‘Promise.’ She smiled tremulously. ‘Even if you hear a regiment marching by. Promise me you won’t leave me alone. At any time.’

‘I promise.’ He tried to inject a lighter note. ‘If you insist I’ll even accompany you to the bathroom.’

‘It may come to that,’ she breathed. ‘Modesty is the least of my worries.’

He picked up the bottles.

‘Come on, darling. Light the way to bed.’

They lay together, her back curled against his front, his right arm under her neck, his right hand clasping her upturned left hand. He stretched his left arm and hand across her warm upper thigh. At their feet the hot bottles radiated their heat throughout the bed. But her solar plexus was rigid with fear even as his mouth was dry with uncertainty.

‘Go to sleep, darling,’ he whispered. ‘I’m here.’

Even after he was sure she had finally dropped off, he lay awake, uneasy thoughts and speculations coursing obsessively through the tired labyrinths of his mind. Sleep did not come during the rest of that night; at best he achieved a dazed tense doze through which there ran the barbed wire of his anxiety.

12

12 Confession

They gathered in the lounge after breakfast. The fire burned high and hotly: daylight was brighter this morning but it looked just as cold outside with no sign of a thaw disturbing the thick white drifts covering the bleak landscape.

Bourne, a non-committal expression on his face, watched while Hunt set the portable tape-recorder on the occasional table lifted forward to the centre of the semicircle of chairs and couches. In a few, almost abrupt, sentences Meredith described the circumstances in which the recording had been made. Finally he nodded.

‘All right, Mr Hunt.’

Paul, seated beside Carol, found his attention caught by the faces of the other occupants of the room. While the scraping noises, the footsteps and dragging, rumbling sounds were being replayed, the others sat quite motionless, faces solemn and grave with concentration. Occasionally their eyes would search other faces as if seeking to learn what their companions thought of it. But when the weeping began, its harrowing effect seemed to sear into the composure of the listeners. Ann Parish went chalk-white; Joyce Mair, her face taut with fear, bit the side of her forefinger. Paul thought he heard Smith swear softly under his breath and he saw Hunt tug at his curly black beard. Bourne listened, his mouth set. Occasionally he raised his head, his eyes unseeing in his effort to assess the meaning behind the heart-rending sobs.

Finally it was over. Hunt switched off, returned to his seat. Joyce Mair, looking utterly stricken, gazed at the battened double doors leading to the billiards-room. Her voice was almost a whisper­.

‘What is it?’

Meredith, with bitter irony, turned to Bourne.

‘Would you care to enlighten her?’

Bourne, for once seemingly at a loss for words, hesitated. Pollard scratched his chin.