Midnight is a Lonely Place

XLI

Diana was stirring a pot of stew listlessly over the hotplate of the Aga. Made from leftovers from lunch to which she had added fried onions and dried herbs from the jars on the dresser, potatoes and mushrooms and carrots, it smelt delicious. The two cats were sitting side by side behind her, respectfully watching her every move, their admiration of her cooking technique obvious in every alert glance.

Patrick was sitting at the table behind her. His fingers drummed on the table top rhythmically and slowly, a drum roll for the march to the scaffold.

‘Stop that, Paddy!’ Diana’s voice was sharp.

He stared at her and then looked down at his hand as though he did not know he owned it. ‘Sorry.’

‘They should have been back by now.’ She clattered her pans together. ‘They should have found her.’

‘It’s pretty stormy out there, Ma. They might have got the Land Rover stuck. Or they might have decided to stay at the cottage.’

‘Or they might not have found her.’ Diana turned to face her husband as he walked through towards the kitchen. ‘Is the phone working?’

He shook his head. His face was lined with weariness and, as she watched, she saw his hand go surreptitiously to his chest under the flap of his jacket.

‘Roger, darling. Go and sit down.’ The displacement activity at the Aga forgotten she flew to him and threw her arms around him. ‘Come on. Rest. You’re wearing yourself out.’

‘I should be out there with them, looking.’ He shook his head crossly, but he allowed her to steer him towards the fire.

‘I’ll go.’ Patrick followed them. ‘I’ll take the bike and see where they are.’

‘No.’ Diana shook her head forbiddingly. ‘No, Paddy. You stay here with us.’

‘Let him go, Di.’ Roger threw himself down in a chair and leaned back, his eyes closed. ‘He can get to the cottage and check if they’re there.’

‘No.’ It was a wail of misery. ‘No. I want him to stay here. I don’t want all my children lost.’ Diana sat down abruptly, blinking hard, the strain only just contained.

‘I won’t get lost, Ma. I know the track like the back of my hand.’ Patrick put his hand on her shoulder.

Her fingers sought his and tightened over them. ‘But the storm…’

‘If something has happened – I mean if the Land Rover has broken down, or the track is blocked or something, they have no way of telling us with the phones down. If I go, I can be back in half an hour and I can put your mind at rest.’

‘He’s right, Di.’ Roger didn’t open his eyes. ‘Let him go.’

Her hand slid helplessly from her son’s. He gave her shoulder a squeeze and stepped towards the door.

‘Take no risks, Paddy.’ Roger opened his eyes. ‘No risks at all. If you see anything you can’t cope with, come back at once, do you hear?’

‘Sure, Dad.’

‘No heroics.’

Patrick grinned. ‘I’m not the superman type, Dad. Besides, what am I going to find? Mud. Trees. Snow. Cheer up. I won’t be long.’ He dived out into the hall and came back, dragging on his oilskin jacket. ‘Have we got a decent torch?’

‘I’ll get it.’ Diana went back into the kitchen. She rummaged in a drawer. Patrick followed her. ‘Don’t let Dad go out,’ he whispered. ‘He’s looking awfully pale.’

‘I won’t.’ Finding the torch she switched it on, testing the beam. ‘At least it’s got batteries. Paddy, I know it’s silly, but there have been some strange things going on at that cottage. You will be careful, darling, won’t you?’

Patrick nodded. ‘Promise.’ He kissed her on the cheek and rammed the torch down into his pocket. Minutes later he had let himself out into the sleet.

The cold took his breath away. The ice on the wind felt as though it were cutting his face as he pulled on his gloves and went over to the barn, dragging back the heavy door to find his bike.

The narrow beam of his headlight lit up first the trees arching across the track as the bike slid and bucked over the potholes, then the slushy track itself where the latest set of tyre marks were clearly visible, not yet obliterated by the wet. Patrick concentrated hard on riding the machine without getting thrown off into the undergrowth, his eyes narrowed against the weather, searching out the least hazardous route, peering into the distance for a glimpse of the Land Rover. He was not feeling nearly as brave now he was out here alone. His thoughts kept jumping back to Alison, with her crazy eyes, to Kate’s cottage – he thought of it as Kate’s cottage, not Greg’s – and the mess someone had made there. Was there someone out here in the woods? A maniac on the loose? Or was there really someone or something out there at the grave?

After a particularly bad skid in the thick mud he stopped, trying to catch his breath, bracing his foot against a tree root, aware that all his muscles were trembling with effort and shock. He stared round. The woods seemed awfully dark. The wind was howling between the trees, the sound sometimes rising to a banshee wail, sometimes falling to a moan. Leaning forward, he gripped the handlebars tightly and taking a deep breath, pushed off once more, forcing the pedals round with every ounce of strength he possessed. He would not think about the darkness where the light beam did not reach.

It was with enormous relief that he saw at last the squat outline of the Land Rover parked outside the cottage, silhouetted against the rectangle of a lighted window. Leaning the bike against the wall he hammered on the door. He waited, rubbing the back of his wrist against his nose, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, then he knocked again. He frowned. Splashing his way through the puddles, he made his way to the front window, but it was curtained and he could see nothing. He turned back to the door and knocked again, hammering this time with his fist. ‘Kate! Greg! Hey, let me in!’

At last he heard a sound. Somewhere inside a door banged.

‘Kate! Greg! Come on. It’s bloody freezing out here!’ He paused, sniffing, to listen again. The silence inside the cottage was absolute, in contrast to the roar and scream of the elements outside.

Suddenly he was frightened. ‘Kate! Greg! Why don’t you open the door?’ he shouted once more. He began pounding on it again with both fists. ‘Come on. Please.’ His voice cracked and slid up into the alto range, something which normally would have embarrassed him terribly. As it was he didn’t even notice. He could feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He ran back to the window and knocked, pressing his face against the glass, but the flowery curtains with their pale sun-stained linings obscured any view of the inside of the room. He turned back and ran past the door, making this time for the windows at the side of the cottage. The bathroom window was slightly open. He inserted his arm and jiggled the arm of the latch free, letting the window swing outwards a little. The wind caught it and slammed it back against the wall, but it didn’t matter. The gap was large enough for him to climb in. He tried to get his knee up onto the narrow sill but his oilskin caught. Swearing to himself he unzipped it and tore it off, feeling the rain and wind blast against his body as he bundled the unwieldy garment up and tossed it in in front of him. Then he levered himself up onto the windowsill, and, holding his breath, squeezed himself in, dropping awkwardly onto the floor. The bathroom was dark. He scrabbled around the wall until he found the door and beside it the pull cord for the light. Tugging at it, he switched it on and stared round. The bath had a scattering of dark wet earth in the bottom. The tap was dripping slightly and he could see the trail scoured by the water in the soil. He frowned. Kate struck him as the sort of person who would meticulously wash out a bath after her, but perhaps like Greg she was also the type to get easily distracted when she was being creative; he forgot to change his clothes and wash and even eat when he was painting.

Tiptoing across the floor again he opened the door a crack and peered out into the hall. It was dark out there, but he could see a thin line of light showing from the living room. Opening the door further he peered up the stairs. Everything there was dark and silent.

Suddenly he was shy of having broken in. It seemed a terrible intrusion to be in someone’s house without their knowledge. He cleared his throat loudly, then realising how frightening that might be if Kate were on her own in there, he called out nervously. ‘Kate, are you there?’ He knocked on the door and jumped himself at the loudness of the hollow sound he made. ‘Kate, it’s Patrick.’

He crept across the hall and pushed the living room door open. The room was empty save for a figure lying on the sofa, covered by a rug. He felt a rush of relief. She was asleep. That explained it. He had crept right into the room before he realised that the feet and legs hanging over the arm of the sofa were those of a man.

‘Greg?’ He moved closer. The air in the room was stale and faintly unpleasant. It was very hot in there. Glancing at the stove he registered that it was glowing with heat. ‘Greg?’ He pulled the corner of the blanket away from the man’s face and gave a small cry of horror. The flesh of Bill’s face was discoloured and puffy; his eyes, half open beneath flaccid lids, were glassy and dim. A small stream of saliva had run from the corner of his mouth onto the pillow where it had dried in a sticky trail amidst the black crusts of blood. He was very obviously dead. Patrick reared back, repelled, swung away from the body and vomited onto the floor. ‘Oh God! Oh God – oh God – oh God!’ He leaned over and vomited again. Groping in the pocket of his jeans for something to wipe his mouth on, his fingers encountered the oily rag which he had used earlier to wipe the dipstick on the Volvo as he checked the engine for his father. He brought it to his face, mopping his mouth and his brow and his eyes, leaving a smear of dark oil across his cheeks. His eyes on the body he backed away from it towards the door. Where was Kate? He reached the hall and slammed the door shut, leaning against it. He felt desperately cold and shivery despite the heat in the house, and his legs were shaking violently. For a moment he thought they were going to collapse under him. He sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and took a deep breath, followed by another. Then he half turned, screwing his neck round so he could gaze up into the darkness of the upper landing. ‘Kate?’ His voice was husky, barely a whisper. ‘Kate, are you up there?’

Somehow he hauled himself to his feet and he began to climb. Above him a door slammed again. ‘Kate?’ His voice wavered unsteadily. ‘Kate, it’s Patrick.’ He could hear the wind more clearly up here. It was howling around the windows and behind it, a deep, subliminal beat, was the roar and crash of the sea. He reached the landing, straining his eyes into the darkness as he scrabbled along the wall for a light switch. He found it and flipped it on. Both bedroom doors were wide open. The air up here was ice cold in contrast to the fug downstairs. He frowned. In some recess of his mind he was registering that heat rises. It should be hotter up here, unless a window was open somewhere.

‘Kate?’ He tiptoed towards her bedroom door. Then he stopped. As the shock of what he had seen downstairs wore off a little his brain had begun to function again and the significance of what he had seen dawned on him. No fall could have caused the injuries he had seen on Bill’s head and face. The man had been beaten to death. Bill had been murdered and the murderer was wandering round in the dark, perhaps up here now. He thought about the sound of the slamming door. Both doors on the landing were open. He swallowed, tasting once more the sharp, bitter flood of bile in the back of his throat. Kate. What had happened to Kate?

Taking a deep breath he flung wide the door to her bedroom and stared in. The light was on. The room was empty. He looked round, his hand clutching the door handle so tightly that his finger joints cracked. Apart from the bed which had been stripped of its blankets, the room seemed undisturbed. Peaceful. It was full of the scent of some unidentifiable perfume – not Kate’s. He sniffed, puzzled. It was pleasant. Nice even, but it disturbed him. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stirring, like the hackles of a dog. He didn’t like it. He turned away from the door and went across the landing to the other room. The light showed it to be empty with only a few stacked suitcases and cardboard boxes piled near the window on the far side of the floor. There was no sign of Kate. The windows in both rooms, he noticed suddenly, were tightly shut. So which door had he heard banging, and why the cold? He shuddered.

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.