Midnight is a Lonely Place

LXXII

Anne and Pete watched them from the window as the four figures disappeared into the trees. The house was suddenly very still. Anne bit her lip. ‘Hot drink for us?’

Pete nodded. On the sofa, Paddy, tucked up in rugs, was fast asleep. He had cried when Diana told him about his father, as had Kate, but his weariness had been too much for him. As the doctor sat, stethoscope in hand, talking to him, the boy fell soundly asleep. ‘Let him be.’ Jamieson had stood up, folding the tubing into his pocket. ‘Sleep is the best healer of all. He’s exhausted and he’s sad, but he’s a strong chap. He’ll be all right.’

Pete and Anne sat facing each other across the kitchen table. ‘Rum do.’ Pete grinned. His face, weatherchapped and ruddy, broke into a mass of creases when he smiled.

She smiled. ‘I keep asking myself what I am doing here.’

He nodded cheerfully. ‘Me too. That’ll teach us to get involved. All I wanted was to make a few honest bob; one last fare before I knocked off for the night.’ He buried his face in his mug and blew off the steam.

‘What do you think is going to happen?’ she asked after a long silence.

‘The police said they’d send a van for Mr Lindsey and the poor chap at the cottage.’

‘I meant Marcus.’

He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Marcus has to be dealt with.’

‘You can’t arrest ghosts.’

Pete gave a slow chuckle. ‘I couldn’t somehow see that young chap arresting anyone. He looked as though he was still collecting plastic toys from a cornflakes packet.’

‘Nice, though.’

‘Oh, yes, if you like that sort of thing. Uniforms turn you on, do they?’ It was a half-hearted attempt but he was rewarded with a token cuff on the shoulder. As Anne lowered her hand she froze. ‘What was that?’

They both listened. ‘Shit! I didn’t expect him to come back. Not so soon.’ Pete stood up. The colour had drained from his face.

They could both hear it clearly now. Footsteps upstairs. Slow, ponderous footsteps.

Quietly, Pete picked up the breadknife from the table. On tiptoe he crossed to the door with a quick glance at Patrick who was still fast asleep.

Anne followed him as, slowly, he crept up the stairs, and peered along the corridor. There was nothing there. Carefully he moved onto the polished boards and pushed open the first bedroom door. Room by room they searched the whole top floor. There was no one there at all. In Patrick’s room they stopped and looked at each other. ‘Can you smell it?’ she said at last. ‘Cigarettes.’ She bit her lip.

‘Not Roman.’ Pete gave a short barking laugh. ‘Perhaps the lad smokes on the quiet. Or perhaps it’s Mr Lindsey,’ he went on tentatively. ‘Patrolling.’

Anne shivered. ‘I’m not sure that that idea comforts me.’

‘It should. Come on. Let’s go down. This house is bloody cold.’ Pete led the way back downstairs. At Patrick’s side they stopped, and were both secretly relieved to see that he appeared to be sleeping as soundly as before, his breathing deep and regular, his colour normal.

‘“Man never perceives anything fully or comprehends anything completely,”’ Anne quoted softly. ‘Jung said that. It’s something I try to remember when I find my brain getting stressed because I can’t make sense of something. It is comforting.’ She flung herself down on a chair and closed her eyes. Then she opened them wide.

‘I can smell her scent again.’ It had been several minutes before it had been strong enough to register.

‘Yes.’ He had smelt the jasmine too. The tobacco had gone.

‘What shall we do?’

He turned, dusting ash and dried lichen from his hands. ‘What can we do? We wait.’