Midnight is a Lonely Place

LXVI

The waves threw off the snow, thundering up the beach in clouds of spray. The sea had reached the soft sand now, the sand which was never covered by the tide, sucking greedily at the ground and spitting out the residue with each successive incursion. Peat and soil swirled and dissolved; sand turned to brown liquid, dispersed and vanished, to be deposited again on a distant shore. In the dune the grave welcomed the first deep wave which seeped into its heart, whisking away a trowel and a brush, tearing at the remaining bones, grinding them, stirring them, flushing out every trace of what had been. Another followed and then another and then the sea overwhelmed, passing onwards towards the calm, ice-bound estuary where, long before, the geese had gone, flying inland away from the storm.

Joe stood panting at the top of the track and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He could barely see now for the weight of snow on his eyelashes; his face was frozen stiff and his tears seemed to turn to ice as the wind whipped them from his eyes. He looked round, exhausted. Two cars were parked at the edge of the road. Drawn up under the trees. Anne’s he supposed; but whose was the other? He walked over to it, and swept the snow off the snow-covered bonnet. Ron’s Land Rover from the pub. He frowned and glanced back the way he had come. Whatever Ron had come for, he had left no trace. His tracks had long ago been covered over.

Wearily he turned up the road and began to trudge towards home. Twice he stopped and looked behind him. A dozen times in the wood he had had the feeling that he was being followed. Each time he had stopped and raised the gun, sweeping it menacingly around at the undergrowth. But there had been no one there. No one at all. Only the silence and the wind and the occasional crash of snow falling from the trees.

It took him another hour to trudge the few hundred yards home, grope in his pocket with deadened hands for the key to the back door, and let himself into the blessed warmth and stillness. The house was very quiet. Stamping the snow off his boots he shrugged himself out of his coat, leaving it where it fell on the kitchen floor and he went over to the wall telephone. Picking it up, he listened. The familiar dialling tone rang out almost deafeningly in his ear.

Nine nine nine.

He had never dialled it before. Shaking his head wearily, he waited for a moment before asking for police and ambulance. The woman on the other end of the line was dubious. ‘They’ll be with you as soon as possible Mr Farnborough, but the weather is so bad! They’re still forecasting hurricane force winds and blizzard conditions. The helicopter can’t take off. It will be down to the police to try and get through with a medical team.’

‘Do your best, love.’ Joe found he had sunk down onto the wooden chair left neatly against the wall. Near him Cissy’s apron hung on the back of the door. He shook his head. ‘Things are bad down there. Very bad. There’s a man murdered. Another man dying. Please. Help us.’

He sat still for a long time after he had hung up. There was nothing more that he could do. He could not go back. He had agreed to wait so he could guide the police vehicle down to the farmhouse. Leaning his head against the wall he closed his eyes wearily.

In two minutes he was fast asleep.