"For the benefit of us all. Indeed."
Krane stood. "If that concludes our discussions, I will leave you to make the appropriate arrangements. I'm sure there is much to do."
"Certainly, of course." Carler looked relieved.
We turned to the doorway. Fellstamp opened the door and the dark-suited man ushered us out. As we exited the building, Tate was waiting for us, watched warily by the policemen. He leaned close to Garvin and spoke briefly.
Garvin nodded and then drew Krane aside for a moment. Krane looked up at Tate and then spoke briefly with Garvin in low tones. Garvin nodded. Fellstamp and Tate faded into the mist as they escorted Krane across the grass back to the Way-node, while Garvin and I lingered by the doorway. After a moment the first of the two dark-suited figures emerged.
Garvin addressed him. "We meet here in good faith."
"That's right." The accent was Scottish, the voice low and hoarse. He looked tired.
"By tradition, he who calls the meeting secures the ground. That would be your responsibility, would it?"
"Security, aye." He took a cigarette from a packet, lit it, dragged heavily on it and blew smoke out to merge with the mist.
"I assume the two snipers are yours, then?" asked Garvin.
"Two, you say?"
"Two. They are unharmed, but you might need a ladder."
"And why would I need a ladder?"
"To get them down from the trees." Garvin turned and walked away, and I followed.
As we walked into the mist, he called after us. "What if there were three snipers?"
Garvin continued walking without looking back. As we reached the Way-node, Tate materialised out of the fog.
"Security is suggesting that there are three snipers," Garvin said quietly to him.
"Nope," said Tate. "And their recording devices weren't very well hidden either."
He placed two tiny tape recorders in Garvin's open hand.
"Is that all of them?"
"Hard to tell if they have anything remote. They're getting clever. That's all that was inside the grounds."
"Safer to assume the meeting was recorded, then. No problem. Nothing was said that can't be repeated elsewhere. Good work."
"It was fun. They're good." Tate grinned.
"We're better," said Garvin. "Keep an eye on them until they leave, just in case."
Garvin stepped on to the Way-node and vanished. I heard one of the cars rumble into life back at the hall.
"Good meeting?" asked Tate.
"I think it served its purpose. Are you gonna check there isn't a third sniper?"
"No. If there had been they would never have mentioned him. I'll join you in a while."
Tate slipped away, merging with the fog. I looked around and wondered if it would dissipate, now the meeting was over. Maybe later, when Tate left.
I stepped on to the Way and followed Garvin.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Waiting in the church gave me time to think. I'd let myself in and locked the door after me in case anyone else came by. Greg had a key and if it wasn't him, the sound of the door unlocking would give me time to conceal myself. I had an idea he was expecting me in any case.
Blackbird's advice was to let matters take their course and intervene no further, but for me it left too much unresolved. I needed to know what happened, and there were things Greg needed to know too.
I sat where the sunlight poured through the great east window and waited for him.
The pinboard with the photos was still there. No one had removed the pictures of Gillian and Trudy. I guessed that Greg was still working on a way to break the news to the parents. Whether I should explain to Greg exactly what had happened to them was a dilemma. I tried to feel anger at the men who had taken two girls out to sea and then forced them off the boat into the water. I tried to see them as murderers, as monsters. The problem was that they weren't really any different to anyone else. They were just men.
They had tried to save their livelihood, their families and their community. Wasn't that all anybody did? They had got close to the truth. They had found the records, searched the archives and pieced the puzzle together. That's all I had done. The only difference was that the picture they ended up with had interpreted the role of the girls as a literal sacrifice to the sea. The actual sacrifice was much more subtle, a life given in service to the community in return for… what? What was the link between the cave on the beach and the girls in the town? What did the women get out of it? A longer life? A better life?
My train of thought was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps and the turn of a key in a lock. I didn't wrap myself in glamour; there was no need. The man I had come to see let himself in.
He didn't acknowledge me at first. I figured he'd been expecting me sooner or later so my presence in a locked church was no surprise. Instead he marched up the aisle and knelt before the altar in the flood of light under the window. I sat in silence and let him commune with his Maker.
Presently he rose and bowed, then went to either side of the altar, moving this and that, checking things were as they should be. When he returned to me he didn't slide into the pew beside me but chose the one in front, sitting sideways so he could see my face. It was some time before he spoke.
"Questions, or answers?" he said.
"Both."
"Shelley is back with her folks. Artist feller says he found her on the beach, wet, freezing cold, totally out of it. He picked her up, took care of her, brought her home."
"An artist."
"Is that a question or an answer?"
"A question. Is he local?"
Greg smiled. "Aye. He designed that." He gestured at the main east window. "He calls it Flowing Sealight. Told me that glass isn't solid, that it stays liquid even while it's up there, that if you wait long enough it will flow down and pool at the bottom, like water."
I looked again into the flood of light from the window, noting how the shape of the cross emerged at random from the arrangement of the fragments, how some of the panes were thicker than others, so that they refracted the light in all directions, into every corner. It really was a thing of beauty.
"He's got a real talent for it."
"He's taken a liking to Shelley. Think she's a bit young for him, personally."
"How old is he?"
"Hard to say. She's just a kid, though."
"She'll grow."
"Aye, she will now. Where did you go?"
"When?"
"When Shelley disappeared. We were searching the waterfront. There was that van. You ran down the harbour and then… where did you go?"
"I had a hunch."
"I found the mirror, what was left of it. You weren't with it."
I wanted to answer. I wanted to explain, but I couldn't find the words. Instead I just shrugged. "What does Shelley say?"
"She says she went swimming. Says she got out of her depth, that she couldn't get out. The tide was too strong. Says she nearly drowned. Doesn't know how she made it out of the water."
"I expect that's right, then."
"Avesham says when he found her, she was near frozen to death."
"Avesham?"
"The artist. Says he was out on the beach, watching the storm. Saw her on the shingle. Says it was destiny."
"Does he?"
"Artists. They say things like that." He paused, waiting for some comment or confirmation from me. "Storm appeared out of nowhere."
"That can happen," I said.
"One of the boats was washed ashore. A lobster boat."
"That can happen too."
"Three men drowned. The boat was salvaged, but the men weren't on it. No lifebelts used, flares all accounted for."
"It's a dangerous occupation. There's a book in the Maritime Museum, it's full of the names of good men."
"Aye, it is." There was another long pause. "Helen came to see me."