‘Then what happened to the things afterwards?’ he demanded uneasily. He wanted to believe they were mere figments of imagination, that was the trouble; he couldn’t face the idea that they might be real. ‘Where did they go? Why did no one else see them?’
She didn’t argue, but began collecting up the photographs, post-mortem report and her page of notes, placing them in the folder. On the shelf beside her desk he noticed she had gathered a small library of books about beetles, timber pests and other insects, some six or eight volumes at least. He asked what she’d learned from them about the pink-and-green variety.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid,’ she answered as she locked the filing cabinet, it’s not been recorded, certainly not among British or European beetles. I only hope we’re not going to see a plague of them. I’ve already sent out warning notices to all the schools in the district.’
‘What are the chances?’
‘How do you rate them?’
He evaded the question. ‘Oh, I’m no expert, Mary. I can’t judge.’
‘The workshop where they found the dog,’ she began to explain, not looking at him but arranging the preserved beetles in a tidy line on her deak, ‘is — well, it’s a brick-and-timber building, quite old, and they’ve discovered the beams are badly infested. I went up there myself this morning on the scaffolding. You can see whole clusters of flight holes in every beam. Big ones, same as at the school. Quite clean too, which means they’re recent.’
‘And the new owners bought the building in that condition?’ It seemed incredible.
‘Either their surveyor fell down on the job — which he denies — or else a rapid deterioration has occurred in the months since his report was written. Hard to say which. According to the specialist I met, wood-boring larvae would normally take years to cause that degree of damage, except perhaps in the tropics, and we’ve hardly been enjoying a tropical climate for the past year.’
‘Flight holes mean beetles,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes.’
‘So where are they? From what you say, it should be overrun with them by now. I imagine there are none in the workshop or you couldn’t have gone in there.’
‘Well, for the sake of the men working there they’ve done some general area spraying inside, and I believe they’ve put Vapona strips in the roof-space, so it’s not surprising if no beetles have been spotted.’
‘Dead or alive?’
‘Dead or alive,’ she confirmed.
‘They must be somewhere.’
‘Apart from the two or three discovered near the remains of the dog, there has been no sign of them, not a single one,’ she told him. She had again picked up one of her preserved beetles and glanced at it nervously from time to time as she talked. ‘We have two theories. You can take your choice. Either they’ve left the building completely, which means they could be anywhere. Or else they’ve retreated farther into the timber, and we’il find that out tomorrow when we start the full pesticide treatment on the beams themselves.’
‘You’ll be there yourself?’
‘I intend to be,’ she nodded, matter-of-fact. ‘And I’d be grateful, Guy, if you could join me at least for the first hour or so. If anything does come out of the woodwork I’d welcome your opinion on it.’
Despite that brisk, down-to-earth manner her nerves were as taut as violin strings, Guy thought as he drove home afterwards. It needed only one little thing to go wrong for her to snap. He recalled the lectures he’d heard in the Army on the psychology of fear. She betrayed several of the obvious signs, though that was not surprising after what she’d been through.
He parked in the only available space and strode up the road to the house. It was well after eight o’clock, he’d only had a sandwich for lunch, and he was hoping that for once Dorothea might have cooked a meal. He still missed not being able to go to the mess if there was nothing at home.
But she had company. Even before mounting the steps he could hear the laughter and his heart sank. Glancing in through the uncurtained window he saw she was perched on a step-ladder, paintbrush in hand, and sporting a smock and mob-cap; with her, helping, were that pansy creep Brian from the Plough and another man he didn’t recognise. To judge from the row they were making they all found it a great giggle.
‘Hello, darling!’ Dorothea called out cheerfully from the top of the ladder as he let himself in. ‘Pete and Brian are giving me a hand. Isn’t that sweet of them?’
‘Very,’ Guy agreed drily. He’d half a mind to throw them out and their paint-pots after them. ‘Kath home?’ ‘Upstairs watching telly with Susi from her ballet class. Can you run Susi home later when it’s time, ’cos I shan’t be finished. Oh, and if you’re hungry there’s a meat pie in the kitchen and a fresh jar of pickles. I found a new shop.’ With the back of her hand she brushed some stray hair away from her forehead, leaving a slight smear of lemon-coloured paint.
‘Hi, Guy!’ Brian simpered with a little wave. ‘I do love Thea’s colour scheme, don’t you? It’s a gift she’s got. I envy you!’
Guy ignored him. Briefly he stood in the living room doorway watching them. Despite the number of empty beer cans, they were doing a decent job, he noted grudgingly, but he said nothing. As he turned to go upstairs he heard another laugh from Dorothea.
‘Oh, I’d never let Guy touch a paintbrush!’ she declared without lowering her voice. ‘He’s just about OK with a hammer or changing a plug-yes, I’ll give him that, he can change a plug — but I wouldn’t allow him anywhere near paint! God, you should’ve seen the mess that time he tried. Only that once as well, I can promise you!’ More laughter from her two acolytes. She was in her element this evening, Guy thought.
He shrugged and continued upstairs.
The two girls sat huddled together over the microcomputer, squealing with excitement as they fought out their duel on the TV screen, shooting down each other’s spacecraft as they streamed into the attack.
‘Oh, hello, Daddy!’ Kath greeted him, her face glowing, when she realised he’d come into the room. ‘Shan’t be — owV Something absorbing was happening, though he couldn’t immediately see what it was. Kath was balanced on the very edge of her seat, her eyes gleaming, her long dark hair — which was usually tied back in a pony-tail during the day — now loose over her neck and shoulders. The girl with her, frowning in concentration, he had never met before. Her face was thin, slightly peaked, and framed by short mousy hair.
‘Got you! she yelled out triumphantly. ‘Got you, Kath! Got you this time!’
‘You haven’t!’ Kath’s voice was defiant. ‘Not yet you haven’t!
‘There!’
A couple of final manoeuvres with the joystick and Kath was defeated. A slurred blee-blee-blee-eep came from the set and the screen cleared momentarily before the opening positions appeared again.
‘Daddy, this is Susi. She goes to my ballet class. I beat her twice, then she beat me once.’ Kath stood up but only to settle herself more comfortably on the low chair she had pulled up in front of the micro-computer. ‘So we’ve got to play one more game to see who really wins.’
‘Hello, Susi,’ Guy said.
Susi flushed. ‘Hello,’ she muttered abruptly, suddenly shy.
‘Mummy said I must tell you there’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry,’ Kath went on impatiently. ‘I’m sure you are hungry. It’s all down there.’
Guy laughed. ‘OK, if you want to get rid of me…’
They had been doing their homework earlier, he noticed; their exercise books, papers and crayons were still spread out over the table. Among them was a large drawing of a beetle, its colours vivid and its claws rampant. Threatening.