Blood Worm

5

What bugged Guy most was not the scar tissue on his hands and face where the beetles had chewed into him. He already had one long scar, a memento from the Falk-lands; a few extra were no great tragedy, though Dorothea nagged him to try plastic surgery, which he refused to do. Why tempt fate?

What bugged him most was the fact that even after six weeks he couldn’t rid his mind of the vision of giant worms feeding on the dead tramp’s decomposing body. That’s what it was, of course: nothing but an apocalyptic vision far removed from reality.

At first he’d imagined he had actually seen such things during those last few seconds in the school before the ceiling collapsed; now he knew — or rationalised, at any rate — that it had been an hallucination, his mind playing tricks on him, part of his delirium as he teetered on the edge of death in hospital.

Yet in that case why did he still wake up in the morning convinced he had seen giant worms, after all? It made no sense.

‘You’re still suffering from the after-effects,’ Dorothea always dismissed his worries. ‘No one else saw anything of that kind, though they had plenty of opportunity. You’re the only one. And, Christ, aren’t beetles enough for you? I just wish you’d shut up about the whole business. It gives me the willies, you going on about beetles and maggots and things.’

Naturally she was right about no one else having seen them. In the grey light of daytime he could even accept that it must be some kind of nervous reaction. It was only when he got into bed again and dropped off into a half-sleep that the giant worms became real once more, as if deliberately taunting him.

During his first restless weeks of convalescence he had questioned everyone who had been anywhere near the school, including the police. The only person he did not succeed in contacting was a Miss Armstrong of the Public Health Department, who was away on sick leave.

Detective-Sergeant Evans answered all his questions patiently, assuring him that the only worms either he or the other police officers had seen had been maggots the length of a thumb nail. If Guy didn’t believe him he was more than welcome to speak to the ambulancemen, or the pathologist who had conducted the post mortem. Which he did, but their stories were identical.

From the detective-sergeant he also obtained the addresses of the two teenagers who had rescued him. He owed them at least a word of thanks. He tried the boy’s home first, a flat on the seventh floor of a high-rise block. One lift seemed to be functioning but three people were already waiting for it, middle-aged women who eyed his scarred face suspiciously, their flow of talk drying up the moment he joined them. He decided to walk up.

The man who opened the door was no less wary. He was still holding the West Indian World which he must have been reading, while from inside the flat came the sound of television. Guy apologised for disturbing him and asked to speak to Byron.

‘Who wants him?’

‘My name’s Guy Archer. I’d like to thank him.’

‘Oh?’ A look of enlightenment spread across his face but he was clearly not pleased. ‘Haven’t you brought him enough trouble, getting his name taken by the police?’

‘Are you his father?’

‘What if I am? OK, jus’ you wait there, man. I’ll ask if he wants to talk to you.’

Through the open door Guy caught glimpses of the nicely furnished flat, and from the kitchen came the smell of fresh baking. It made him feel like an intruder. His visit was so obviously unwelcome; the arguing voices he could hear were evidence enough, though the words were indistinct. Then an inner door opened and a girl came out. She was about sixteen or seventeen, he reckoned; a delicate beauty with a light milk-chocolate skin and dark, lively eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Archer. Byron can’t talk to you right now. It’s not — convenient.’ She smiled at him in a shy, embarrassed manner. ‘I’m Sharon. We’re both glad you’re all right again.’

‘I didn’t mean to butt in, only to say thank you. And if there’s anything I can do to show my gratitude, I’d—’

‘Such as what?’ a voice challenged him from the far end of the passage.

‘You must be Byron,’ he said.

‘Must I?’

‘Byron, be polite!’ The girl was clearly shocked.

‘If you want to do something, tell the fuzz to lay off us. They’ve been round asking questions again. Stupid questions.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘Didn’t you?’ he retorted bitterly. ‘Well, you know now.’

‘Byron’s mother hasn’t got over it,’ Sharon said. ‘In this block it usually means only one thing when the fuzz call. She’s very upset.’

‘I knew nothing about it,’ Guy repeated. ‘I thought everything was tidied up.’

‘You must take us for idiots,’ Byron accused him. it was about you they were asking, and how you’d seen maggots big as snakes or some such rubbish. Well I told them we hadn’t; if anyone thinks differently he belongs in a loony bin.’ He began to shout. ‘They were uniformed fuzz in a panda car, don’t you understand? All the neighbours imagined they’d come to arrest me or something. I don’t mind what they think, but it’s not right for fuzz to come here upsetting my mother when she’s not been well. Maggots big as snakes? You do belong in a loony bin!’

He pulled Sharon back into the flat and slammed the door.

Guy made his way back down seven floors of stairs, conscious of how his footsteps echoed loudly in the graffiti-scored stairwell. At least he’d discovered that someone at Worth Road police station was taking him seriously, though maybe the boy was right. Maybe he did belong in a loony bin. The worms had become an obsession. They didn’t exist — how could they? Not that size.

Oddly enough, a few days later Dorothea took up Byron’s theme, and she was deadly serious about it too.

They were getting up in the morning and the sun was shining through the bedroom curtains, the first real sun they’d had that year, which put them both in a good mood. If she hadn’t made a point of asking, he might never have mentioned that he had seen the giant worms again in his sleep. They came almost every night these days.

‘Perhaps you need analysis,’ she commented. She was standing naked on the bathroom scales, frowning at the reading they gave. ‘I heard the other day about quite a good psychiatrist. Should I get his address for you?’

‘For God’s sake, what could a shrink tell me that I don’t know already?’ he protested, laughing it off. Her pale, well-fleshed body would not have been out of place in a royal harem against a setting of rich velvet drapes and gilt mirrors. And perhaps with a little wiry dog at her feet. ‘Doro-love, if you stand like that much longer, we’re both going to be very late for work.’

‘You should be so luckv!’ she retorted.

Stepping off the scales, she came towards him, flaunting herself at him, a great tease; then she stopped in a pool of sunlight which tinged her whole body with gold.

‘Oh, isn’t it gorgeous!’ she cried, stretching out her arms and throwing her head back. ‘Oh, I do hope we’re going to have a hot summer this year!’

He reached out for her but she eluded his grasp skilfully. Grabbing a fresh towel which she had earlier taken out of the chest, she dodged back into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

At the office that morning Guy was tied up at a directors’ meeting which went on too long and left him in a foul temper wondering why he had ever quit the Army. It was already after one o’clock when he got away. On his desk he found a note from Sarah — his blonde, shock-haired secretary — saying she’d gone to lunch. She added that a Miss Mary Armstrong of the Public Health Department had rung three times asking for him. Could he give her a call?

Later, he decided. By now she was probably at lunch herself.

First he had to sort out the usual crisis over delivery dates, this time for a special order of desk-top terminals. Drawing the phone nearer to him, he began to tap out the Yorkshire suppliers’ number to ask them what the hell they were playing at. They had a firm commitment, properly negotiated, so what possible reason could they have for not meeting their deadlines?

It was three-thirty before he managed to find a minute to call Miss Armstrong. To his relief she had a pleasant, young-sounding voice and a brisk, businesslike manner.

‘I believe you were trying to get in touch with me, Mr Archer,’ she began. It was an obvious opening gambit. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so elusive but since I came back from leave, things here have been rather hectic.’

‘Oh, it was nothing urgent,’ Guy said. ‘I merely felt it might be useful if we had a talk. In view of our similar experiences, I mean.’

‘I apologise anyway. I should have rung you back sooner. However, in the light of what has been happening, I think a meeting is now urgent.’

‘Happening?’

‘You don’t know? I’m afraid the infestation is spreading.’

‘Beetles?’

Instead of answering, she asked if he could spare half an hour to go over to her office, preferably that same afternoon. A worried note in her voice put Guy on his guard. It was her department’s job to deal with bugs and pests, wasn’t it? All he wanted was to be able to clear them out of his mind.

i’m afraid you’ve picked just about the worst time,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Perhaps later in the week or…’

She interrupted him. ‘Detective-Sergeant Evans tells me you witnessed something rather unusual at the school.’

‘Yes.’ it’s in that connection. I’d rather not say anything more on the phone.’ i’m no longer totally certain what I saw.’

‘Please, Mr Archer, I do need to consult you. It won’t take long, and it is very urgent.’

Sarah came into the office to say that the Yorkshire people were on the line once more. Was he free to talk to them? She was holding the call.

He nodded.

‘Miss Armstrong, will six o’clock suit you? I don’t think I can make it before that. If I’m held up I’ll ring you back. Now, how do I find your office?’

He grimaced at Sarah as he scribbled the details on a pad, then put the phone down; she smiled back sympathetically. As sales director he had his share of nuisance calls and he preferred to let her think this was one of them, i’d better talk to Yorkshire, I suppose,’ he said, i’ll put them through. Cup of tea?’

‘Try me!’

By the end of the afternoon he’d succeeded in bullying and cajoling his way through the crisis, provided everyone kept the promises he’d extracted from them. The Yorkshire company had agreed to overtime working to sort out its production line problems, while his own customers had reluctantly accepted his assurances about the extended installation dates. It could all still backfire, of course; in which case it would be his head on the block. Not for the first time.

At a quarter to six, for once feeling he was on top of the job, he tapped out Miss Armstrong’s number again to warn her he would be late. He still had a couple of letters to dictate into the machine ready for Sarah to type the following morning.

By the time he got away, the evening traffic was at its densest and he found himself boxed into a line of cars which were hardly moving; a long wait, then a slow crawl forward of two or three yards perhaps, then more waiting. A boy thrust an evening paper through his open window, which he bought, but he could see nothing in it about beetles.

What had she meant, he wondered.

It was almost seven when he arrived at Worth Hall, where the Public Health Department was housed. He gave his name to the uniformed commissionaire behind the desk, half-expecting to be told that Miss Armstrong had already left. But no, she was still there. The commissionaire spoke to her briefly on the phone, and then announced that she would be coming down.

She kept him waiting for several minutes. To pass the time he read the posters and announcements displayed on the partition screens in the stately old entrance hall. Beside the main door was a print of Worth Hall as it had been in the eighteenth century: a pleasant country mansion in a landscaped park, the sort of house he often dreamed of buying when he had made his first million.

‘Fancy it?’ Suddenly she was standing at his shoulder. ‘1 hat’s the original house, before the Victorians added their extra wings and outhouses.’

‘What happened to the wide open spaces around it?’ ‘Oh, there’s still a comer left — the borough sports-ground!’ She laughed deprecatingly. ‘The rest has been built on. Is it any wonder nature sometimes bites back? Anyway, I’m Mary Armstrong. You must be Guy. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

For some reason he had been expecting her to be an over-earnest, slightly untidy social-worker type, not this smartly turned-out woman in a sleek, no-nonsense suit, her face alert and intelligent, with just a touch of make-up — pale lipstick, nothing obtrusive. As businesswoman of the year she’d have been a press photographer’s dream. Not a single blonde hair was out of place.

Her office, she explained, was on the second floor of the Victorian east wing in what had once been a servant’s attic.

‘A bit of a climb, I’m afraid!’ she apologised. ‘We’ll go up the main staircase, it’s quicker. This is the original oak panelling, by the way. You’ll see it all the way up. I suppose we should be grateful some planner hasn’t ripped it out by now. Knowing this council, they must have been tempted.’

It was a wide wooden staircase with ornate bannisters, perhaps as old as the house itself. The space behind the wall panels was probably ideal breeding ground for insects of all kinds, Guy thought.

On the top landing she led the way along the corridor, then up more narrow stairs until they arrived at her office. She took a wallet of keys out of her bag.

‘The department’s labs and so on are in the basement,’ she explained crisply as she opened the door. ‘But I’m using this office for more confidential work.’

On her desk — it was the first thing he noticed — were three beetles, each preserved in liquid in a specimen case made of transparent plastic. At the sight of that familiar pink-and-green colouring he stopped dead, his throat suddenly dry. They were the first he’d seen since that night in the school.

‘Oh, sorry about those, Guy!’ She gave another of her deprecating little laughs. ‘I keep them on my desk to help convince the unbelievers. Fetch yourself a chair.’

Her office was surprisingly small, with only just enough space for her desk, a filing cabinet and some shelves. The only free chair stood next to the dormer window and he had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the sloping ceiling. He moved it closer and sat down.

‘You said the beetle infestation was spreading,’ he prompted her.

‘We’ve had some twenty reports of beetles like these, though usually no more than two or three at a time. Some have been seen near where you live. The Plough public house, for instance.’

‘I know about the Plough. Where else?’

‘Guy, that’s not the point. Take a look at these.’ From the filing cabinet she produced a slim folder, which she opened, extracting several large photographs. She handed them to him. ‘They’re rather nasty, I’m afraid. I hope you’re not squeamish.’

Guy sorted through them with distaste. They were colour pictures, brutally factual, of a dead dog. Part of its neck and body had been eaten away, exposing the rib-cage.

‘I’d guess they were taken by a police photographer.’ Feeling slightly sick, he returned them to her desk. ‘I hope he enjoys his work.’

‘There’s a post-mortem report from the vet.’

She passed him two sheets of typed headed paper, stapled together. Guy glanced through it, though much of the detail was expressed in specialist veteminary terms which he only partly understood. A red line had been drawn in the margin alongside the last paragraph, which stated that, in the writer’s opinion, ‘the extent and nature of damage to the tissues indicate feeding by a larger, possibly toothless animal. They are not likely to have been caused exclusively by beetles of the type discovered dose to the body.’

‘What exactly does that mean?’ Guy asked.

He eyed the preserved beetles on her blotter. They looked menacingly attractive as the light caught them. Like expensive brooches.

‘Loose fragments of tom flesh,’ Mary explained patiently. ‘As though something — some creature — had been tearing at it. Either without teeth, or the teeth were badly worn down. That’s what he told me.’

‘How can he be sure?’

‘He was ten years in Kenya before he took his present job. Worked on a game reserve. Another thing, you’ll see from this fourth paragraph that the body was completely drained of blood, as though it had been sucked dry.’ Her briskness began to falter. ‘The dead tramp was in the same condition.’

‘Where was the dog found?’ inside a disused workshop in Miller Road. The place had been standing empty for a year or more. Quite an old building; they used to make furniture there. Well, recently the property was bought by an Asian company specialising in video cassettes. Multi-copying, that sort of thing. All quite legal and above board. The contractors moved in to start work on the conversion and discovered the dog there, plus several beetles which they killed.’ ‘None of the workmen hurt?’

‘No. Luckily they were local men and knew what to expect. They cleared out right away, then contacted my department. Guy, this PM report worries me. In fact, it’s why I rang you. I’d like you to describe exactly what you saw when you found the tramp. About the snakes, I mean.’

Guy shrugged. ‘You seem to have heard it already.’ ‘Detective-Sergeant Evans told me something.’ Reaching over to her desk, he picked up one of the beetles and examined it. ‘These things were flying at me from all over the place, crawling under my clothes, biting… If you want the truth, I was in a blind panic. I don’t know whether I saw anything or not.’

‘Guy, I do know what it’s like,’ she said meaningfully, ‘I couldn’t breathe either, because of this smell they were farting out at me. That could have been hallucinatory, I suppose. Like mescaline or LSD or something,’ He returned the beetle to the desk. ‘We have to look for the most rational explanation.’

‘What did the snakes look like?’

‘Snakes? Long… swaying.. squirming… curling., But no, they weren’t actually snakes, though they were similar. These were more like worms, though with big, slobbering mouths.’

‘Why d’you say slobbering?’

‘Dripping. A sort of dark saliva.’

‘And teeth?’

‘No. Oh no, I’m sure I’d have noticed teeth.’

‘What about their bodies — did they have scales, like snakes?’

‘Segmented — as I said, like worms. Very clear segments, I can swear to that.’

‘And how big were they?’

‘About the size of a cobra. And they held their heads in much the same way as a cobra. Look, it was typical nightmare stuff!’

‘They had eyes?’ she bore on relentlessly, scribbling her notes as she spoke.

‘Oh yes, they had eyes all right.’ He paused. ‘Now tell me you saw them too!’ he challenged her.

‘I didn’t. My panic took a different course. Mine was… well, simple cowardice.’

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he assured her. ‘Faced with the unexpected.’

‘I couldn’t move, couldn’t think… I was completely paralysed by blind terror. I’m not proud of how I behaved.’

‘So that’s why you keep these beetles on your desk,’ he commented, thinking he understood. ‘To prove something to yourself.’

Her reaction proved him right.

‘Mr Archer, can we stick to the subject?’ Her voice was coldly venomous, is there anything more you can say about the snakes?’

‘Worms,’ he corrected her, feeling suddenly more relaxed. ‘I prefer to think of them as worms. Or maggots.’ ‘Why?

‘That’s what they resembled. Oh, I know it’s all totally bloody improbable, not to be taken seriously. 1 was scared, same as you were. Out of my mind.’

‘Nevertheless, what you describe could well fit the vet’s report on the dog,’ she observed thoughtfully. ‘We can’t dismiss it.’

‘Then what happened to the things afterwards?’ he demanded uneasily. He wanted to believe they were mere figments of imagination, that was the trouble; he couldn’t face the idea that they might be real. ‘Where did they go? Why did no one else see them?’

She didn’t argue, but began collecting up the photographs, post-mortem report and her page of notes, placing them in the folder. On the shelf beside her desk he noticed she had gathered a small library of books about beetles, timber pests and other insects, some six or eight volumes at least. He asked what she’d learned from them about the pink-and-green variety.

‘Nothing, I’m afraid,’ she answered as she locked the filing cabinet, it’s not been recorded, certainly not among British or European beetles. I only hope we’re not going to see a plague of them. I’ve already sent out warning notices to all the schools in the district.’

‘What are the chances?’

‘How do you rate them?’

He evaded the question. ‘Oh, I’m no expert, Mary. I can’t judge.’

‘The workshop where they found the dog,’ she began to explain, not looking at him but arranging the preserved beetles in a tidy line on her deak, ‘is — well, it’s a brick-and-timber building, quite old, and they’ve discovered the beams are badly infested. I went up there myself this morning on the scaffolding. You can see whole clusters of flight holes in every beam. Big ones, same as at the school. Quite clean too, which means they’re recent.’

‘And the new owners bought the building in that condition?’ It seemed incredible.

‘Either their surveyor fell down on the job — which he denies — or else a rapid deterioration has occurred in the months since his report was written. Hard to say which. According to the specialist I met, wood-boring larvae would normally take years to cause that degree of damage, except perhaps in the tropics, and we’ve hardly been enjoying a tropical climate for the past year.’

‘Flight holes mean beetles,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes.’

‘So where are they? From what you say, it should be overrun with them by now. I imagine there are none in the workshop or you couldn’t have gone in there.’

‘Well, for the sake of the men working there they’ve done some general area spraying inside, and I believe they’ve put Vapona strips in the roof-space, so it’s not surprising if no beetles have been spotted.’

‘Dead or alive?’

‘Dead or alive,’ she confirmed.

‘They must be somewhere.’

‘Apart from the two or three discovered near the remains of the dog, there has been no sign of them, not a single one,’ she told him. She had again picked up one of her preserved beetles and glanced at it nervously from time to time as she talked. ‘We have two theories. You can take your choice. Either they’ve left the building completely, which means they could be anywhere. Or else they’ve retreated farther into the timber, and we’il find that out tomorrow when we start the full pesticide treatment on the beams themselves.’

‘You’ll be there yourself?’

‘I intend to be,’ she nodded, matter-of-fact. ‘And I’d be grateful, Guy, if you could join me at least for the first hour or so. If anything does come out of the woodwork I’d welcome your opinion on it.’

Despite that brisk, down-to-earth manner her nerves were as taut as violin strings, Guy thought as he drove home afterwards. It needed only one little thing to go wrong for her to snap. He recalled the lectures he’d heard in the Army on the psychology of fear. She betrayed several of the obvious signs, though that was not surprising after what she’d been through.

He parked in the only available space and strode up the road to the house. It was well after eight o’clock, he’d only had a sandwich for lunch, and he was hoping that for once Dorothea might have cooked a meal. He still missed not being able to go to the mess if there was nothing at home.

But she had company. Even before mounting the steps he could hear the laughter and his heart sank. Glancing in through the uncurtained window he saw she was perched on a step-ladder, paintbrush in hand, and sporting a smock and mob-cap; with her, helping, were that pansy creep Brian from the Plough and another man he didn’t recognise. To judge from the row they were making they all found it a great giggle.

‘Hello, darling!’ Dorothea called out cheerfully from the top of the ladder as he let himself in. ‘Pete and Brian are giving me a hand. Isn’t that sweet of them?’

‘Very,’ Guy agreed drily. He’d half a mind to throw them out and their paint-pots after them. ‘Kath home?’ ‘Upstairs watching telly with Susi from her ballet class. Can you run Susi home later when it’s time, ’cos I shan’t be finished. Oh, and if you’re hungry there’s a meat pie in the kitchen and a fresh jar of pickles. I found a new shop.’ With the back of her hand she brushed some stray hair away from her forehead, leaving a slight smear of lemon-coloured paint.

‘Hi, Guy!’ Brian simpered with a little wave. ‘I do love Thea’s colour scheme, don’t you? It’s a gift she’s got. I envy you!’

Guy ignored him. Briefly he stood in the living room doorway watching them. Despite the number of empty beer cans, they were doing a decent job, he noted grudgingly, but he said nothing. As he turned to go upstairs he heard another laugh from Dorothea.

‘Oh, I’d never let Guy touch a paintbrush!’ she declared without lowering her voice. ‘He’s just about OK with a hammer or changing a plug-yes, I’ll give him that, he can change a plug — but I wouldn’t allow him anywhere near paint! God, you should’ve seen the mess that time he tried. Only that once as well, I can promise you!’ More laughter from her two acolytes. She was in her element this evening, Guy thought.

He shrugged and continued upstairs.

The two girls sat huddled together over the microcomputer, squealing with excitement as they fought out their duel on the TV screen, shooting down each other’s spacecraft as they streamed into the attack.

‘Oh, hello, Daddy!’ Kath greeted him, her face glowing, when she realised he’d come into the room. ‘Shan’t be — owV Something absorbing was happening, though he couldn’t immediately see what it was. Kath was balanced on the very edge of her seat, her eyes gleaming, her long dark hair — which was usually tied back in a pony-tail during the day — now loose over her neck and shoulders. The girl with her, frowning in concentration, he had never met before. Her face was thin, slightly peaked, and framed by short mousy hair.

‘Got you! she yelled out triumphantly. ‘Got you, Kath! Got you this time!’

‘You haven’t!’ Kath’s voice was defiant. ‘Not yet you haven’t!

‘There!’

A couple of final manoeuvres with the joystick and Kath was defeated. A slurred blee-blee-blee-eep came from the set and the screen cleared momentarily before the opening positions appeared again.

‘Daddy, this is Susi. She goes to my ballet class. I beat her twice, then she beat me once.’ Kath stood up but only to settle herself more comfortably on the low chair she had pulled up in front of the micro-computer. ‘So we’ve got to play one more game to see who really wins.’

‘Hello, Susi,’ Guy said.

Susi flushed. ‘Hello,’ she muttered abruptly, suddenly shy.

‘Mummy said I must tell you there’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry,’ Kath went on impatiently. ‘I’m sure you are hungry. It’s all down there.’

Guy laughed. ‘OK, if you want to get rid of me…’

They had been doing their homework earlier, he noticed; their exercise books, papers and crayons were still spread out over the table. Among them was a large drawing of a beetle, its colours vivid and its claws rampant. Threatening.

‘What’s this?’

‘Oh, just one of those beetles,’ his daughter replied impatiently, her hand poised over the joystick. ‘There was a poster came to the school and we were told to copy it.’

‘If we see one we’re supposed to tell a grown-up,’ Susi added, overcoming her shyness.

‘A poster?’ Mary Armstrong’s doing, Guy thought, it’s been stuck up on the wall. Daddy, are those the beetles that bit you?’

‘With their claws,’ he admitted. ‘These big claws out at the front, like horns on a reindeer.’

‘Antlers,’ said Susi, nodding wisely. ‘My sister’s class have got two beetles in a jar, but not like these. I mean, they don’t have antlers or anything, but they’ve got spots an’ so on. Green spots, anyway. Leastways they’re green if you look close up. I thought they were black at first. Her teacher says they’re like big ladybirds. I don’t think so.’

‘Who is her teacher?’ Guy looked at the two girls’ bright eager faces and felt apprehensive. ‘D’you know her name?’

it’s Mrs Burrows, only she’s having a baby so there’s another person there now called Lise.’

‘Lise what?’

‘Dunno. I think they just call her Lise, don’t they? D’you know her name, Kath?’

‘Everybody calls her Lise.’ Kath gazed at her father pointedly. ‘Daddy, your meat pie’s getting terribly stale. Aren’t you going to eat it?’

Guy laughed. ‘OK, young missie!’ It was a joke they shared since hearing the phrase used in a TV play one Sunday tea-time. ‘But when I’ve had my supper I’ll be back up to drive Susi home. Right?’

Perhaps he should call at the school to inspect the beetles for himself, Guy considered uneasily as he went down to the kitchen. But then he dismissed the idea. Susi had insisted they were devoid of antler- claws, hadn’t she? There must be thousands of different types of beetle in

Britain alone, never mind the rest of the world. They couldn’t all be dangerous.

He’d mention it to Mary Armstrong though, he decided, if she wasn’t too busy when he met her next morning. Perhaps she could find a moment to check it out.