Death on Lindisfarne (22 page)

“DSI Barry's heading up the enquiry now… Yes, of course you'd know. It's just that he's been asking everyone the same question. ‘Were
you, or did you see anyone else, wearing a white wool sweater or scarf?' They've got evidence, haven't they? Forensics from the post-mortem.”

The voice at the other end hardened. No longer the easy banter between friends. “Look, Lucy. I did you a favour. I told you the cause of death. I stepped way over the mark for you. You're under investigation in a murder case. You know that, don't you? Your whole group is. I'm sorry, Lucy, but that includes you. I can't give you critical evidence.”

She felt, not just her face but her whole body, flame. “I'm sorry, Ian! I should have thought… No, I quite understand. I should never have asked you.”

She was about to snap the call off when a dreadful thought struck her.

“Ian! If this is all over the station, do they know names? Does Bill know I'm here?”

There was silence at the other end of the phone. Then a short laugh. “Don't blame me, but you're never going to believe this. The local press has got hold of the story. Well, they would, wouldn't they? It's not the sort of thing which happens on Holy Island. And what with you being a vicar. There's a photo of you in today's online edition. Some joker's done a print and stuck it up on the wall here, along with the ‘wanted' mug shots.”

“So… Bill…?”

“Sorry, love. There was no way to keep you out of this.”

Lucy sat back, the phone idle in her hand. She felt cold fear stalk through her.

L
UCY WAS NOT SURE HOW MUCH
time had passed when she found herself sitting on the bed, still stunned. She was astonished at how scared Ian's news had made her feel. The knowledge that her ex knew she was back on his patch woke old terrors. When she had realized she must break free from him for her own safety, she had fled first to Lindisfarne, to the Community of St Ebba and St Oswald, to sort herself out. Then she had taken herself as far away as possible and made a new life for herself. There was no police force on Holy Island. She had thought she could slip back here from time to time, incognito.

But now her photograph was on the noticeboard at Berwick police station. There was no way Bill wouldn't see it. And Bill was the sort of man who thought his partner was his personal possession, to do with as he liked. He would not have forgiven her, even after four years. Leaving him had been defiance of his authority, theft of his property. He would surely come after her, now he knew she was so close.

He might even… she thought of the streets of Holy Island thick with uniformed police officers going house to house… be on the island now.

She felt very naked and alone.

Still, she couldn't sit here all afternoon. She needed to be up and doing something. But did she dare show her face on the street, when she might come face to face with Bill around any corner?

Through the open window, she heard Elspeth's loud voice next door. So she and Valerie were still in their room. Did that mean that any time Valerie might come to her door, demanding in that steely
voice to know what Lucy had told the police? With a sinking heart, she knew the detective superintendent must have questioned Elspeth about giving a Class A drug to Rachel. It could have had a bearing on Rachel's death. Valerie was not going to forgive Lucy for that.

And on the other side, James. Was he also in his room? James, whose movements that Sunday afternoon were still a mystery.

She needed to get out.

She was on her feet, still uncertain where to go. She felt an urge to get away, but nowhere felt safe any more.

The Community of St Ebba and St Oswald?

She ran a comb through her hair, picked up her fleece and stepped outside.

The brilliant morning had clouded over. The air was grey.

Just for a moment, as she was crossing the hall, she wondered what the red-haired Aidan and his bright-eyed daughter were doing this afternoon. With a start of surprise, she realized she would feel happier in their company.

But Aidan Davison had suffered enough this week from all that had happened. She could not burden him with her new fears.

All the same… her eyes went up the stairs. Peter's room was on the top floor. She could not go around much longer, weighed down with the thought Aidan had forced upon her. If Peter had anything on his conscience, it was her job as his minister to give him the chance to unburden himself.

She straightened her shoulders and started up the stairs.

She tapped at Peter's door. There was a murmur from within, too low for her to distinguish the words. She opened the door a little and looked in.

Peter was sitting on his bed with his back to her. His shoulders were hunched. Beyond him, the window gave a view of fields, and past the castle, the grey North Sea. He did not turn his head.

“Peter? Are you all right?”

He swung round with a sudden fierceness. His shaggy hair overshadowed his spectacled eyes. “Of course I'm not all right! What did you think?”

Lucy came further into the room and closed the door. The space seemed suddenly small for the two of them. She tried to keep her voice gentle, reassuring.

“I know it's terrible what's happened to Rachel. But she's at peace now. Not like whoever did it.”

She waited, breath held.

“I'd like to kill them!”

“Peter! That doesn't help. You'll only destroy yourself.”

Relief was flooding through her. She could believe him, couldn't she?

“Would you like me to pray with you?”

“I've tried that,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “It doesn't help.”

Doubts were creeping in again.

“There are times when grief gets such a hold of us, we can't. But other people can do it for us. A raft to hold us up.”

Since he did not answer, she sat on the bed beside him and spoke the words for both of them.

One part of her mind went out in compassion to the bulky student close beside her. The other wondered what he might be keeping back.

Lucy closed the door softly behind her. She paused on the landing. There was no sound from Aidan and Melangell's rooms. They must have gone out for the afternoon.

She felt an unexpected disappointment.

It took courage to step out onto the open street. To her relief, the pavements were almost empty. There were no police in sight. They must have moved on to the other end of the village and the outlying farms. The population of Lindisfarne was under two hundred, plus visitors. It should not take them long.

She would keep away from the school, where the detectives had set up their headquarters. Her feet took her down the lane to the church,
almost without her conscious decision. She stepped inside and felt the peace of centuries enfold her.

At once she was drawn to the massive sculpture in the south aisle. Six craggy-faced monks bore on their shoulders the coffin of St Cuthbert. He had died a hermit on the nearby island of Inner Farne and been buried here on Lindisfarne. But the ravages of Viking raids had made the monks of later years dig up his remains and take them inland for greater safety. He lay at rest now in the great spiritual fortress of Durham Cathedral. But his much-loved memory remained on this holy island where he had served as prior and bishop.

Lucy sat down and gazed at the rugged elm wood, carved deeply by a chainsaw. She felt humbled by its powerful presence and strangely comforted.

It was too easy to think of Holy Island as a place of peace and sanctuary. It had known its share of death and violence. Rachel's was one more sacrifice to add to that litany.

The latch of the door clanged behind her. Lucy whipped round, suddenly reminded of her scarcely buried fears.

Brother Simon, with dark eyes smiling, was coming towards her.

Aidan groaned as he levered himself up on one elbow. His head still hurt. He would have been glad to spend the afternoon resting. But it was not fair to Melangell.

He leaned over the edge of the bed. She was stretched out on the bedroom rug in her favourite position, reading a book. She lay on her stomach, chin propped in cupped hands, heels kicked up behind her.

He could tell, from the alacrity with which she sprang round when she heard him stirring, that she was getting impatient.

He managed a grin for her and straightened up. “OK. You win. It would be a pity to waste the afternoon. I suppose you want to go and see the Vikings. Bloodthirsty little horror.”

“Yes, please!”

The video in the Lindisfarne Centre exhibition was more suggestive
than explicit. But he had been right that it would fire Melangell's imagination.

“Did they really do that here? Chop off their heads and steal their treasures?”

“Not just here, but all around the coasts of Britain and Ireland. The monks were sitting ducks. Communities of peaceful men and women, with churches full of gold and jewels. Lindisfarne suffered like all the others.”

Why, a sudden insistent voice in his mind asked, had Rachel been killed? She would have had nothing worth robbing her for. No rich inheritance.

Sex, perhaps? But then he remembered her sodden body on the beach. Her clothing did not appear to have been violated.

He shook the thought away and led Melangell out onto the street.

“I haven't shown you the church yet, have I?”

“Yes, you did. That great big ruin, where Lucy said prayers on Sunday morning.”

And Rachel slipped away, never to be seen alive again.

“Not that one. The parish church they still use today. It's right next to the priory.”

He led her past the statue of St Aidan and opened the church door. The latch clattered. Two figures started as he stepped inside.

“Sorry,” he said automatically though he had done nothing wrong.

Lucy was on her feet before the great carving of the six tall monks shouldering St Cuthbert's coffin down the south aisle. He saw alarm, even fear, in her face.

It was a second before he transferred his gaze to the figure close in front of her. Brother Simon, from the Fellowship of St Ebba and St Oswald. Aidan read a wary tension there that matched Lucy's.

He was unsettled by the way they were looking at him. As though he might be the object of their alarm.

Thoughts raced through his mind. The evident close friendship between these two. Simon warning Lucy to be careful, the day after Rachel's death.

He had raked his mind to think who, in that small group, might be
a source of danger to Lucy. And why. Because that person had already killed Rachel?

Cold fingers stalked up his spine. Was it remotely possible that they could suspect
him
?

Lucy's face relaxed somewhat into a smile.

“Hello, Melangell. Have you come to see the monks? They're pretty impressive, aren't they?”

Melangell came forward, past Aidan. Her fingers stroked the roughly hewn wood. The gaunt faces of the cowled monks stared straight ahead.

“They're big,” she said. “And… sort of like rocks, even though they're really wood.”

“Yes. Really powerful. They won't give up until they've taken Cuthbert's body to a place of safety.”

“Right, Lucy. I'll see you again.” Simon spoke almost as if Aidan and Melangell were not there. Aidan thought he detected an emphasis in his voice, for a reason that was not clear. Then his tone lightened. “Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“Yes, I think so.” Lucy's low answer was not as confident as Aidan would have liked. It had been a revelation to him this morning to hear how much Lucy still feared her ex-partner.

Bill! That was it. If he really did still work in the local police, then there was just a chance that he might be among the squad of uniformed officers making enquiries on the island.