Tara (73 page)

It was almost two when the train left Charing Cross and it was raining heavily. She had got a taxi back to her flat, changed, then got the Tube to the station.

In jeans, a waterproof jacket, stout flat shoes and carrying a small rucksack, she could have passed for a hiker or student. There were only two other people in her carriage, both engrossed in magazines, and she wished she'd had the presence of mind to buy one too.

If only she knew the area! Now she was actually on her way, questions kept popping up and she didn't have answers to any of them.

Her plan was weak. She'd take the train to Hythe, then a taxi out to the airport at Lympne. Back in her own flat she'd almost rung George or Needles and confided in them, but she knew they'd pour cold water on the idea. They might even pity her because she kept on pursuing Harry. So here she was, dressed up like a hiker with a Stanley knife, the only weapon she could find, tucked among her packet of sandwiches, apples and a drink.

'I'll just take a look,' she told herself as the blocks of flats and Victorian terraces turned to semi-detached houses with big gardens. 'If I see anything suspicious, if there's any sign of any of them, I'll go and call the police straight away.'

Hythe station looked so small and pretty in the rain, with polished brass on the waiting-room doors, and white painted tubs filled with geraniums and petunias.

'Can I get a taxi anywhere?' she asked the ticket collector. He was entirely in character with the station, in full uniform and highly polished boots.

'They don't come out much until the six o'clock,' he said as he clipped her ticket. 'You could try phoning the rank in the town but I don't expect there'll be anyone there just now. It's not that far to walk though, love. Just keep going down the road.'

He had already lost interest in her and was reaching out to grab the tickets from other passengers, touching his cap for certain regulars.

'I didn't want the town,' she said weakly. 'I wanted to get out to Lympne airport. Is that too far to walk?'

'Lympne airport?' A tall, thin man in a dark business suit who was just flashing his season ticket stopped short.

'Yes, do you know it?' Tara asked.

'I'm going that way myself. I can drop you off in Lympne village, if that's any help. It's only a bit further on from there.'

Tara thanked him profusely and followed him out to the car-park.

'Do you go by train to London every day?' she asked as he unlocked a green Morris Minor.

'Oh, yes.' He flung his briefcase into the back seat and got in. 'I'm a barrister, you see. I don't normally arrive home till sevenish but I was lucky today, my case was postponed.' He turned away from the town and up a winding road overhung with trees.

'Meeting someone at the airport?' he asked.

'Yes, an old friend.' She was frightened to elaborate as she had no way of knowing where the planes flew to and from there. 'Do you know Lympne well?'

'Not really. Mind you, there isn't much to know about.' He laughed heartily. 'Blink and you miss it! I don't live there, you see. I live in Hythe. But I'm picking my wife up from a friend's house.'

'My mother went there once when she was a girl. She said there was a lovely old house called Port Lympne. Is it still there?'

'Indeed it is. Though I've never seen the place myself, it's kind of buried in the woods. There's been talk of someone turning it into a wild-life park, that fellow Aspinall who owns a gambling club in London.'

'When's this going to happen? Does anyone live there now?'

'Oh, it's all in the planning stage, nothing definite yet.' He looked at her curiously. 'Don't think anyone's lived there for donkey's years, place must be in ruins. Why, thinking of dropping in?'

Tara laughed nervously. 'No, of course not. But like I say, my mother went there once and she's got romantic memories of it. If it was possible I'd take a photo for her. I expect it's all boarded up, though.'

They had turned on to a wider road which was signposted back to London, but after a couple of miles he turned off to the left.

'This is as far as I go,' he said, pulling over just before a T-junction. 'Just walk on up there and turn right. You'll see the airport straight away, there's a windsock outside. That old house is just about opposite it, though you can't see it from the road. There's an old gate, I believe, but mind how you go, it is private property.'

'Thank you so much for the lift.' She held out her hand to shake his. 'It was very kind of you.'

A pub overlooked the junction, but once Tara was past that, she paused. Ahead there was just one lone cottage to her left, the airport with its windsock to her right. It was small; one Dan Air plane and around five or six small ones were out on the runway.

Butterflies started to flutter again in her stomach. It was very open and very isolated. Since she had turned into this road only two cars had passed and it wasn't even five o'clock yet.

If only it wasn't raining. In London you hardly noticed rain, you just wore your usual clothes and stuck up an umbrella. Here it seemed to soak so quickly. The bottoms of her jeans were wet already and the hood of her coat obscured her vision on either side.

The cottage had a narrow lane beside it. Tara turned into it, hoping it might give her a glimpse of the house. Some springer spaniels were in the yard by the side and they opened up a barrage of barking. Tara walked on. To her right were impenetrable-looking woods. There was a barbed wire fence but in places it was broken down entirely.

The road turned slightly and Tara stood for a moment or two looking at the view. She had a strange feeling of
déjà vu
again. The rain looked like a grey mist over the greeny-grey fields, the few trees growing down on the marsh looked twisted and stunted by the wind. It was a wild, lonely place but for some inexplicable reason she felt at one with it.

The woods were thinner now and through them she could see what must be the grounds of Port Lympne – a high privet hedge, a tennis court overgrown with weeds and wild flowers. There were so many different trees, a rose garden and a wisteria-covered pergola. But she couldn't see the house. It had to be further back, against the woods. The gardens were built in a series of terraces and she was sure all she was seeing here were the lower ones.

Looking all around to check no-one was watching, she slipped through a hole in the fence and into the woods. Rain dripped down her face, finding its way under her anorak into her jumper. Leaves slapped at her, spraying her with more water, but she carried on, stepping gingerly through the undergrowth.

The woods gave way to a rhododendron walk; one moment she was knee-deep in ferns and weeds, the next on a shingle pathway with bushes towering over her head. But at last she could see the old house. All the way down on the train she'd had a mental picture of an ancient house tumbling into decay, but Port Lympne was neither so old nor so neglected. Its creamy stone was clean, windows intact and the sweeping gravel drive leading to the pillared porch and front door looked almost weed-free.

Tara understood exactly why her father liked this place, she could feel herself being bewitched by it. Her eyes swept over the grounds, taking it all in. A swimming pool, empty of course, with weeds growing out the sides, a rose garden, and graceful urns and statues ornamenting the steps down on to the lower terraces. Once it must have required a whole team of gardeners to keep it in shape, and obviously one at least had been kept on to cut the hedges and trim the grass.

There was no sign of people staying here, at least there were no cars left on that gravel drive. Until now Tara hadn't thought about being cautious. She had a vague plan in her head that if anyone stopped her she would pretend to be a hiker who'd strayed in by mistake. Reason told her that if this was indeed where Duke and his men had brought Harry, the headquarters from where they were organising crime, they could kill her, too, just for being there.

'I need to get closer,' she whispered to herself. In front of her a four-foot hedge stretched down to the drive. She ducked down behind it, following it to the end.

The hedge ended close to a semi-circular lawn flanked by privet and statues. Hidden between the hedge and the surrounding wall of the terrace, Tara peered at the house again.

There was no sign of anyone, and no sound apart from the drip of rain and the occasional rustle of leaves. It was dry where she crouched. Tara took a sandwich out of her bag and ate it while she thought about what to do next.

Maybe openness was the best idea! Just breeze up there, peer into windows and, if anyone came, front it out. Even if Josh was in on it and had told Duke about her, this place hadn't been mentioned. As she slipped out of her hiding place and back on to the proper path her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. The gravel drive was the worst part, the crunching noise would surely wake even the dead. She crossed it swiftly and walked closer to the house where the path was smoother.

There was nothing in the downstairs rooms she peered into, beautiful, graceful rooms still in good decorative order. The front door looked as if it hadn't been opened in years. She went right round to the back until her way was blocked by bushes but, though there was a door there, it was locked. Despondently she walked back around the front and down the far side, feeling she'd made a mistake and it was time she found her way back to the station.

But as she reached the bushes growing right up to the back of the house she saw broken branches, a few dog-ends on the ground and a smooth path beaten by feet. Her heart began to pound again. She looked at her watch. It was half-past six. As she moved further round it was clear that many people had come and gone this way, and the feet marks ended at the fire escape.

'Go on,' she urged herself. 'You can't walk away now!'

She took off her rucksack and stood for a moment staring around her, the light drizzle dripping from the hood of her coat. The air was heavy with the scent of wet soil, privet and decaying vegetation, a lone bird chirruped somewhere in the distance.

Taking a deep breath she rummaged in her bag for the Stanley knife and slipped it into her jeans pocket. It made her feel tougher, and she folded the bag over and pushed it out of sight under a bush.

She put her first foot on the rusting stairs, then the second, but she was so frightened she felt faint. 'Harry might be in there,' she said to herself. 'Go on, just have a quick look. If there was anyone around they'd have spotted you by now.'

Steeling herself she walked on up the stairs. She could see a sash window open just a crack and she tried to think of nothing more. The window glided up as if it had been oiled. The room was empty and the door shut. She climbed in and closed the window behind her.

Opening the door of the room was a moment of pure terror. But no hand came down on her, no crow-bar on her neck or cobweb on her face as she walked out into the landing. It was light and airy here, some of the light coming from a long window over the staircase to her left, more from the room opposite.

This room was being camped in. Three brown sleeping bags lay on the floor, next to a box full of magazines, a primus stove and a plastic washing-up bowl with some clean plates in it.

Tara moved quickly. She was certain they were out, they had to be, and she must get away before they returned. A bathroom had shaving stuff on the sink, the lavatory was filthy and a bottle of aspirin sat on the windowsill. She felt more confident going downstairs as she knew they weren't in any of the front rooms. The kitchen was the only room in use here, and even that was tidy.

'Very military,' Tara murmured, seeing a box of food carefully packed, presumably ready to be lifted up at a moment's notice.

She smelled the cellar before she even saw the steps leading down to it, an earthy, musty smell, and as she moved nearer she felt the chill.

Her courage left her as she looked down into the darkness. Her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow. Her heartbeat seemed to be in her ears, and her legs were so tense she wasn't sure she could even make it down there. The steps were almost slimy, the rail under her hand rusting and cold to the touch. She longed to turn back and run, but slowly she took one step after another. But at the bottom she could see a chink of light, the clear line of a door and a small grille in the middle.

As she crept closer she heard a groan. Not the loud sound of someone trying to make themself heard, just an involuntary gasp of pain. Instinct told her it was Harry. She ran forward, exultation banishing her fear. Her hands scrabbled to find a handle on the door, but it was locked.

'Harry!' she called out, not caring if anyone heard now. 'Harry, is it you?'

Straining her ears she put her face right up to the small grille, and called again. There was just enough light to make out a second door, with an identical grille. The lamp was in this inner room and presumably Harry,
too.

'Tara!' His voice was faint, but it was him. 'Tara, are you really here?'

'I'm here at this door, but it's locked,' she called. 'I'll have to go out and get the police.'

Suddenly she saw his head illuminated in the grille.

'Get out now!' he called out, his voice intensely fierce. 'If they catch you they'll kill you, that's what they intend to do with me. Run for it! NOW!'

Chapter 35

'How are you feeling, darling?' Josh called as he approached the bedroom door, kicking it open with his foot because his hands were full of roses, chocolates, and a Josh carrier bag with a selection of trousers and tops. His smile faded when he saw the carefully made bed.

'Shit!' he exploded. 'Where the hell's she gone now?' Dumping the parcels on the bed he went quickly into the lounge. A note was propped up on the coffee table; he read it quickly, then threw it down in anger.

It was half-past one. He'd spent the morning in frantic haste just so he could get back quickly. He'd even picked up some travel brochures he was so confident she would soon be his. Tonight he'd planned to cook her a good meal, then tempt her into selecting a holiday with him for after her mother's wedding. But now she'd run off, leaving that irritating fawning note.