Black Cathedral

Jane stood. ‘I was led to believe this island was deserted, Mr. Bayliss,’ she said, adopting her stern woman- in-charge persona. ‘How long have you been on Kulsay?’

Bayliss regarded her with a slightly sardonic smile on his face. ‘I could murder a coffee,’ he said. The Scottish accent was thick enough to cut with a knife. He dropped his rucksack on the floor.

Jane glanced around at Kirby.

Irritation flashed in Kirby’s eyes. She didn’t want to miss anything.

‘Please,’ Jane said, softening her tone. ‘We’ll fill you in on what ever you miss.’

With a theatrical sigh Kirby rose from her seat. ‘I suppose the rest of you want one as well?’ she said. As she walked past Bayliss he winked at her. Kirby tucked her chin into her chest and hurried on by. She couldn’t help smiling though.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Jane said. ‘How long have you been on the island?’

‘I came over yesterday evening,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I sit down? I’ve been walking for an hour, and the terrain around here doesn’t really lend itself to a casual stroll. My feet are killing me.’ He flopped down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace and started to unlace his boots.

Jane tapped her foot impatiently. There was something about the self-confident Bayliss that she admired; he irritated and frustrated her, but he was clearly trying to take control of the situation.

Bayliss looked up from his unlacing at the others gathered around the table. ‘Sorry, have I interrupted?’

Jane’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, not at all.’ Borderline sarcasm, but kept in check by professional caution.

‘Only I thought you may be holding a seance or something. That is what the Department is all about, isn’t it? Ghoulies and ghosties, and things that go bump in the night?’

Carter leaned forward in his chair. ‘Would you mind telling us what the hell you think you’re doing here?’

Bayliss pulled off a boot and massaged his toes through the thick wool of his sock. He smiled across at Carter. ‘I’m here to help, Mr. Carter,’ he said. ‘And to answer some of the questions you’ve obviously been asking yourself.’

Martin Impey sat at his desk collating another ream of paperwork. Sometimes the sheer volume of material he was responsible for was overwhelming. If the public only knew how many paranormal events were occurring every day they’d be shocked and, most likely, terrified. And for every case reported there were ten times that many that went ignored, brushed under the convenient carpet of denial and self-delusion. On his desk at the moment were reports of poltergeist activity in a Birmingham suburb, a suspected demonic possession of a small boy in Surbiton, and half a dozen random sightings of ghosts, as well as reports from two other Department teams that needed to be processed.

Everything on his desk had to be logged onto the computer, cross-referenced and verified. He and his two secretaries faced the daily task of keeping this material under control, and of updating their computers from the many databases from around the world to which they had access. On top of this were the almost daily requests from Simon Crozier and others to provide background information on what ever cases they were working. He picked up a scrap of paper on which were scribbled the words, The Sorority. This was a good example.

He’d arrived early this morning, just after six, to play catch-up with his filing. A minute after he got there he was summoned by Simon Crozier. He was convinced the man never slept, yet he always seemed so alert, so unruffled. Martin walked along the corridor to Crozier’s office, stuffing the remnants of a bacon sandwich — his breakfast — into his mouth, and clutching a plastic cup filled with hot, sweet tea.

Crozier was sitting behind his desk, tapping away at his laptop, a look of fierce concentration etched into his brow. As Martin closed the door behind him Crozier looked up, noticed the plastic cup in his hand and frowned.

Martin raised the cup. ‘Breakfast,’ he said.

‘Come and sit down,’ Crozier said. ‘I’ve a job for you.’

Martin took the seat opposite him and was about to set his cup down on the desk, but Crozier gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Martin lowered the cup to the floor, but visions of tipping the tea over the pristine cream carpet prevented him from setting it down. Instead he raised the cup to his lips and drained it, wincing as the scalding liquid burned its way down his throat. Crozier reached down and produced a chrome wastepaper bin from under the desk. Martin dropped the cup in the bin and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Then he wiped his brow. The hot tea had made him sweat.

Crozier scribbled something on the pad in front of him. Then he folded the page carefully and took a paperknife from a drawer, carefully cutting along the crease. He slid the thin sliver of paper across the desk. ‘Mean anything to you?’

Martin picked it up and read the words, The Sorority. He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘What about the name Celeste Toland?’

Martin shook his head again. ‘Likewise.’

‘Damn!’ Crozier said. ‘Okay. See what you can dig up on them.’

‘But I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through,’ Martin said. ‘Can’t I put one of the girls on it?’

‘If I wanted one of the girls doing the job I would have called one of them in. Instead I called you. What does that tell you?’

Martin feigned a second of thought as if considering a quiz question. ‘You’d rather I do it myself?’

Crozier gave a perfunctory smile. ‘Precisely.’

‘And should I know what this is all about?’

‘Celeste Toland is a member of a group of fairly high-profile and wealthy women in America who call themselves The Sorority. Other than that you know as much as I do. Apart from the fact that this Celeste Toland is, shall we say, rather friendly with Jessica Anderson.’

‘And you want to know if this woman and her group have any interest in Kulsay,’ Martin said. He preferred to have the terms of reference before he began his researches. It sometimes helped rather than going in with one arm figuratively tied behind his back and a blindfold over his eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘What makes you think they might?’ It was always best to go into a research request from Crozier as well informed as possible.

‘I’ve heard whispers.’ Crozier loved to play up the perceived man-about-town image he had of himself.

‘Dangerous things, whispers.’ Martin found his boss amusing and scary at the same time, but most of all he pitied him on a human level.

‘Not when they’re from a reliable source.’ The way Crozier said it left Martin in no doubt that the subject was at an end.

Martin got to his feet. ‘Priority then.’

‘Top priority.’

He walked to the door. ‘When you say, rather friendly, I take it you’re speaking euphemistically.’

Crozier smiled. ‘I’ve been led to believe that’s the case.’ Though he knew precisely how the relationship worked.

‘How did you find this out?’ Martin tried not to sound incredulous; and certainly didn’t want to sound in any way admiring.

‘I have a mole in the Anderson court,’ Crozier said. ‘No one’s private life is very private anymore.’

‘More’s the pity,’ Martin said under his breath. The intelligence gathering part of the Department role was still something he felt uncomfortable about.

‘Sorry?’ Crozier had already turned his attention back to his computer screen.

Martin had the door open. ‘I said, “another day in the city.” I’ll get straight on it.’

‘Good. Get back to me the moment you have something I can get my teeth into.’

‘Will do.’

‘Oh, and Martin…this is strictly between you and me. Understood?’

‘Understood.’ Yet Martin knew this was a brief he didn’t fully understand. Why was Crozier interested in a group of American women with too much money and time on their hands? The Anderson connection was the