Spider Light(107)
After a moment the woman said, ‘I didn’t realize anyone was here.’ But her eyes were on Donna’s hands, still grasping the sluice wheel. ‘That’s awfully old machinery,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s probably a bit dangerous to be too close to it.’
‘Yes,’ said Donna straightening up. ‘Yes, it is dangerous.’ She removed the spline key from the sluice wheel, and held it between her hands thoughtfully.
There are moments in life when your body thinks ahead of your mind, and when sheer instinct takes over. Donna knew this woman had seen her rotate the sluice wheel, and she also knew that the woman was not going to forget it. She would talk about it, telling people about seeing Donna here. Not necessarily accusingly, but mentioning it as a curious incident. And people would remember, they would remember…
On the crest of this thought, Donna moved towards the woman, slowly, keeping the heavy iron shaft of the key in her hands.
As if trying to smooth over an awkward moment, the woman said, ‘It’s a macabre old place, isn’t it? I haven’t lived here very long–my husband’s come up here to work–he’s one of the curators at Quire House, and they’re thinking of taking on some of the other old buildings in the area. So I thought I’d take a look at Twygrist for him. I didn’t expect to find anyone in here, though.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Donna, and bounded forward.
The old mill worked with her again, exactly as it had done years before, and the woman fell backwards in a surprised tumble. Donna felt a shiver go through the oak floor and saw the woman fling up a defensive hand across her eyes. Too late, of course. The sluice-wheel key was heavy and powerful; it swung up over Donna’s head and then came smashing down. There was a crunch of bone, and the woman fell forward. Dead? Oh, who cared, she would be dead very soon. Donna dragged her across to the half-rotted tank enclosing the lower waterwheel, and by dint of pushing and lifting, finally tipped her over.
She fell down inside the tank, hitting the giant cogs of the waterwheel as she did so. There was a faint menacing thrum from the old iron and oak, and then a shallow muddy splash. The stench of the sour water rose up, and the old rotting timbers groaned, and splintered slightly at the bottom. Donna, one hand over her mouth to shut out the sour breath of the splashing water, waited to see what happened next, but the only sound was from the wheel, still vibrating slightly from the impact. The sound stayed on the air for what seemed to be a very long time, but eventually it died away, and Twygrist sank back into its brooding silence.
Donna stood on tiptoe to peer down into the tank, to make sure that even if the woman was not dead, she would not be able to get out. She was reassured. Nobody–and certainly nobody who had been given such a crunching blow to the head–could possibly get out of there.
Later that night, reviewing what she had done, she was glad to know she had been able to deal quickly and efficiently with getting rid of the unknown woman who might have spoiled the whole beautiful plan. Also–and this was the important thing–she had done it without getting caught.
She had not been caught when she killed Greg Foster earlier tonight, either.
Curled into the dark attic, Donna speculated on what would be happening at Quire House. It was not likely that Weston would be actually suspected of the boy’s death–she would have no connection with him, and the police would find that out very quickly. It was probable that the killing would be put down to a burglar; it was a safe bet that Dr Toy and Professor Remus would have reported the missing items which Greg had taken. It was also possible that some drug connection might be found; so many teenagers were into drugs these days, and Greg had looked just the sulky ill-mannered type who would think it was cool to be part of a drugs-ring. But Donna did not really care what conclusion they reached.
If by some outside chance Weston was suspected–if she was found guilty and sent to prison again–it would not be disastrous; it would simply delay the reckoning. Time meant nothing in all this. Donna would wait for twenty years if she had to.
She flicked on the torch to check her watch. Nine o’clock. She settled down to wait for Antonia to return to the cottage, and for night to fall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
After Inspector Curran had left, Charity Cottage felt oddly unfriendly. Antonia stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him walk across the park, then closed and locked the door. He had not seemed to think the murderer would return tonight but she had not needed his final reminder to lock the doors. After she had done this she went systematically round the house, placing chairs and stools directly in front of the doors and the downstairs windows. If Greg Foster’s killer–who was presumably the same person as Antonia’s intruder–did try to get in, he would trip over the chairs and the noise would alert her. If that happened she could shut herself into the bathroom with the mobile phone and summon help; Curran and his officers were only across the park at Quire. And if the killer sustained a viciously painful injury trying to get in–a pulled hamstring or a chair-leg jabbed into the groin–it would be no less than the bastard deserved.
This reasoning made her feel better, and she made a cup of tea and then switched on the television for the late-night news. She did not take in very much of it, but it gave her the feeling of being still a part of the ordinary world. There was probably not much point in trying to sleep tonight, and to go to bed was unthinkable: she would lie awake listening for the sounds of someone trying to get in. It was annoying to find that she was counting how many hours there were before Jonathan reached Amberwood. This was purely because he was a good friend, and would continue to be a good friend no matter what she was thought to have done. He would come in to bat on her side–he always had done.