Caught in the Light (30 page)

"Jarrett," he said with caricatured amiability. "Thought it must be you. Piece of advice. Always check the back way. It's generally how I come and go."

"Esguard, I '

"Hudson, if you don't mind. You could do worse than throw a few aliases around yourself. Might make you less predictable. But that wouldn't be difficult."

"What are you doing on Guernsey, Mr. Hudson?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"I'm looking for Eris Moberly."

"Still no luck there? Sorry to hear it. You don't think she's on the island, do you? That'd be a weird coincidence. Me being over here on business and all."

What business is that?"

"None of yours."

"That bookseller you referred me to Montagu Quisden-Neve. I hear he came to grief."

"I heard the same thing. Can't help wondering if he didn't have the same problem as you."

"What's that?"

"An inability to keep his nose out of other people's affairs." Niall leaned closer. I could smell the tobacco on his breath, as stale and pungent as the menace in his voice. "Another piece of advice for you. Sincerely meant. Leave Guernsey."

"Why should I?"

"It's a dangerous place."

"That's not what I've heard."

"You've been listening to the wrong people. For you, it's dangerous."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Take it how you like." He leaned back and eased open the door. "Can't stop, I'm afraid. Much as I'd like to."

"Before you go '

"Yes?"

"Take this how you like. If I find Eris has come to any harm because of you, then you'll be the one in danger."

"Thanks for the tip."

"I'm serious."

"I know." He pushed the door wide open, climbed out and threw back a parting remark to me. "So am I." Then he slammed the door and walked away. I watched him in the rear-view mirror until he vanished at the next corner, then slapped the steering wheel in frustration. The encounter had achieved nothing, except to put Niall on his guard. There was no such thing as a free threat.

I drove down to the harbour, parked on Castle Pier and stared out to sea through the curtain of darkness, while the clink of halyards against masts in the marina behind me kept up a mournful rhythm. I was tired. I was weary of the chase. If she was here, why couldn't she show herself? If she knew I was looking for her, as she must do, how could she bear to keep her distance?

I whirled round, hope and instinct meeting in the fleeting certainty that she was just behind me. But there was nobody there. The pier was empty. I was alone, as I'd been too often since the madness of Vienna. Passion had curdled into bloody-minded obsession. There was an answer and I meant to have it. There was a meaning and I would know it. There was nothing else I could do but go on.

I drove back to the hotel a ten-minute journey across St. Peter Port. As I walked across the car park towards the entrance, I barely registered the sound of a car pulling out of a parking space behind me and accelerating throatily towards the road. Then the note of the engine caught my attention. I looked round. It was a pale Lotus, its colour bleached by the street lamps. I started running towards it as its brake lights blinked at me like the red eyes of a creature hiding in the forest. Then it swung out into the road and sped away in a burst of sound.

Cursing the sour mood that had made me so unobservant, I raced back to my car and drove off in pursuit. But there was never a chance I'd catch up. I drove by guesswork, round the western periphery of the town to Fort George, then out along the main road to the airport. It was a shadow chase, scarcely better than standing in the hotel car park and doing nothing.

That's where it ended, an hour or so later. I'd asked the receptionist, the porter and the barman if they knew the driver of a yellow Lotus and their answer had been no. Eris hadn't gone into the hotel, of course. She'd stayed outside, lying in wait for me. She'd wanted to see me. But not to be seen. Not to speak or touch or utter a single word of explanation. I shouted her name into the night and heard only my anger in the silence that followed.

Daphne phoned next morning. I was glad to speak to her, but reluctant to tell her anything. There was secrecy bedded in my soul now, a furtiveness about my every word and thought.

"Things are more complicated here than I'd anticipated, Ian. It may be several days before I can get away."

"Don't worry. It can't be helped."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Have you turned anything up?"

"Not a thing."

"What will you do?"

"Carry on looking."

"Are you sure that's wise? You sound tired."

"I feel fine."

"I don't believe you."

"I'm not one of your clients, Daphne. You don't need to concern yourself with my state of mind."

"Be careful."

"Of course."

"And phone me at once if anything happens."

"Naturally."

"I'm sorry, you know."

"What about?"

"Having to leave."

"Don't be. You had no choice." And to myself I added silently, It's better this way. I prefer to face it alone. Whatever it is.

It was Saturday morning. I walked the crowded streets of St. Peter Port, searching the jumble of faces for one I knew I wouldn't see. I traversed the piers, scanning the ranks of parked cars in vain. I sat in a quay side pub and tried to stop thinking. But I couldn't. I had nothing else to think about. My existence had been reduced to the narrowing circle of my search.

I went back to the hotel, intending to drive out to Fort George again and look for a gardener to interrogate. But there was no need. An answer of a kind was waiting for me at reception.

"Package for you, Mr. Jarrett," the girl said brightly. "By special courier."

She slid a small Jiffy bag across the desk to me, and I guessed at once by the size and shape who it was from and what it contained. I picked it up and stared at the courier's label. It showed the name of the sender and the time and place of despatch: E. Moberly, Guernsey Airport, nine o'clock that morning.

"Do you want your key, Mr. Jarrett?"

"What?"

"Your key."

"Oh yes. Sorry. Thanks."

I took it from her and ripped open the Jiffy bag as I turned away towards the stairs. A tape slid out into my hand. There was no note. But obviously there was a message. I turned back to reception.

"Do you know today's flight times?"

"They're in the paper. Here you are."

She produced a copy of the Guernsey Evening Press and opened it for me at the travel information page. The first flight to London on a Saturday was at nine thirty-five. That was it, then. Eris was no longer on the island. She was gone. But not without saying goodbye. There was another tape now. And this one was meant for me.

"Not leaving us, are you, Mr. Jarrett?"

"No. But, actually, I won't need this." I dropped my key back on the desk. "I have to go out for a while."

I pocketed the Jiffy bag and strode out through the door. The only cassette player I had with me was in the car. I propped the tape in its jaws as I drove out of the hotel and headed for the coast road. As soon as I was clear of St. Peter Port, trundling north around Belle Greve Bay, I pushed the tape home.

CHAPTER TEN

What was the last thing I said to you, Ian? You remember, when I phoned you at Lacock. "Don't try to find me." That was it, wasn't it? "Don't try to find me." It was good advice. It was the only thing I've ever said to you that you should have acted on. But you couldn't let go, could you? You just couldn't do it.

My name isn't Eris Moberly. I'm thirty-two years old, yes, but I'm not married and I don't live in May fair. I've never been to a psychotherapist. I don't suffer from fugues or flashbacks to another life. I didn't come to Guernsey to figure out how Marian Esguard died. And I won't be on the island when you hear this. Which is just as well. It wouldn't be sensible for me to be anywhere near when you learn the truth. It's time for you to find out the name of the game we've been playing. You won't like it. Trust me on this. You're going to feel bad about it. Very bad.

I'm sorry, Ian. Really, I am. This doesn't give me half the pleasure I thought it might. That's why I won't prolong the agony. I'll lay it on the line. I'll tell you as much as you need to know and no more. I'll make it clear to you where we stand, you and me.

We didn't meet by chance in Vienna. It was planned and staged. It was a set-up from the word go. I was told to get close to you, to tangle myself up in your life any way I could. Well, sex was the obvious draw. I've always been good at it. Better than I've been at a lot of things. I was told you'd be ... susceptible. And you were. So was I, come to that. You know what I mean. It was good. Bloody fantastic. If it makes you feel any better to hear me say it. Which it won't. Not when you realize that, all along, I was getting an extra kick out of knowing what it was leading up to.

You couldn't have escaped. If you'd turned me down that first time, I'd have found some other way to get to you. There always is another way. I learned that lesson from a good teacher. But I didn't have to try too hard anyway. You were there for the taking. I'm sorry about the photographs, by the way. I didn't destroy them just to protect my anonymity. I was told to do it. You had to be prised away from your profession as well as from your family. I had to become the centre of your world. First by being there. Then by not being there.

I've been on Guernsey ever since, waiting for you to turn up. I set things up last year with those stints as Dawn Esguard's lodger. Plus the slice of wedding cake, of course. You couldn't miss, once you'd been pointed in the right direction. That's where the tapes came in. Daphne's in on it, too, you see. In fact, she knows more than I do. Like why you were targeted in the first place. That's the part of this I don't understand. I don't want to, either. There's a reason. Of course there is. Maybe you already know what it is. If not, I reckon you'll find out soon enough.

Is it tied up with Marian Esguard? I mean, I don't know where all that stuff came from. I just read my lines. But it sounded genuine. And not just because it was supposed to. You are a photographer, after all. Or were. Before you dedicated your life to finding Eris Moberly.

I never met Milo Esguard, despite pumping Dawn about him. Niall, yes, of course. He's one of us. I can't say I like him, but I guess he has his uses. He never threatened me. Neither did Quisden-Neve. I went into his bookshop once, to size him up, just so I could describe him on the tape. But that was it. I've never been sure how much he knows about what's going on. His twin brother's been on Guernsey this week. I was told to let him see me. He was bound to mention it to you with Daphne on hand to jog his memory. That was the signal for the final phase to begin. First Daphne got out. Now me. Niall, too, I imagine. You're on your own.

Eris Moberly doesn't exist. That's what it comes down to. She's a fantasy. I didn't experience any of the things described on the tapes. Do you understand, Ian? It's all been a lie. The fugues, the ancient negatives, the whole bag of tricks. None of it happened to me. To somebody else, maybe. But not to me. And not to Eris Moberly.

You'll want to know why I did it. How I could bring myself to. First and foremost, of course, there's the money. This is the best-paid job I've ever had, by a long way. My employer's very generous. Even when I had to hang around Guernsey for weeks on end he gave me the use of a flash car and a luxury pad with heated swimming pool to compensate. And I didn't exactly slum it in Vienna. I can't complain about the pay and conditions.

One thing you ought to know. I've had to get by in the past by making men believe I cared for them, by convincing them I liked the things they liked. But, in your case, I didn't have to pretend. It really was as good for me as it was for you. Just a pity it couldn't last. I'm sorry, Ian. It wasn't quite good enough to make me forget who's paying the bills.

And who is that? Your tormentor-in-chief, I mean. The man who set all this in motion. I first met him a couple of years ago. I was at a pretty low ebb then, but he recognized my potential. He's good at spotting people's strengths and their weaknesses. Yours included by the look of it. He's asked me to do some strange things since I started working for him, but I guess this counts as about the strangest of the lot. I know he'll have his reasons, though. He always does. Just like I always know better than to ask what they are. A man who treats me as well as he has doesn't have to justify himself to me.

It's different in your case. He's put you through hell, one way or another. I reckon you're entitled to an explanation. Well, he's the only one who can explain. So, why don't you ask him? Apparently you'll know how to find him. His name is Conrad Nyman.

PART THREE

DEVELOPMENT

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Shock hit me like a wave a few minutes after I had the sense to pull off the road at the northern end of Belle Greve Bay. I stared out at the brilliant blue sea and the cloudless sky, my mind and heartbeat racing. I played the tape through one more time, listening to her voice and the mockery coiled within it. Then shock gave way to sudden frenzy. I screamed abuse at her, drowning out the words that pieced together the lies she'd told me. I wrenched the cassette out of the player so quickly the tape snagged on the heads. It tore as I yanked at it, but I no longer cared. I jumped out of the car, threw the cassette to the ground and stamped on it hard, several times, then watched the wind catch the unravelled tape and blow it away like a strand of seaweed.

I was angry with myself for being so easily fooled, but angrier by far with those who'd done the fooling. What gave them the right to tear my life apart? What had I done to deserve it? Nothing that I could even remotely imagine. They'd all been strangers to me, until they'd decided to become my enemies. But why? In God's name, why!

Conrad Nyman could tell me. He was going to tell me, whether he wanted to or not. Even Eris had agreed I was owed an answer, and I meant to have it. My dismay was less than my determination to force the truth out of Nyman. Why me? Why now? Why the whole damn thing? What the hell was it for?