‘Wow.’ There was a pause as he thought this over. Then, ‘It can’t have been a ghost. It must have been a real thief after all.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Ghosts can’t steal things.’
‘They can.’ Unnoticed by either of them Alison had appeared in the doorway. She was clutching the blanket around her shoulders like a cloak. Her face was transparent in its whiteness. She walked uncertainly to the stool and dragged herself up onto it. ‘She wanted the torc because it was his.’
‘Whose?’ Patrick stared at his sister.
‘- ’
Again she had begun to speak and stopped without uttering a word as though the word – the name – had been snatched from her lips. ‘I don’t know. But she loved him.’
Patrick shot a quick look at Kate. It seemed to be a plea for understanding. ‘Listen, Allie. I’m going to go home and get Mum and Dad. You ought to be in bed or something.’
‘I’m OK.’ Belying her words, Allie’s body gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Will you bring them back as soon as you can?’ Kate asked quietly as she went with Patrick to the door. ‘Please. I don’t think we – she – should be here alone.’
She watched as he pulled on his bright yellow cycling mac. She didn’t want him to go. She wanted to catch at his sleeve and shout at him to stay. She wanted him to barricade himself inside with them. Stupid. What was there to be afraid of?
‘She needs a doctor, Patrick. She’s OK I think, as long as she keeps warm, but I don’t know about these things. I’d feel much happier if someone took a look at her.’
He nodded. ‘Don’t worry. Mum used to be a nurse. She’ll know what to do. I’ll be home in ten minutes. If Greg’s not back with the Land Rover we can ring Bob Farnborough up on the main road. He’s got a four wheel drive which will do.’ He turned away into the sleet then he stopped. ‘It will be OK. Don’t worry. Just keep the door locked.’
She stared at him. As their eyes met she realised he was scared too and that he was as aware as she was that doors would not keep Claudia, if it was Claudia, out.
XXVIII
At the bottom of the hollow the sand was stained by the peat as it leached out of the exposed face of the dune and dispersed in the icy puddles. The rain and hail washed at the leathery skin, keeping it moist, preserving it momentarily from the air, rendering it supple again. Strands of hair, long, coppery, still silken after more than nineteen hundred years washed across the blind face which stared up at the darkness. Her arm, lying across his chest was twisted, broken, the fingers outstretched. As the cold air touched them they drooped and grew supple again, caressing his shoulder, skin melting into skin, lips into lips, dry brittle bone crumbling to become one with the sand.
A squall from the sea, hitting the dune face, brought down more sand. The soft, wet mixture of peat and soil swirled in the icy water and slowly the silver torc which lay in the loose grip of Nion’s fleshless fingers sank out of sight once more.
XXIX
Standing at the window looking down into the street Bill sighed. He hated London in the rain and this cold, blustery hail was the worst kind of rain. It was too wet to turn to snow and settle, too cold to bear against the face, suitable only for turning the muck and leaves and litter which blew in the gutters into a disgusting soup. He could hear the rainwater gurgling down the gutter near the window. It sounded like a bath emptying and was extremely depressing. He was trying to make up his mind about going to the cottage. He had been looking forward to a break all week. After careful manipulation of his diary he had managed to clear all Monday and half of Tuesday so it could be a long weekend. The best kind. But now the weather looked as though it was doing its best to screw the whole plan. He walked back to his desk and picked up the glass of wine from his blotter – a remnant of yesterday’s party, the bottle retrieved from a fridge on the next floor. It was up to him. He had only himself to please. Did he really want to go flogging up the A12, taking a risk on whether this cold wet rain would turn to snow when he left the outskirts of London? Of course that in itself was tempting. He could think of worse places to be marooned than Redall Farm Cottage in the run up to Christmas, and if he took enough food and booze he could disappear there for several days happily. He walked back to the window, battling with his conscience. He had a tight schedule in the second half of next week. Christmas was getting close and he couldn’t really take the risk of missing any time in the office. He watched two London buses inch past beneath his window, their domed scarlet roofs slick with sleet which for a fraction of a second remained unmelted then turned to water before his eyes and ran in streams down the windows.
Behind him the phone rang. He paused to drain his glass before going to the desk and lifting the receiver.
‘Bill, it’s Jon Bevan.’
Bill eased himself into his chair with a raised eyebrow. ‘Hi. When did you get back?’
‘I’m not back. I fly home tomorrow. Bill, I’m a bit worried. I can’t raise Kate. Her phone is out of order. Do you have the number for the people at the farmhouse?’
‘Sure.’ Bill reached for a bulging, shabby filofax, something he was comfortable with only now that they were truly out of fashion. ‘How is it going out there?’
‘Not bad. I wanted to check if I would be welcome at Redall.’
‘Can’t help you there. I haven’t spoken to anyone there this week.’
‘So, you don’t know about the burglary?’
‘Burglary!’ Bill frowned, shocked. ‘At the farmhouse?’
‘No, at Kate’s cottage. She sounded edgy when I last spoke to her. Almost frightened. It’s been worrying me.’
‘Frightened?’ Bill stared at the agitated, circular doodle he had been sketching on the pad in front of him. He added a couple of swirls, and then an eye. ‘I should think so, if she was burgled. Did they take much?’
‘I don’t think so. Something she dug up in the sand, that’s all. I’m sure she’s all right. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
Bill laughed. ‘I’m sure there isn’t but I’ll give the Lindseys a ring and check. I was wondering whether I should drive up this evening, funnily enough. I’m not sure though. The weather is pretty bad over here.’
‘It’s bad here too.’ In Massachusetts Jon glanced out of his bedroom window at the thick, white snow which whirled across the garden blotting out the view of the maples on the far side of the lawn. ‘I think you should go, Bill. Look, if you do, will you ring me when you’ve seen her? Or get her to ring me from somewhere. Hang on. Let me give you the number here.’
Bill copied it down. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve spoken to Diana, OK? Don’t worry, old son, I’m sure Kate is all right.’
He tried her number first. It was, as Jon had said, dead. Then he rang the farmhouse. It was some time before someone picked up the phone.
‘Greg?’ Bill had been about to hang up. ‘It’s Bill Norcross. Can I speak to Diana?’
‘Sorry. They all appear to be out.’ Greg’s voice was distant. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I just wanted to check what the weather was like your end. I was planning on coming down today.’
‘It’s windy and hailing and the forecast is lousy. I should stay tucked up by your fire in London if I were you.’
‘Have you seen Kate at all?’
‘I have indeed.’ Greg’s voice became even colder.
‘Is she all right? Her phone is out of order.’
‘She seemed admirably well when last I saw her. Fighting fit, you might say. Did you report it?’
‘I’m about to.’
‘Good. Well, as soon as it is mended you can ring her and ask her for a weather forecast on the hour, can’t
