Black Cathedral

ominously.

‘Sounds like we’re in for a rough night,’ Kirby said. ‘Let’s hope it blows itself out by the morning. I don’t fancy a boat trip to the island in a full-blown storm.’

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ Jane said and got up from the bed, crossing to the window to peer out at the night. As she reached the window the hotel grounds were lit up by lightning and, for a split second, the silver flash illuminated the fountain. As was the prone figure lying at its base. ‘What the hell…’

‘What is it?’

Jane pressed her nose to the glass, peering out into the murky, rain-swept night, the rain-chilled window misting with her breath. Impatiently she rubbed the condensation away with the sleeve of her shirt. The lightning flashed again. She saw the fountain again but the figure had gone.

‘Jane?’ Kirby could tell something was bothering Jane.

She turned away from the window. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I thought I saw something, but I must have imagined it.’

‘I think we’re all a little jazzed at the moment,’ Kirby said. ‘After reading the report on the island and knowing we’re going to be living there for a while, I don’t suppose that’s very surprising.’

‘I suppose not,’ Jane said, but she was distracted now. She was certain there had been someone lying at the base of the fountain. And she was pretty certain she knew who it was.

The grass tasted sweet. Fat raindrops the size of pennies spattered on his back but Carter made no effort to move; he was just relieved to be away from the circular chamber. He felt exhausted and a large bump was swelling on the back of his head where it had cracked against the wall. The experience had drained him. He rolled over onto his back, letting the rain hit his face. A flash of lightning split the sky and a few beats later a peal of thunder rumbled through the night. The intensity of the rain increased.

Gradually his strength returned and he pushed himself into a sitting position. Standing, his legs were weak, threatening to give out from under him. He took a few tentative steps; so far, so good. The hotel seemed miles away but he put one foot in front of the other and by the time the lightning crackled again he’d reached the entrance.

The reception desk was empty, the dining room in darkness. He took the stairs one at a time, using the handrail to haul himself up. He couldn’t believe how weak he felt; it was as if he’d left all his strength behind him in the chamber. After what seemed ages he reached his room and unlocked the door. The room was in darkness. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Raj was sleeping. He could hear the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

Creeping across to his own bed he stripped off his sodden clothes and lay down on the soft mattress. He closed his eyes but sleep was hours away. Instead his mind played reruns of his experience in the chamber. He couldn’t rid himself of the image of Sian’s ruined eyes — the dark empty sockets still managed to look at him accusingly. Lying there in the darkened room he tried to convince himself that what he’d seen was just an illusion, the images planted in his thoughts, but a small, hectoring voice lurked at the back of his mind whispering, it wasn’t an illusion. It was real. The bump on his head certainly was, and it was aching abominably.

There was something else that evidenced that what had happened was real. Clenched in his left hand were a small gold cross and a broken chain. Sian’s.

He suddenly felt very cold. He pulled the duvet up to his chin. It was going to be a long night.

Fiona Whyte watched from the darkened office at the back of the reception desk as a soaking wet Robert Carter entered the hotel and went up to his room. He looked disoriented, unsteady on his feet. Earlier one of the dining room staff overheard a conversation Carter’s group was having over their meal. They were departing for Kulsay Island in the morning. Yet another investigation. Fiona had been on duty when the team from the Ministry of Defense had stayed here earlier in the year and they had been downright weird; evasive to the point of rudeness. She knew full well what they were investigating, despite their efforts to keep it secret, and she was pretty sure that this group was doing much the same.

Well, good luck to them. She shuddered at the thought of the island. There was nothing on earth that would induce her to set foot on Kulsay. She’d heard the rumors and stories over the years, and preferred to keep her feet firmly on the mainland. But she knew there would be someone who would be intrigued by this latest twist. She picked up the phone and dialed a local number.

The phone was answered on the second ring. ‘Bayliss,’ a voice said. Whisky and cigarettes gave the voice a sandpaper timbre.

‘Hi, Nick. It’s Fiona, from Cleeves.’

‘Fiona! How’re you keeping?’ The slurring of the words was barely noticeable.

‘I’m good. You know you told me to let you know if there were any more developments regarding Kulsay. Well, something’s developed.’

In the cluttered living room of the flat he was renting on the outskirts of town, Nick Bayliss listened carefully to what Fiona Whyte was telling him. When she’d finished he said, ‘Interesting. Listen, Fiona, be an angel, get me their names.’

‘I’ll get the register,’ she said. ‘Hold on.’

The line was silent for a few moments. Bayliss rummaged through the piles of paperwork lying heaped on the table he was using as a desk. He found an empty legal pad and a pen and waited, poised to write down the names. This was an unexpected but very welcome development. He’d thought the MOD investigation marked the end of official involvement in Kulsay. The book he was writing about the island had stalled since that ended so inconclusively. Maybe this new investigation would kick-start it again. He really needed to finish it. His publisher’s deadline was looming and he was fast using up his advance. The small pieces he was writing on psychic phenomena for a few of the trashy tabloids and magazines were keeping him in bread, but there was no jam to sweeten its flavor. He was just a week away from throwing in the towel and heading back to his apartment in London.

‘Are you still there?’ Fiona came back to the phone.

‘Waiting with bated breath,’ he said.

‘Okay. Jane Talbot, Raj Kumar…’

He scribbled the names down as Fiona read them out to him. ‘Did you say Robert Carter?’ he said when she finished.

‘That’s right,’ she said, and told him what she’d just witnessed.

‘Well, it is raining rather heavily. If he’d been for a walk he would have got soaked.’

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But there was pond weed hanging from his clothes and, as far as I know, that doesn’t fall out of the sky.’

‘Fair point. And you say they’re going across to the island tomorrow?’ He poured himself another whisky.

‘That’s what I was told.’

‘Is your brother still running the pots?’ A plan was hatching in the lower recesses of his brain. The whisky only served to fuel his creativity. The more he drank the better his ideas.

‘Of course. Lobsters are still his life…poor bugger.’ Fiona had a sour opinion of much of life’s rich pattern.

‘Do you think he’d take me across to Kulsay again?’ The island held no fears for Bayliss; that was another consequence of copious amounts of whisky.

‘I doubt it, after the last time? Those Ministry people got quite heavy with him. Threatened to revoke his license.’

‘But you will ask him?’ Overeager, but Fiona wasn’t sharp enough to spot it.

There was the slightest hesitation. ‘You’re a bastard, you know?’

‘They were on my case too, you know?’ The MOD had cast a wide net of suspicion in their quest to keep unwelcome questions at bay.

‘I’ll ask him. Are you coming to see me then?’ There was a fragment of hope in her voice, and eagerness of her own.

‘Oh, I think so. I’ll be there first thing. You’ll be on duty, won’t you?’ It would be easier if she were there to