He swept the lamp around again, concentrating this time on the vegetation. But it all looked so different in the dark; so sinister. For a moment he was afraid he was going to cry. His eyes were stinging suspiciously; he had never felt so desolate or so lost in his whole life, but as he cast one last desperate glance around, he spotted the lone pine. It was a tree they all knew well – a tree which rose head and shoulders above the others in the wood, an ancient Scots pine whose distinctive shape had been out of range of his torch as he flashed it around. With a sheepish grin of relief he headed towards it, realising that he was barely ten minutes from the farmhouse.
As he rounded the barn he caught sight of someone crouched in the lee of the wall and he stopped abruptly. Whoever it was was not moving. He glanced at the house, reassured by the comforting sight of light pouring from the downstairs windows, then he looked again at the figure. His cycle lamp had barely enough strength to light the path at his feet, but he shone it warily in the direction of the barn wall.
‘Allie?’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Allie, is that you?’ He took a few steps closer. ‘Allie?’ He ran towards her. ‘Allie, what is it? What are you doing out here? What’s wrong?’ Catching his sister by the arm he swung her to her feet.
She stared at him. Her eyes were hard and blank. There was a deep scratch down one side of her face from her temple to her jaw and her hands, he saw as he pulled her towards him, were raw and bleeding.
‘Come in, Allie.’ His voice was urgent. ‘Come in. Quickly. ‘He glanced over his shoulder. There was a murderer out there in the woods and by the look of things he had already attacked his sister.
Pushing open the front door he half carried, half dragged Alison in. ‘Ma!’ He propelled her into the living room. ‘Ma!’
Diana flew towards them. ‘Dear God! Alison! What happened to her?’
Patrick bit his lip. He shook his head, for a moment unable to speak, watching as Diana guided Alison towards the chair next to the fire and knelt beside her, chafing her hands.
Behind him his father had risen from the kitchen table where he had been staring blankly at
Patrick took a sip from the glass. His eyes started to stream. ‘It’s the brandy. Making my eyes water,’ he whispered. ‘It’s the brandy.’
His father’s hand was on his shoulder. ‘It’s OK old chap. It’s OK. Take your time.’ Roger glanced over Patrick’s head towards his wife. She was tucking a blanket around Alison’s knees. The girl had not spoken or moved since she had sat down.
‘Give her some brandy, Di.’ Roger called. He pushed the bottle across the table.
Diana looked at him. Her face was white as she left Alison’s side. She stood for a moment staring down at Patrick. ‘What’s happened to them, Roger? What in God’s name has happened to them?’
Patrick took another gulp from his glass. He was clutching it so tightly his knuckles shone white through his chapped skin. Taking a deep shuddering breath he looked up at his father. ‘Bill Norcross is dead. He’s at the cottage. He’s been murdered.’ His eyes flooded with tears again and this time he made no effort to hide them. ‘His head is all bashed about, and his face…’ He drank again, the glass trembling so much in his hands his parents could hear it banging against his teeth. ‘I couldn’t find Kate or Greg. I called and called. The cottage was empty so I came back, then I got a puncture and I saw someone skulking in the woods…’
Roger sat down abruptly. His face was grey. He closed his eyes as a wave of pain shook his body. ‘Try the phone again, Di. Perhaps by now they’ve reconnected it.’
For a moment she didn’t move, then she turned and ran towards the study.
Alison watched her with blank eyes. ‘The truth has to be told,’ she said slowly. She pushed the blanket away and staggered to her feet.
Her mother stopped abruptly in the doorway. ‘Allie? What do you mean. Did you see what happened?’
Alison smiled. ‘It was Marcus. She’s told me everything. It was Marcus. He killed them all.’ Stooping, she picked up Serendipity who was curled up on the sofa, and cuddled him in her arms.
‘Killed them all?’ Diana whispered. Her mouth fell open in horror. ‘Killed who?’
Alison smiled again. She kissed the top of the cat’s head. ‘All of them. All in the same grave.’
‘Who?’ Roger was suddenly there behind them. He grabbed his daughter’s arm and swung her to face him. The cat gave a yowl and fought free of her grip, leaving a long scratch along her arm but she didn’t appear to notice. ‘Alison! Answer me. Who has been murdered? Where is your brother?’ Diana’s gasp of horror was lost in his next shout. ‘Alison! Can you hear me? Who has been murdered?’
‘All of them.’ She smiled vaguely. ‘Did you expect him to let them live?’
Roger swung round to face his son. ‘What does she mean? Did you see the Land Rover? Did Greg get to the cottage?’
Patrick nodded. ‘It was parked outside.’
‘So he must have seen the -’ he paused. ‘He must have seen Bill there.’
‘I suppose so.’ Patrick took a deep breath. ‘Someone had put plasters on his face. He was tucked up on the sofa. Someone had tried to look after him.’
‘Greg and Kate perhaps.’ Diana clutched at the thought. ‘They must have found him. Tried to help him.’
‘We need the police.’ Roger frowned. ‘Did you try the phone?’
Diana shook her head. She was staring at her daughter who had not moved. Alison was standing before the fire, her arms hanging loose in front of her. From the scratch on her left forearm the blood dripped slowly and steadily onto the carpet.
Roger strode past her towards his study. In thirty seconds he was back. ‘It’s still dead.’ His face was grim. ‘I’ll have to take the car and try and get help from Joe’s.’
He glanced at Patrick who was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring deep into his empty tumbler.
‘Paddy!’ His voice was sharp as he used the baby name for his son which Patrick hated so much.
Patrick jumped. He looked up at his father. There was bewilderment in his eyes.
‘Patrick, your mother must stay here and look after Alison. I’m going to leave you here to take care of them both. I want you to lock the door behind me, and bolt it. You are not to let anyone in. Anyone at all, do you hear?’
‘Dad, you can’t go.’ Patrick rubbed his sleeve across his face. He was shivering again in the soaking wet clothes. ‘Let me take the Volvo. I know how to drive it.’
‘He’s right, Roger. You can’t go.’ Diana looked from Alison to her husband and back in an agony of indecision. ‘It should be me.’
‘No. Alison needs you.’ Roger shook his head.
‘I can do it, Dad,’ Patrick said quietly.
The fact that Roger hesitated even for a second showed more clearly than any words just how weak and ill he was feeling, but he shook his head slowly. ‘Not in this weather. It’s too dangerous. And it’s not as though I have to do anything but sit there and let the car do the work. I’ll drive it up to the road and along to Joe’s. Joe will do the rest and bring me back.’ He hesitated, seeing the strange mixture of emotions cross his son’s face and reading them all. Relief that he did not have to go out again; worry about his father; indignation and mortification that he was not considered old enough to cope.
Roger sighed. ‘Get the car out of the barn for me, there’s a good chap.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll get my coat.’ He took Patrick’s arm and drew him to one side. ‘You’d be more use here, old chap. If anything happens.’ He glanced at his son’s face and knew that the sop he had just thrown to the boy’s pride was in fact the truth. ‘You’re stronger than me. You can protect them better. I want you to load the shotgun and keep it in here near you.’
Patrick stared. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll get the car.’
Unhooking the keys from the small rack behind the door he pulled it open and peered out. He didn’t want to go out again. Outside was hostile and frightening. It had lost all the safety and charm he had known all his life – the secret wonder of the black sky sewn with stars, the rushing clouds, even the rain and snow. He had loved them all for that special clean fresh smell that comes at night, that quietness which enfolds the countryside and wipes out for a few hours all the brash horror of the twentieth century.
Shutting the door behind him Patrick sprinted across to the barn. Pulling open the heavy double doors he groped
