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By Root 801 0

of the sea below was black and white, flecked under a turbulent sky. Now and then the old panes rattled in their frames, in the two windows, made fretful by the wind. The house was wooden and it groaned at the weather, and wind whistled and sighed through the attic space above them. There were fresh flowers in two vases in the room and it was cheerfully lit by bright little lamps with cloth shades in primary colours. The nurse was a plump-cheeked girl in a starched agency uniform who looked tranquil, untroubled by the one, apparently undemanding patient under her charge. Seaton felt uncomfortable in the room. He could smell cigarette smoke on his clothes from the pub and smoke and beer on Nick Mason’s breath as the two men stood at the foot of Sarah Mason’s bed and studied her. They were wet from the rain on the walk back along the sea wall and it was so quiet in the room that Seaton could hear rain drip from the hem of his waterproof on to the lilac painted floorboards. It was still a little girl’s bedroom, this.

Its occupant was asleep. It was only looking at Sarah that Seaton realised quite what a good-looking man her brother was. Nature had blessed them both. Sarah’s sleep looked deep and untroubled. But there were hollows under her eyes and her cheeks wore gaunt shadows. And the one arm visible, thrown across her body above the duvet covering her, showed the slack skin of muscle wastage where it met her shoulder. Her skin was pale. Her lips were the colour of a bruise. Her hair looked freshly washed and brushed. Her breathing was regular. But it seemed a degree or two colder in the room to Seaton than it had on the stairs, in spite of the fire. The nurse, despite being plump, wore a cardigan over her pristine tunic. You could see the temperature in the room as sinister, Seaton thought, or you could argue that you were in a room exposed to the sea on the top floor of a drafty Victorian house on the English coast at the end of October. You could cripple yourself with needless caution. Or you could die of complacency.

‘We’re dealing here with ghosts, aren’t we?’ Mason said.

They were now in his sitting room. One entire wall of the room was decorated with neat shelves lined with books. Seaton thought Mason owned a surprising number of books for a soldier. Maybe they were his father’s books and he had inherited them, as he had the house. He had a shelf full of video tapes and a large-screen television, which was more predictable. And he had a very expensive stereo system, the speakers, with their black lacquered finish, angled into a listening point near the centre of the room on expensive-looking, dedicated metal stands. He liked pictures, too. And they looked like original pictures. Of all things, he had a taste for the St Ives School of English colourists. Unless, of course, it was his father’s taste. They were both drinking Mason’s whisky, though. And that definitely wasn’t off the peg. It was Glenmorangie.

Seaton nodded at the shelves. ‘Your books?’

Mason was silent, looking at him. ‘I asked you a question, Paul.’

‘Bear with me. Your books?’

‘Mostly. A few were my dad’s. I like reading.’

‘Ever come across a writer called Dennis Wheatley?’

Mason chuckled. ‘I’ve read one of his. One was enough. Supernatural thrillers, right?’

‘I’m surprised you’ve heard of him. They’re no longer in print.’

‘Picked it up at a boot sale, I think. Don’t think I ever finished it.’

‘He was a terrible writer,’ Seaton said. ‘But he was very successful in his time. His peak years were between the wars. But he believed in Aryan supremacy and was quite a fan of Hitler and Mussolini and wasn’t shy of saying so in his fiction, where he also argued the racial inferiority of blacks. And he was an anti-Semite. Even in the late forties, he was still trying to salvage Hermann Göring’s reputation.’

‘So he’s not due a revival any time soon, then.’

‘It’s unlikely,’ Seaton said. He stopped. He was struggling with a way to continue. ‘From his late youth, Wheatley manifested some sort of character defect.’

‘Get away,’ Mason said.

‘His prejudices