Hiding From the Light (2 page)
Outside, the darkness lifted perceptibly. The stars and the quarter moon, hanging low over the hill behind his house, began to fade. The birds were waking. First one tentative call, then another, rang out in the cold garden.
His throat spasmed. He was going to cough again. He mustn’t. He mustn’t make a sound. He groped blindly for a kerchief, for the sheet, the pillow, anything to smother the noise. If he coughed, the creature would know he was there and turn its attention to him. He could feel the cough building, the tightness in his chest, the agony in his throat. His terror was overwhelming.
As the first cough exploded from him, he heard himself scream. He leaned over towards the bedside table and snatched the dagger that lay there, ready, thrusting it wildly in front of him as the bear turned to stare straight between the bed curtains into his eyes. For a moment they exchanged a long thoughtful glance, then slowly the bear rose to its feet.
Downstairs the maid heard his frantic shouting as she knelt to lay the fire. She glanced up and shook her head. Master Hopkins must be having another of his nightmares. She paused for a moment, listening, then she turned back to the fire.
Upstairs, at the first sound of the coughing, the tabby cat dropped her half-eaten mouse and fled from the room, leaving a small pile of bloody entrails in the corner as she leaped for the window, pushed through the unfastened shutters and vanished into the cold dawn.
In the bed, his fear drained away as swiftly as it had come and in its place he felt rage. Rage such as he had never felt before. The women who had caused him to feel such fear would pay and pay dearly for their foul conspiracy. And he knew who they were, for they were on his list. The Devil’s List.
AUGUST
The London air was coppery, metallic on the tongue, heavy with traffic fumes and sunlight. Emma Dickson climbed out of the cab, handed over a note and glanced at her wristwatch, all part of the same flowing movement.
The cabby made a great show of diving into his money bag for change. Mean cow. Only three quid from twenty. She could afford to give him the tip. He glanced at her and in spite of himself his face softened. A bit of all right. Black dress. Gorgeous legs. Slim arms. Nice hair. Good make up. Business lady, but would tart up nicely. He handed her the change. She took it, hesitated, then handed it back. ‘OK. You keep it.’ She grinned at him as though she were aware of every stage of his thought processes. ‘You got me here on time. Just.’
He watched as she turned across the pavement and climbed the steps towards the door. Devonshire Place. An expensive doctor, probably. He found himself hoping, as he pulled away from the kerb, that she wasn’t ill.
The shiny black door with gold knocker and nameplate opened to her ring and she disappeared inside, grateful for the coolness of the hall after the blazing heat of the street outside. It was Friday. She had taken the afternoon off to visit the dentist, then she was going home to stand under a cold shower before starting to organise the evening’s dinner party.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Dickson.’ The receptionist opened the door of the waiting room and ushered her in. ‘Mr Forbes won’t keep you long.’
There was no one else in the large elegant room. Sofas and easy chairs stood somewhat formally round the walls, two huge flower arrangements faced each other at opposite ends of the room and on the large low central table several piles of magazines lay, neatly squared, waiting to beguile her while she waited. Automatically she glanced at her watch. It was hard to relax, to slow down. It had been a hectic morning; she had been on the phone since eight a.m. There had been no time for lunch. For one of the senior fund managers for Spencer Flight, Jordan of Throckmorton Street, there very seldom was. To find she had to wait for her appointment was almost more than she could bear. Taking a deep breath she threw her bag on the largest sofa and picking up a magazine at random she flopped down and kicked off her shoes.
She had to learn to slow down; to relax. She wasn’t even sure any more that she was still enjoying the frenetic lifestyle in which up to now she had revelled. With a long slow sigh she stretched out the long legs the taxi driver had so much admired, opened the magazine and glanced at it casually.
She had picked up a copy of
Country Life
. She flipped without much interest through page after page of house advertisements. Mansions and manor houses, even castles, all taken from their best angle, primped, air brushed, seductively enticing. Improbable. But they would all turn out to be someone’s dream. Someone who had had the time to stop to consider whether the place they lived was right for them; whether they were happy, whether they should move on.
She turned another page, about to throw down the magazine, then she frowned. She sat up sharply, swung her legs to the floor and sat, staring at the picture in front of her. There were four houses on the page, all in Essex and Suffolk, all smaller than those through which she had been idly leafing. It was the one on the top right hand corner of the page that held her attention. She frowned, looking at it more closely. It was a house she knew.
She read the details with a frown.
15th century listed farmhouse with
small commercial herb nursery
.
3 bedrooms, 2 reception
.
Large farmhouse kitchen
.
Garage. Offices. 3 acres
.
The house was pretty, colour-washed with exposed beams, an uneven roof, half tiled, half thatched, an oak front door surrounded by the statutory roses. She looked quickly at the other houses on the page. They too were pretty. In fact one was a great deal prettier, but this one was special. Near Manningtree, the details said. North Essex. Minutes from the picturesque River Stour.
It was Liza’s.
‘Miss Dickson?’ It was the second time the receptionist had called her name. ‘Mr Forbes is ready for you.’
She jumped almost guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.’ Fumbling inelegantly for her shoes she rose to her feet, still holding the magazine.
‘Shall I?’ The receptionist held out her hand, ever helpful, ready to replace it on the pile.
Emma shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I need to keep it. This house – ’ She looked up and saw irritation in the other woman’s face. Shrugging, she held it out, then changed her mind. ‘Do you mind if I tear out the page? It’s a house I know.’ She had done it before the woman could object, folding the shiny paper into her handbag and closing the fastener firmly before turning towards the surgery.
The check-up was swift, followed by a change of room, change of chair, brisk polish from the hygienist and she was finished, standing once more on the doorstep staring down the dusty street. Two cabs cruised by in quick succession, glancing at her to see if she was a customer. She saw neither of them. She was still thinking about the cottage which as a child she had known as Liza’s.
Summer holidays away from London. Sailing on the Stour. Riding ponies round the paddock. Great-grandpa’s pipe. Great-grandma’s wonderful cakes. Walking the dogs round the country lanes. There had been all the time in the world, then. Aeons of it. They had walked past Liza’s several times each holidays, always very conscious of the cottage behind its hedge and the secrets it was supposed to hold. They had never gone in, never met the old lady who lived there and in her young mind little Emma had started to weave a fantasy about the place, in which that old lady – Liza – had featured as a character in an increasingly complicated fairy story. As an only child she was accustomed to making up stories in which she featured as the heroine, and this one was no exception. Her parents and great-grandparents had no idea about the story and the adventures which were going on in the little girl’s head, or the extent to which she missed those holidays when her great-grandparents, too elderly to keep up the big country house, had sold up and moved away. She had never gone back to the area.
She descended the steps into Devonshire Place and turned south, walking slowly, aware of the sun’s heat reflecting off the pavement and the house fronts. She was tired and hot and she wanted a cold drink. Reaching Weymouth Street she paused, waiting for the lights to change, then she walked on. The torn page was tucked into the zipped pocket in her bag. There was plenty of time to look at it again when she reached home but she realised suddenly that she couldn’t wait that long. The piece of paper was burning a hole in the bag! She stopped in her tracks and fumbled for it. A business man in a dark suit who had been following immediately behind her almost walked into her. He side-stepped past her, stared for a moment and walked on. Two workmen carrying an old sink out of the front door of one of the elegant houses on the corner edged past her and threw the sink into a skip which had been parked against the kerb. She didn’t notice the cloud of dust and plaster fragments which flew up as the ancient piece of plumbing crashed into the mess of rubbish. She was staring at the picture. When she did look up again she was ready to find a cab.
‘Ma?’ She pushed open the door of the small bookshop off the Gloucester Road, immediately spotting her mother standing by the till. The shop was empty but for a woman with two small children. Peggy Dickson raised her hand. She smiled a welcome then turned back to her customers, slotting two books deftly into a bag and handing it to the smallest child. When they finally left the shop she groaned. ‘I thought they’d never go. It took that woman twenty-five minutes to choose those books. Those poor little kids, they are going to equate bookshops with boredom, dehydration, the need to pee and starvation, in that order, for the rest of their lives!’
Emma laughed. ‘Nonsense, Ma. They were thrilled with their books. That little boy was an academic in the making, if ever I saw one.’
‘Maybe.’ Peggy sighed with exhaustion. An attractive woman in her early sixties, she resembled her daughter in bone structure alone. Their eyes and hair were quite different – Peggy’s hair had once been blonde, whilst her daughter’s was dark; the blonde was now the slightest hint highlighted into the smartly cut grey – but the timbre of their voices was similar. Low. Musical. Elegant.
‘So, my darling, what on earth are you doing outside that temple to Mammon you call an office?’
Emma smiled. ‘I took the afternoon off. It’s very quiet at the moment as it’s August. Everyone is out of the City. I’ve been having a check up at the dentist and I’m on my way to Sainsbury’s. We’ve got Piers’s boss and his wife coming to supper.’ She made a face. ‘Then, I hope, a long peaceful weekend! Do you and Dan want to come over for a drink some time?’
Peggy shrugged. ‘Can we let you know? I’m working tomorrow – at least till lunchtime. I’ll close up if no one comes in, but I don’t know what Dan’s plans are.’
Emma’s father had died in 1977 when she was still a child. Her mother’s toyboy lover – only six months younger than Peggy, but neither of them could resist joking about the age difference – was the best thing that had happened in Peggy’s life for a long time.
Emma fished in her bag again and produced the page from
Country Life
. ‘Ma, the reason I came over was to show you this. Does this house mean anything to you? Do you recognise it?’
Peggy reached for her spectacles and examined the picture closely. ‘I don’t think so. Why? You’re not thinking of buying a country cottage?’
‘No.’ Emma grimaced. ‘Piers would never hear of it. ‘No. It’s just –’ She hesitated and her face grew sombre. ‘I saw this at the dentist. Don’t you remember? Near where Great-granny lived at Mistley. I’m sure it is.’
Peggy squinted at the page again. ‘We did spend a lot of time there when you were little.’ She chewed her lip thoughtfully, holding the paper closer to her nose. ‘Wait a minute. Perhaps I do remember it now I come to think of it: Liza’s. You think it’s Liza’s? Are you sure, darling? There must be a million cottages that look just like that one. Anyway, it says it’s a farmhouse.’ She took off her glasses and, putting down the page she surveyed Emma’s face, frowning.
Emma nodded. ‘I’m pretty sure it is. I loved that house so much I’d recognise it anywhere.’
Peggy nodded. ‘I do remember now. You used to peer through the hedge and make up stories about that wonderful old lady who lived there. Liza, presumably. They were lovely times, weren’t they. Those holidays seemed to go on forever.’
‘Long, sunlit summers.’ Emma nodded.
Before Daddy died.
Neither of them voiced that last thought, but both were thinking it.
‘Wouldn’t it be strange if it was the same house?’ Peggy put her glasses back on, squinting. ‘It’s very pretty. I’m not surprised you’re tempted. You are tempted, aren’t you?’ She looked up and surveyed Emma’s face shrewdly.
Emma nodded. Somewhere deep inside an idea had taken root.
‘Is this interest a sign you’re feeling like settling down at last? Is it possible, sweetheart, are you feeling broody?’ Peggy surveyed Emma’s face for a moment, then she shook her head. ‘Well, maybe that’s for the best. Not till you’re sure about Piers. And you’re not. Are you?’
Emma frowned. ‘I love Piers, Ma. I wouldn’t do anything unless he agreed.’
‘No?’ Peggy raised an eyebrow. ‘He won’t agree to this, Em. I can tell you that right now!’
Piers stood under the shower for a full five minutes before he stepped out and reached for the towel. He had been expecting Emma to be there when he arrived home from his office but the door had been double-locked, the flat, on the top floor of the converted house at the end of Cornwall Gardens, empty but for two loudly complaining cats. He stopped to give each a brief hello before checking the fridge for dinner party supplies. She couldn’t have forgotten that Derek and Sue were coming over, surely. Hadn’t she said she was taking the afternoon off? Pulling on some cool trousers and an open-necked shirt he surveyed himself for a second in the mirror in their bedroom, checking out his tall lanky figure, smart haircut, tanned skin – even in casual gear he looked cool and sophisticated – before he went into the living room and glanced round. It was tidy as always, a full array of drinks on the top of the low bookcase in the corner. The pale cream sofas, the linen curtains and the wood floor gave just the right impression. Expensive. Elegant. Comfortable. Two young, well youngish, executives with perfect taste. He walked across to the French doors and reached up to the hiding place behind the curtain for the Chubb key, hanging from its little hook. Unlocking the doors he pulled them open and stepped out onto the roof garden. This was Emma’s very own paradise. She had created a little heaven from a sooty expanse between four ugly chimneys. Italian earthenware pots, small trees, roses, honeysuckle, herbs – her special passion – the unexpected riot of colour and sweet scents never failed to take his breath away. Emma’s love for gardening and her indelibly green fingers were one of the unexpected sides to her character which he could never quite reconcile with her astute business brain and the sophisticated lifestyle she shared with him. Closely followed by the two cats, he walked over to the wrought-iron table with its matching chairs and opened the large, bleached-linen parasol. Any moment now the sun would have disappeared behind the rooftops, but the parasol perfected the picture of elegance he so enjoyed up here. And on an evening like this where better to be than a rooftop garden?
‘Piers?’ Emma’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Sorry, darling. I got caught in horrendous queues in Sainsbury’s.’ She appeared at the French doors looking, as ever, a city animal, elegant and sophisticated and cool – the furthest one could imagine from a busy shopping queue, or a gardener. ‘I’ve got cold meat. Vichyssoise. Ciabatta. Smoked duck. Salmon. Salad. Strawberries and cream. It’ll take me five minutes.’ She greeted the two cats with a pat on each eager head, joined him under the parasol and held up her own face for a kiss. ‘Put the wine in the fridge. When will they be here?’
He felt obscurely irritated suddenly. She knew when they’d be there. Damn it, she had rung up and fixed it with Sue.
‘Unzip me?’ She turned in his arms just before his kiss landed on target, presenting him with the nape of her neck and the top of a long black zip. ‘I called in on Ma. I thought she and Dan might pop over and have a drink tomorrow.’ With a quick wriggle of her hips she shed the dress. Under it she was naked but for a pair of the skimpiest bikini briefs.
‘Em!’ In spite of himself he glanced round, shocked. He would never get used to this side of Emma. Unconventional. Provocative. Always teasing him.
‘No one can see! Not unless they’ve got binoculars and are standing on top of the power station chimneys!’ She tapped his lips with her finger. ‘Stuffy.’
‘I know.’ He knew he ought to laugh. But he was cross. He wanted her badly. But there wasn’t time. With a groan he ducked into the living room and went to rummage in the wine rack in the corner behind the kitchen door. ‘Dry Hills Sauvignon OK?’
‘The best! Lovely.’ She was still standing naked on the roof.
‘Em! They will be here in a minute.’
She glanced over her shoulder at him coquettishly, then she relented. ‘OK. I’ll jump in the shower. It will take ten seconds to dress.’ As she passed him she brought her hands to her hips briefly and gave a quick shimmy. ‘Not bad for a thirty-something, eh? And look at the teeth!’ She ducked out of reach and ran to the bathroom. In ten minutes rather than seconds she was dressed, her hair brushed, a quick skim of colour on lips and eyelids and she was ready, once again the cool calm City woman, fit partner for a potential director of Evans Waterman, one of the largest City broking houses.
In the event Derek and Sue were half an hour late. By the time they arrived the hors d’oeuvres were laid out on the wrought-iron table, the wine was chilled, the table was laid and the duck and the salad prepared, the duck locked securely away from the enthusiastic attention of the cats.
It was as they moved on to the coffee at the end of the meal that the subject of weekend cottages arose. ‘We have a place in Normandy, you know.’ Sue leaned back against the sofa cushions and crossed her ankles. ‘It would be lovely if you could both come over for a few days.’
Outside, the roof terrace was dark, lit by two shaded lights hidden amongst the flower pots. A gentle breeze wafted the smell of the hot London night into the window. Sue sipped at her coffee. The two cats were asleep on one of the deckchairs outside. ‘Have you ever thought of buying somewhere yourselves?’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
Piers and Emma spoke at the same moment and they all laughed.
‘Sounds like a fundamental difference of opinion,’ Derek commented as he reached for his brandy glass. As so often, he found himself wondering how Piers managed to hang on to this lovely spontaneous creature.
‘That’s because we haven’t discussed it yet.’ Emma climbed to her feet and went over to pick up her bag which was lying on the side table. ‘I saw something today which intrigued me so much, I want to go and see it.’ She found the folded page and brought it back to the sofa. ‘It’s a little farmhouse in Essex.’
‘Essex!’ Sue hooted. ‘Oh, my dear, I think you could do better than that.’ She held out her hand for the picture.
‘Essex is quite nice, actually,’ Derek put in mildly. He raised an eyebrow in his wife’s direction. ‘The Essex they joke about is in the south of the county, part of the greater London area. But if you go up to the north you have wonderful countryside and lovely villages and towns. Constable country. You’re miles and miles from London there. It’s very rural.’ He held out his hand for the magazine page which Sue had glanced at and dropped dismissively on the coffee table. ‘This one, is it?’ He tapped the photo. ‘It looks a lovely place. Perfect weekend material. Good sailing up there. Do you sail, Piers?’
Piers had risen to his feet. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said briskly. ‘Weekend cottages are not my thing, I’m afraid.’ He looked angry. ‘Emma knows that. I can think of nothing I would like less than pottering about “doing it myself”, mowing grass and being nice to hay-seed neighbours! I hate the country! I was stuck in deep country as a child and I couldn’t wait to get away. I can still remember my parents vegetating, telling me to go bird watching, trying to make me interested in nature, for God’s sake! I couldn’t wait to get away and I will never, never go back!’
There was a moment’s intense silence.
‘Oh, well!’ Emma forced herself to laugh. ‘There goes that idea!’ She took the cutting from Derek’s hand and, folding it, tucked it into her pocket. ‘More brandy, anyone?’
Derek and Sue left early – ‘It’s been a long week, old things, bed for us, I think,’ – but it was after midnight by the time Emma and Piers had stacked the dishwasher and carried two more brandies out onto the roof terrace.
‘Do you think they enjoyed it at all?’ Emma was staring out into the luminosity of the London night.
‘Yes, of course they did.’
‘They left a bit soon.’
‘Like Derek said, they were tired.’ He leaned his elbows on the parapet, rolling the glass between his hands. ‘Don’t worry about it. They have asked us to go to Normandy, don’t forget. And while you and Sue were brewing that second pot of coffee he told me it’s OK.’ He turned to her and she saw the triumph in his face. ‘I’m going to be asked to join the board.’
‘Oh Piers, I’m so glad. Why didn’t you tell me at once?’
‘I wanted to wait till we had a glass in our hand. I wanted us to drink to the future. My future and our future.’ He held her gaze for a moment. ‘And I wanted to tell you when we were on our own because I think we should get married, Em.’
For a moment she didn’t move, and he could read the conflicting emotions on her face as clearly as if she were speaking out loud. Elation – that first, at least – worry, doubt, excitement, caution, then that moment which he recognised so well when she withdrew inside herself, her eyes suddenly unfocused as though viewing the future on some mysterious invisible internal screen. He waited. It would only take seconds for her private computation to take place. Until she had done it, he had learned to wait.
He felt a warm pressure against his ankle. Max was circling his feet, purring. He bent to pick the cat up, tickling him under his chin. ‘Well?’ He glanced at Emma and grinned. ‘So far I am not overwhelmed by your enthusiasm.’
She smiled. Reaching forward, she gave him a quick kiss on the lips. ‘I love you, P. You know that. And I want to live with you forever and ever.’
‘I can feel a “but” coming.’
‘No. It’s just –’ She hesitated, then putting her glass down on the parapet beside him she reached into her pocket. ‘When we talked about country cottages earlier, you were pretty damning.’ She unfolded the cutting. ‘It didn’t sound to me as though there was any room for compromise.’ She reached out absent-mindedly and rubbed the cat’s ears. ‘We’ve never talked about the sort of future that marriage means, P. Kids. Gardens. A life beyond EC1.’
‘And why should we? That’s all for the future, surely. Nothing we have to think about yet. In the abstract, yes, I’d like kids one day. If you would.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve never had any sense that you are hearing the time-clock ticking, Em. My God, that’s years off, surely.’
She laughed. ‘Not so many. I’ve reached the dreaded thirties, don’t forget.’ She reached over for Max, who climbed into her arms and draped himself across her shoulder with a contented purr. ‘I want to go and see this cottage. This weekend.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ He snatched the cutting from her hand. ‘Em, this is silly. What is it with this place? You know we can’t go this weekend. I’m playing squash with David tomorrow. You’ve asked your mother and Dan over. I’ve got a report to write. We have a hundred and one things to do.’ He moved over to the lamp and held the cutting so he could see it more clearly. ‘Three acres. A commercial herb nursery for God’s sake, Em. This isn’t even a country cottage. It’s a business. Look, if you’re so keen on the idea of a cottage why don’t we go down to Sussex or somewhere and take a look. Or why not France? Now that’s an idea. Derek said property there is still a fantastic investment.’
‘I don’t want it as an investment.’ Letting the cat jump to the ground, she threw herself down on one of the cushioned chairs. ‘In fact, I don’t know that I want it at all.’ There was a sudden note of bewilderment in her voice. ‘I just want to go and see it. I remember it from when I was a child. It’s a cottage I used to dream about. I built a whole fantasy world around it. It means a lot to me, Piers, and if it’s on the market…’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s meant to be.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Not for me, it isn’t. I told you what I think about the country.’
‘Well, I want to go and see it at least. As soon as possible. Tomorrow. I’m going to ring the agent first thing.’
‘Well, if you do go, you go without me.’ He threw the cutting down on her lap. ‘The place has probably gone anyway. Did you see the date at the bottom of the page? The magazine was three weeks old.’