the track. He ran towards it, scrabbling at the door handle and, dragging it open, looked inside. There were no keys in the ignition. With a sob of frustration he slammed the door and looked round again.

Where was his bike? It must be here. Desperately he ran a few steps up the track and suddenly he saw it, right in front of him. He couldn’t stop in time and he had fallen over it before he knew what was happening. It bruised his shins, and he felt the warm trickle of blood down his leg, but he ignored it, dragging the machine upright, fumbling numbly for the pedal. It was only when he was once more on the track through the trees, his face streaming with rain and tears that he realised he had left his oilskin where it had fallen on the bathroom floor in the cottage.

XLII

Half-way back along the track the back tyre of Patrick’s bicycle punctured. The machine ploughed deep into the mud and stopped. Panting, Patrick tried desperately to force it on, then, giving up, he dismounted and let out a string of expletives. It was impossible to ride with a flat tyre when the track was in this state. He was nearly in tears. Around him the woods seemed to be closing in. He grabbed the front lamp and slid it off its bracket, directing it around him in a long sweep. The trees hung over him, Arthur Rackham fingers clawed, ready to snatch at his flesh, their trunks twisted into leering faces, sleet dripping from their boughs like acid, trying to eat away his face.

With a sob he hurled the bicycle away from him and began to run, his boots slipping and sliding, his body pouring with sweat, the cycle lamp, clutched in his hand, illuminating the puddles, throwing blinding reflections from the black, treacly mud, sparkling from the sleet crystals which had caught in the undergrowth. After a hundred yards or so he had to stop, doubled up with an agonising stitch in his side. He put his hand to his hip, gasping. It was then he saw a figure in the shadows.

He froze, the stitch vanishing as though by magic. Slowly he straightened. He fought the urge to switch off the torch. Whoever it was would have seen where he was by now anyway. Slowly he swept the light around in an arc, playing it on the slick black of the branches, seeing the shadows shrink back and regroup just beyond the reach of the beam. He was holding his breath. If it was Kate or Greg they would have come forward at once when they saw him. The picture of Bill’s battered, dead face swam up before his eyes and he thought for a moment he was going to black out. He took several steps backwards, feeling twigs and thorns tearing at his jersey, but he felt safer with the narrow trunk of a spruce at his back, solid between his shoulderblades. At least no one could get him from behind. Under the tree the smell of resin was clean and sharp and strong. It cleared his head a little. Once again he swept the torch round. There was no one there. No one in sight. He crouched lower trying to steady his breathing which sounded deafening in his ears.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there. Perhaps five minutes, perhaps much longer, but suddenly he realised that he was shivering violently. The sleet was soaking into his thick sweater and he was ice cold. There was no sign of any movement in the trees. Whoever it was had long gone. Cautiously, he forced his cramped legs to move, crawling out of his hiding place and straightening up. He swept the rapidly-dimming lamp round once more. Nothing. He looked left and right up the track, seeing it disappear into the distance and he felt a sudden moment of total terror. Which way was home? In his panic he had lost his bearings completely. He closed his eyes. Idiot. Nerd. Keep calm. He knew this track like the palm of his own hand. Look for a landmark; he had always prided himself that he could recognise any tree in the wood.

He swept the lamp around again, concentrating this time on the vegetation. But it all looked so different in the dark; so sinister. For a moment he was afraid he was going to cry. His eyes were stinging suspiciously; he had never felt so desolate or so lost in his whole life, but as he cast one last desperate glance around, he spotted the lone pine. It was a tree they all knew well – a tree which rose head and shoulders above the others in the wood, an ancient Scots pine whose distinctive shape had been out of range of his torch as he flashed it around. With a sheepish grin of relief he headed towards it, realising that he was barely ten minutes from the farmhouse.

As he rounded the barn he caught sight of someone crouched in the lee of the wall and he stopped abruptly. Whoever it was was not moving. He glanced at the house, reassured by the comforting sight of light pouring from the downstairs windows, then he looked again at the figure. His cycle lamp had barely enough strength to light the path at his feet, but he shone it warily in the direction of the barn wall.

‘Allie?’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Allie, is that you?’ He took a few steps closer. ‘Allie?’ He ran towards her. ‘Allie, what is it? What are you doing out here? What’s wrong?’ Catching his sister by the arm he swung her to her feet.

She stared at him. Her eyes were hard and blank. There was a deep scratch down one side of her face from her temple to her jaw and her hands, he saw as he pulled her towards him, were raw and bleeding.

‘Come in, Allie.’ His voice was urgent. ‘Come in. Quickly. ‘He glanced over his shoulder. There was a murderer out there in the woods and by the look of things he had already attacked his sister.

Pushing open the front door he half carried, half dragged Alison in. ‘Ma!’ He propelled her into the living room. ‘Ma!’

Diana flew towards them. ‘Dear God! Alison! What happened to her?’

Patrick bit his lip. He shook his head, for a moment unable to speak, watching as Diana guided Alison towards the chair next to the fire and knelt beside her, chafing her hands.

Behind him his father had risen from the kitchen table where he had been staring blankly at
The Times
crossword for the last forty minutes. After a first horrified glance at his daughter, Roger turned to his son. He was appalled at the expression on Patrick’s face. Putting his arm round the boy’s shoulders he guided him back to the kitchen and sat him down at the end of the table. Without a word he reached into the cupboard and produced a bottle of brandy. Pouring a quarter of an inch into a tumbler from the draining board he pressed the glass into his son’s hand. ‘Drink first. Then tell me,’ he instructed.

Patrick took a sip from the glass. His eyes started to stream. ‘It’s the brandy. Making my eyes water,’ he whispered. ‘It’s the brandy.’

His father’s hand was on his shoulder. ‘It’s OK old chap. It’s OK. Take your time.’ Roger glanced over Patrick’s head towards his wife. She was tucking a blanket around Alison’s knees. The girl had not spoken or moved since she had sat down.

‘Give her some brandy, Di.’ Roger called. He pushed the bottle across the table.

Diana looked at him. Her face was white as she left Alison’s side. She stood for a moment staring down at Patrick. ‘What’s happened to them, Roger? What in God’s name has happened to them?’

Patrick took another gulp from his glass. He was clutching it so tightly his knuckles shone white through his chapped skin. Taking a deep shuddering breath he looked up at his father. ‘Bill Norcross is dead. He’s at the cottage. He’s been murdered.’ His eyes flooded with tears again and this time he made no effort to hide them. ‘His head is all bashed about, and his face …’ He drank again, the glass trembling so much in his hands his parents could hear it banging against his teeth. ‘I couldn’t find Kate or Greg. I called and called. The cottage was empty so I came back, then I got a puncture and I saw someone skulking in the woods …’

Roger sat down abruptly. His face was grey. He closed his eyes as a wave of pain shook his body. ‘Try the phone again, Di. Perhaps by now they’ve reconnected it.’

For a moment she didn’t move, then she turned and ran towards the study.

Alison watched her with blank eyes. ‘The truth has to be told,’ she said slowly. She pushed the blanket away and staggered to her feet.

Her mother stopped abruptly in the doorway. ‘Allie? What do you mean. Did you see what happened?’

Alison smiled. ‘It was Marcus. She’s told me everything. It was Marcus. He killed them all.’ Stooping, she picked up Serendipity who was curled up on the sofa, and cuddled him in her arms.

‘Killed them all?’ Diana whispered. Her mouth fell open in horror. ‘Killed who?’

Alison smiled again. She kissed the top of the cat’s head. ‘All of them. All in the same grave.’

‘Who?’ Roger was suddenly there behind them. He grabbed his daughter’s arm and swung her to face him. The cat gave a yowl and fought free of her grip, leaving a long scratch along her arm but she didn’t appear to notice. ‘Alison! Answer me. Who has been murdered? Where is your brother?’ Diana’s gasp of horror was lost in his next shout. ‘Alison! Can you hear me? Who has been murdered?’

‘All of them.’ She smiled vaguely. ‘Did you expect him to let them live?’

Roger swung round to face his son. ‘What does she mean? Did you see the Land Rover? Did Greg get to the cottage?’

Patrick nodded. ‘It was parked outside.’

‘So he must have seen the –’ he paused. ‘He must have seen Bill there.’

‘I suppose so.’ Patrick took a deep breath. ‘Someone had put plasters on his face. He was tucked up on the sofa. Someone had tried to look after him.’

‘Greg and Kate perhaps.’ Diana clutched at the thought. ‘They must have found him. Tried to help him.’

‘We need the police.’ Roger frowned. ‘Did you try the phone?’

Diana shook her head. She was staring at her daughter who had not moved. Alison was standing before the fire, her arms hanging loose in front of her. From the scratch on her left forearm the blood dripped slowly and steadily onto the carpet.

Roger strode past her towards his study. In thirty seconds he was back. ‘It’s still dead.’ His face was grim. ‘I’ll have to take the car and try and get help from Joe’s.’

He glanced at Patrick who was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring deep into his empty tumbler.

‘Paddy!’ His voice was sharp as he used the baby name for his son which Patrick hated so much.

Patrick jumped. He looked up at his father. There was bewilderment in his eyes.

‘Patrick, your mother must stay here and look after Alison. I’m going to leave you here to take care of them both. I want you to lock the door behind me, and bolt it. You are not to let anyone in. Anyone at all, do you hear?’

‘Dad, you can’t go.’ Patrick rubbed his sleeve across his face. He was shivering again in the soaking wet clothes. ‘Let me take the Volvo. I know how to drive it.’

‘He’s right, Roger. You can’t go.’ Diana looked from Alison to her husband and back in an agony of indecision. ‘It should be me.’

‘No. Alison needs you.’ Roger shook his head.

‘I can do it, Dad,’ Patrick said quietly.

The fact that Roger hesitated even for a second showed more clearly than any words just how weak and ill he was feeling, but he shook his head slowly. ‘Not in this weather. It’s too dangerous. And it’s not as though I have to do anything but sit there and let the car do the work. I’ll drive it up to the road and along to Joe’s. Joe will do the rest and bring me back.’ He hesitated, seeing the strange mixture of emotions cross his son’s face and reading them all. Relief that he did not have to go out again; worry about his father; indignation and mortification that he was not considered old enough to cope.

Roger sighed. ‘Get the car out of the barn for me, there’s a good chap.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll get my coat.’ He took Patrick’s arm and drew him to one side. ‘You’d be more use here, old chap. If anything happens.’ He glanced at his son’s face and knew that the sop he had just thrown to the boy’s pride was in fact the truth. ‘You’re stronger than me. You can protect them better. I want you to load the shotgun and keep it in here near you.’

Patrick stared. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll get the car.’

Unhooking the keys from the small rack behind the door he pulled it open and peered out. He didn’t want to go out again. Outside was hostile and frightening. It had lost all the safety and charm he had known all his life – the secret wonder of the black sky sewn with stars, the rushing clouds, even the rain and snow. He had loved them all for that special clean fresh smell that comes at night, that quietness which enfolds the countryside and wipes out for a few hours all the brash horror of the twentieth century.