The Island House (29 page)

“Hello, Dad.” Wind tried to stir the branches of the yews. They creaked, unwilling to move.

Freya was alone. In the open air again, her head felt better. Companionably, she sat on a corner of the raised grave, as if it had been her father’s bed. She murmured, “I’ve brought these for you—from Findnar.”

She leaned forward and placed the vase just below the inscription on a little plinth. In white set against black, the color of the flowers seemed almost too vivid.

“I wish you could talk to me, Dad.” She faltered. “I don’t know what to do.” It was true. Did speaking the truth help?

Freya stared at the lettering on the grave as if it could give her an answer. Nothing came—nothing. She closed her eyes, squeezed the lids tight shut.

“But I don’t think I can leave the island, not until I know.” She groped for the crucifix. “I’ll try, Dad, I really will, to get some answers to what’s happening, but someone has to help me.”

She looked expectantly at the headstone, where his name was written.

And felt embarrassed despair. Had she really thought this would be a dialogue?

Loneliness. Aloneness. It played tricks on your mind.

Caught by the wind, the door closed with a snap, and that made the two people in the library look up. Neither of them was Katherine.
One was a tragically pimpled teenager at a computer terminal; the other was an old man with a peak of milk-pale hair and the stoop of incipient osteoporosis. He nodded encouragingly to Freya. “Can I help you?” He seemed to mean it.

She hurried forward. “I’m looking for Katherine MacAllister.”

“Miss MacAllister does not work on Saturdays. I am Alexander Callaghan, assistant librarian.” He pronounced it
Callachhaaaan,
and his nose, large and very pointed, pecked the air as he bowed. Freya tried not to giggle, for Mr. Callaghan resembled nothing so much as a wading bird, even to the feathery plumes of his head.

The girl glowered in her corner and sniffed; it was a contemptuous sniff.
Perhaps good manners offend her,
thought Freya as, ignoring the surly child, she said warmly, “Thank you very much, but it’s actually a personal matter. You don’t know where I might find Miss MacAllister this morning?”

“Certainly I do.” Alexander tenderly laid a book down, as if the binding might bruise. “Come with me.”

The square outside the library was clumped with dense rows of market stalls. Aimed at tourists mostly—wandering in small throngs, looking and touching—there was the usual collection of food and drink, cheap Indian and Chinese clothes, detritus from garages and attics mislabeled “antiques,” and fruit and vegetables marked “organic.”
Yeah, right,
thought the cynical Freya. There were also several book stalls, and Alexander pointed to one at the far corner of the square. Shaded by a large umbrella, it had prime position near one of the exits to the square, and a sign announced,
K. MACALLISTER, ANTIQUARIAN & SECONDHAND BOOKS. COLLECTIBLE EDITIONS
.

Leaving the assistant librarian to his one grumpy customer, Freya tracked across the square, dodging runaway children, feral girls with dreadlocks, and older couples slung about with cameras.

“Katherine?”

The librarian was seated behind a long trestle table. At the rear,
display cases were filled with bound books, and the front of the table had lines of paperbacks in neat rows.

“How nice to see you, Freya. So, your boat was found back on its mooring?”

Freya’s eyes crinkled. “Yes.” A stack of Saturday papers lay beside Katherine’s chair—the newsagent. It was high time to introduce herself, get in a preemptive gossip strike; he, or she, might even know who’d taken the cruiser.

“But I wanted to ask if you’d have time for a chat later?”

Katherine’s look was alert. “Is there something wrong?”

Freya shook her head, then half-nodded. And shrugged. “I was wondering if you’d like to come over to the island, because it might be good to go through some of my father’s stuff. Together. Maybe later today?” The last words rushed from her mouth, unedited.

The librarian was unused to quick decisions or, at least, acknowledging them. “Saturday is always busy, as you see.” Freya’s shoulders slumped. Katherine changed gear smoothly. “However, I haven’t been on Findnar for some months. Yes, I should like to come. Two conditions, however, and one of them is onerous, I warn you.”

Freya said eagerly, “I’m sure I can help, whatever it is.”

Katherine held up a finger. “One, you help me pack my stall away this afternoon—that’s the onerous bit; and, two—is there something you want to tell me?”

Freya dropped her eyes. “Perhaps.” She added hastily, “It may be nothing.” How much she ached to say more.

Katherine smiled pleasantly. “Of course.”

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Freya knocked at a black front door. Solid, respectable, it was a clear and definite contrast to the white walls of the house, as were the red geraniums in the window box.

There was no answer. Adrenaline, raised when she’d let the knocker drop, fizzed in Freya’s blood. She tried again, and this time the crash of the little Viking ship had real force. “Hello?”

No signs of life, not even the bark of a dog. Maybe she’d misunderstood the newsagent’s directions, but she’d described the house, right down to the window boxes.

Freya glanced at her watch. Nearly two o’clock, and she had a couple of hours to fill; what to do? She eased the straps on her backpack and put the bags of groceries down, flexing her fingers. She’d tried to shop as lightly as she could for her guest tonight, but there was still quite a bit to carry.

Staring toward the harbor, Freya shaded her eyes. Maybe she’d find Walter in the bar of the pub; she was hungry, and they might still be serving lunch.

Mentally debating the allure of hot chips against a sensible sandwich, she began to walk away. She almost didn’t hear the voice call out. “They’re not in.”

She turned. A woman stood in the opened door of the next house down from Walter’s.

“They’ve gone out.” She had a flat face, the Boynes’ neighbor, and her arms were folded tight over a meager chest.

“Oh, yes. I worked that out.” Freya tried a friendly smile. “But would you know where?”

Never a beauty, Julie Tyler was somewhere anonymous between forty and fifty and felt it personally. She didn’t like pretty girls, never having been one herself. “Try the fleet pool.” Her eyes raked Freya up and down.

Freya nodded. “Thanks.”
For not much.

Julie Tyler watched with bright, hard eyes as Freya hoisted her bags. “You’re that girl from the island—Michael Dane’s daughter. The Australian.”

Freya smiled over her shoulder but started walking. “Yes. Thanks again.”

The woman called out, “You should watch yourself over there. Word gets around; a girl alone.” Some kind of duty done, she went back into her house with a decisive sniff.

And lovely to meet you too,
thought Freya. She picked up pace, refusing to think about the woman’s last remark.

Not two hundred meters away was the harbor wall and, squinting against the sun, she could see a man. He was limping along the deck of a large fishing vessel—
The Holy Isle,
there it was. And there
he
was.

What would she say?

Freya walked toward the dock. Daylight disinfects fear—it had worked for her, and she hoped it’d worked for Dan as well.

“Hello.” She kept her voice neutral. Dan nodded. He was sorting drill bits on the engine housing.

Freya cleared her throat. “I didn’t really get a chance to thank you this morning, Dan—not properly—for bringing Dad’s boat back.”
Words, words, words.

Dan stood, unbending his long body, but a cramp in the damaged leg made him clumsy and he dropped a large drill bit. They both winced at the rolling clang as it clashed across metal and bounced to the deck.

Half-hunched, Dan turned away from Freya when he bent to retrieve it. She could see the embarrassment.

She said, brightly, “I wanted to ask,” but it was quite hard to go on talking inanities. Her mouth made disobedient shapes. “If Walter’s around?”

After a pause, Dan shook his head; he nodded past the stern of
The Holy Isle.
“Had trouble this morning when I got back. Dad’s at the workshop trying to get parts.”

“I heard. The engine. That’s a shame.” Freya smiled cheerily and felt like an idiot.

Dan stared at her appraisingly but this time she did not look away. He said nothing, and that direct inspection was intimidating.

Freya said, finally, “Dan, I think we need to talk.” Stricken, she thought,
Idiot!
She’d meant to work up to it more slowly.

But Dan caught his breath and started to cough. He couldn’t control the hacking explosions—he’d been bullied at school; this was the legacy.

“Are you okay?” Concerned, Freya started toward the ship’s ladder.

“What does it look like?” The words tore from his chest.

Freya opened her mouth. And closed it. And backed away.
This is stupid.

She picked up her bags. “I’ll find Walter.”

Dan almost let her go. “Stop.” Not an apology.

Freya hesitated.

He said, “I agree. I agree with you. We should talk.” He pointed at the ladder. “You’d better come up, Freya Dane.” He used her name as if it was another language.

As she stared into his eyes, the seconds paraded by so slowly, Freya didn’t know what to do.

The glimmer of a smile. “I am not a dog, and I do not bite. Well, only so often.”

Freya made up her mind. She dropped the bags on the quay and put her foot on the first rung of the ladder, but the vessel moved on the tide and she almost fell between the dock and the side of
The Holy Isle
. Dan flung forward. He captured her wrist in one hand and thrust the other toward her. “Take it!” Freya’s fingers grabbed his.

It was sound this time. A girl. Laughing.

CHAPTER 20

Y
OU’RE JUST
my friend, that is all.” Signy was lying, or perhaps she did not know. She was laughing as she ran. Bear made a huge effort. He launched himself at Signy’s back but, feinting, she dodged and fled.