booties over her shoes. She knelt down, examined one of the bunches of flowers. ‘Roses … red, blue, yellow … ’ Then another. ‘Carnations, red, blue, yellow, same colours … and here, petunias, chrysanthemums, same colours … ’ Looked round once more. ‘And left on the floor to decay. Go brown … ’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Whoever did this either grew them himself or bought them somewhere. I’m leaning towards growing them himself. There’s a … horticultural sense to the place. Those gardening tools over there … ’
Marina crossed to the workbench. Looked down at it, the tools on the surface. ‘Has any of this been disturbed?’
Phil crossed over, stood beside her. He could smell her perfume. Made him want to hold her. ‘I think one of the tools has been taken away for forensic examination. I asked them to leave the others for a bit.’
She nodded, lips moving all the time. She picked up the scythe, examined it slowly. ‘They’ve been … adapted. They’re not for gardening. Not been used for gardening in a very long time.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘And this workbench … ’ She knelt down beside it, put her face to it. Sniffed the scarred, pitted surface, eyes closed. Remained in place afterwards. ‘Hmm … ’ Did it once more. ‘Earthy … but more … ’
She stood up, dusting down her skirt. Turned, looked at the wall behind her. Crossed to it. Examined the painted design. Touched it.
‘We thought it was a pentagram at first,’ said Phil. ‘But it’s clearly not.’
‘No,’ Marina said, absorbed, her fingers, eyes following the lines of the design, ‘it’s not. More like a star. But I can see how you could make that mistake. Would be an easy conclusion to jump to … if you weren’t open-minded and imaginative … ’
Phil said nothing. Had she just paid him a compliment?
She pressed her face to the wall. Sniffed.
‘Not paint. Not … ’ She turned to Phil. ‘Has this been analysed?’
‘Not yet. They’ll have taken a sample. Don’t know when we can get results. Any ideas on what it is?’
‘I’m guessing … something of the earth … a plant concoction? Bodily fluids, even? All mixed together? I don’t know … something along those lines, though, I’d guess … ’
Marina straightened up, looked round once more. Crossed to the cage. Examined it closely. Turned, looked behind her at the bench, then over at the flowers bunched round the walls. Then the design on the wall. She began to walk towards the bunches of flowers, taking slow, deliberate steps to get to each one. Her mouth moving all the time, brow furrowed as if performing advanced mathematical calculations.
She stood in the centre of the cellar, stretched out her arms as far as she could, rotated them, straining her fingertips. Half pagan priest, half yoga teacher. Holding her breath as she did so.
Phil watched her all the time. Fascinated. He loved this woman so much it scared him sometimes.
Right,’ she said. ‘Here goes.’
26
T he shadows were lengthening in Don and Eileen Brennan’s kitchen. Outside, darkness descended like a grey blanket thrown over the sun.
They sat at the table. Silence between them like a huge block of ice.
A different silence from the next room. Peaceful. Tranquil. Josephina having a nap. The TV off.
Eileen sighed, reached for her tea. It had gone cold. She still drank it.
Don sat unmoving. The sun’s dying rays playing over his face, hollowing out his features, haunting him.
Eileen placed her mug gently down on the coaster. Flowers of the British Isles. A present from a friend’s holiday. She didn’t see the colours. ‘We have to … we’ve got to do something … ’
Her voice thrown out, dying away in the silence.
‘We can’t just let him … go on. Find out what it’s … ’
‘And what d’you suggest we do?’ Don turning, looking at her. Like an Easter Island head come to life. ‘What can we do?’
‘I don’t know. Just
‘What does that mean?’
‘Whoever did this either grew them himself or bought them somewhere. I’m leaning towards growing them himself. There’s a … horticultural sense to the place. Those gardening tools over there … ’
Marina crossed to the workbench. Looked down at it, the tools on the surface. ‘Has any of this been disturbed?’
Phil crossed over, stood beside her. He could smell her perfume. Made him want to hold her. ‘I think one of the tools has been taken away for forensic examination. I asked them to leave the others for a bit.’
She nodded, lips moving all the time. She picked up the scythe, examined it slowly. ‘They’ve been … adapted. They’re not for gardening. Not been used for gardening in a very long time.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘And this workbench … ’ She knelt down beside it, put her face to it. Sniffed the scarred, pitted surface, eyes closed. Remained in place afterwards. ‘Hmm … ’ Did it once more. ‘Earthy … but more … ’
She stood up, dusting down her skirt. Turned, looked at the wall behind her. Crossed to it. Examined the painted design. Touched it.
‘We thought it was a pentagram at first,’ said Phil. ‘But it’s clearly not.’
‘No,’ Marina said, absorbed, her fingers, eyes following the lines of the design, ‘it’s not. More like a star. But I can see how you could make that mistake. Would be an easy conclusion to jump to … if you weren’t open-minded and imaginative … ’
Phil said nothing. Had she just paid him a compliment?
She pressed her face to the wall. Sniffed.
‘Not paint. Not … ’ She turned to Phil. ‘Has this been analysed?’
‘Not yet. They’ll have taken a sample. Don’t know when we can get results. Any ideas on what it is?’
‘I’m guessing … something of the earth … a plant concoction? Bodily fluids, even? All mixed together? I don’t know … something along those lines, though, I’d guess … ’
Marina straightened up, looked round once more. Crossed to the cage. Examined it closely. Turned, looked behind her at the bench, then over at the flowers bunched round the walls. Then the design on the wall. She began to walk towards the bunches of flowers, taking slow, deliberate steps to get to each one. Her mouth moving all the time, brow furrowed as if performing advanced mathematical calculations.
She stood in the centre of the cellar, stretched out her arms as far as she could, rotated them, straining her fingertips. Half pagan priest, half yoga teacher. Holding her breath as she did so.
Phil watched her all the time. Fascinated. He loved this woman so much it scared him sometimes.
Right,’ she said. ‘Here goes.’
26
T he shadows were lengthening in Don and Eileen Brennan’s kitchen. Outside, darkness descended like a grey blanket thrown over the sun.
They sat at the table. Silence between them like a huge block of ice.
A different silence from the next room. Peaceful. Tranquil. Josephina having a nap. The TV off.
Eileen sighed, reached for her tea. It had gone cold. She still drank it.
Don sat unmoving. The sun’s dying rays playing over his face, hollowing out his features, haunting him.
Eileen placed her mug gently down on the coaster. Flowers of the British Isles. A present from a friend’s holiday. She didn’t see the colours. ‘We have to … we’ve got to do something … ’
Her voice thrown out, dying away in the silence.
‘We can’t just let him … go on. Find out what it’s … ’
‘And what d’you suggest we do?’ Don turning, looking at her. Like an Easter Island head come to life. ‘What can we do?’
‘I don’t know. Just
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