The One You Trust (5 page)

As Adrian Spencer’s words resonated in her mind, she pulled the envelope that the capped individual had hand-delivered out of her bag.

You’re at risk of missing the real danger.

She thought about the contents of the packet.

Was the real danger much closer to home?

Just considering that possibility was the most terrifying thought of all.

Chapter 5

David Sherborn looked at his watch again. It was mid-afternoon, half an hour after the scheduled arrival time of a mother and baby group at his studios. He’d tried to call the girl who had coordinated the group for the photography session, but there had been no reply.

‘You okay?’ His wife, Helen, stuck her head around the door that separated the purpose-built studio annex from the rest of the house.

He glanced at his watch again. ‘They’re probably not going to turn up.’

‘Maybe they’re running late?’

He shook his head. ‘One person being late I can imagine, but a group of seven mothers and babies? At least one or two of them would have been here by now.’

She nodded her agreement. ‘Sorry. What a pain – it’s so annoying when people just let you down like that. Are you still okay if I pop out to the shops for a bit? You don’t fancy coming along?’

‘I’d better wait here.’

‘I’ll be back soon,’ Helen said. ‘See you in a bit.’

Just after Helen had left, David tried to call the woman again. This time she answered.

‘Hi, is that Angie? It’s David Sherborn here, from Sherborn Photography. You’ve got a session booked for this afternoon, and I was just . . . right, okay, yes, I understand . . . Well, maybe you’d like to rearrange? . . . Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you.’ He ended the call.

She’d apologised profusely, saying that her son had been unwell for the past few days, and although she’d called the rest of the group to say they shouldn’t go ahead, she’d forgotten to cancel the appointment with him.

This kind of thing had happened before – it was an inevitable consequence of his policy not to charge any money up-front for his studio-based photography sessions. But it was particularly annoying on a Saturday – his busiest day by far, where a wasted appointment slot cost him hundreds of pounds.

At least he could make good use of the time, now he knew for certain that they weren’t going to show up. He decided to do some housekeeping.

He powered up his computer, a top-of-the-range Apple Mac with a 17-inch screen. The machine was expensive, but cost-effective – it was amazing for taking clients through their images. Parents especially drooled at the sight of their children on the big screen, in stunning high resolution. The photographs sold themselves.

He decided to catalogue some images from the previous week, and then back up some older images from the computer onto a portable hard drive. It was tedious work, but it had to be done. To lose any of the images would be a disaster, both financially and from a professional point of view.

Pausing after half an hour to make a coffee, he yawned his way through to the kitchen. When he returned to the machine with his cappuccino, another digital folder of photos on the screen caught his eye. It was the photographs he had taken for Emma and Lizzy, which had revealed the identity of the man who had been following them.

He opened up a slide show and sat back as the images faded in and out, one after another. It was the first time he had gone back to them since his meeting with Emma and Lizzy, around eight weeks ago, and he didn’t know what was drawing him to look at them again now. Maybe it was because he was proud of what he had done: the act had been reparation for his earlier behaviour, when, at the behest of a client, Guy Roberts, he had not only invaded the privacy of Emma and her friends, but also frightened her by taking paparazzi-style photos that were later splashed across the newspapers. The photos – taking advantage of the distressing circumstances surrounding Dan Carlton’s disappearance – had been an attempt by Guy Roberts to stir up publicity for his up-coming film, in which Emma had been cast.

David knew that his behaviour, motivated by the need for money following a downturn in his photography business, had been shameful. But the photographs he had in front of him now had sought to put things right.

He paused the slide show and focused on one of the images. It had been taken in Windsor, just outside the castle. Emma and Dan were on the left side of the photograph, and there, lurking behind a group of tourists, was the man who had masqueraded as Stephen Myers. Image after image, there he was – close to Emma and Dan, but far enough away to stay out of their immediate sight – Scott Goulding, the actor hired by Sally Thompson to impersonate Emma’s stalker. Sally blamed Emma (unfairly, David thought) for the death of her fiancé. She had used Scott Goulding as a means of taking revenge on Emma.

David shook his head in sympathy for her, clicking on a different folder to be able to see the photos of the man talking to Guy Roberts on his Notting Hill doorstep. Yes, he was very pleased with these. The images might not have been perfect, they might not have had the visual impact of his portrait shots, but they had been far more valuable and rewarding.

They had enabled Emma Holden to identify her tormentor, and take action.

He wondered how Emma was doing. Emma and Dan had actually invited him to the wedding in Cornwall – as a proper guest, not a photographer. Unfortunately, he’d had a prior booking, but it had been nice to be asked, and a huge surprise. It had proved that in their eyes, he had make good his earlier damage.

He was about to close down the image folder when a thought occurred to him – something that his subconscious had seen in the photographs suddenly rose to the surface.
Is my mind playing tricks on me?
He reopened the image of Emma and Dan outside the castle.

‘Can it be . . . ?’

He clicked through another half-dozen photographs, his nerves tightening with each confirmatory shot.

There was no doubt at all about what he was seeing.

Chapter 6

‘Feeling better this morning?’ Dan was sitting up in bed as Emma came through from the bathroom, a fluffy white towel wrapped around her. Waking early from her shallow sleep on their final Sunday morning in Mauritius, she’d decided the best thing was to get up and have a shower.

‘More positive,’ she said, perching on the edge of the bed. Following the Friday night at the restaurant, they’d spent a lazy Saturday around the hotel, lounging by the pool and beach, after which they’d talked again about their anxieties, trying to put things into perspective. ‘I feel like we can put everything behind us, at last.’ She looked across at Dan, his hair ruffled in the way it always was in the morning, and smiled.

Dan moved across the bed towards her and placed a kiss gently on her cheek. ‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘Fantastic. We have to move on, Em, we really do. Otherwise, we might as well be the ones in jail, not Peter Myers.’

Emma nodded, wrapping another towel around her still-damp hair. ‘And I’ve decided, I’m definitely going to meet the counsellor. It can’t do any harm.’

‘As I said, you should do whatever you think is best. I’ll support you.’

‘And maybe if she’s as good as Miranda says she is, you might be tempted to meet her, too.’

‘Maybe,’ Dan said, rising from the bed and stretching luxuriously as he peered out of the glass balcony doors. ‘Just look at the view out there.’ He padded over to the doors, and Emma wondered whether he would ever take up the offer of speaking to someone about what he had gone through. Maybe he didn’t need that kind of support. But his evasive reaction every time Emma mentioned talking to someone, and his continued silence over what had happened, pointed towards the fact that Dan
was
still struggling to come to terms with being imprisoned by Peter Myers.

‘I’m really going to miss that view,’ Emma said, as she joined him at the doors.

The sky was a flawless blue, and the sea sparkled like thousands of diamonds.

Dan slid the doors open, allowing cool air to drift in. ‘Me too. And it feels nice and fresh out there – perfect weather for a swim and a walk on the beach. We should make the most of the morning, before we have to say goodbye to all this.’

‘You’re right.’ Emma hurried to get dressed. The minibus was due to pick them up at one o’clock, delivering them to the airport in good time for their 4.30 p.m. flight back to Heathrow. Twelve hours later, they would land in a much colder and, probably, wetter England, with only the memories of this magical island remaining.

They headed down for their final champagne breakfast, which they enjoyed on the open-air decked area that overlooked the beach, then spent the rest of the morning walking along the golden sand, swimming in the warm sea, and making use of the all-inclusive bar – sticking to non-alcoholic drinks in view of their up-coming flight.

Emma sat up on the sun lounger as Dan handed her a glass of Mauritius Sunshine Surprise, a particular favourite of hers – a blend of orange and mango, and a number of other tropical fruits, served in a tall, frosted glass. ‘Here you go.’

She took a cooling sip as she looked at the ocean. ‘I’m really going to miss this.’

‘What, the view or the drink?’

‘Both.’

‘Here,’ Dan said, handing Emma a piece of paper. ‘Something that might ease the pain of leaving. A little bit of Mauritius that we can take back to London with us.’

‘They agreed to give you it!’ Emma read down the ingredients list and instructions for making the cocktail.

Dan smiled. ‘I managed to persuade the barman.’

‘But how?’

The cocktail was advertised as a hotel secret special, and the barman, who was otherwise the friendliest, most helpful man you could ever hope to meet, had, two days ago, refused to reveal exactly how it was made.

‘Well, yesterday I tried asking again, nicely. Then I tried begging. And then I just made a deal.’

Emma pulled up her sunglasses to look Dan in the eye. ‘A deal?’

‘I swapped the recipe for something.’

‘What?’

Dan hesitated. ‘One of my Manchester United shirts.’

‘You didn’t!’

‘Afraid so. It was an old one, from a couple of seasons back. It doesn’t matter.’

‘The shirt they wore in the European Cup final?’

Dan looked caught out. ‘Er, yes. I was hoping you might not remember that fact.’

‘But that’s one of your favourite things,’ Emma said, her heart filling at what Dan had just done for her. ‘You swapped that for the cocktail recipe?’

‘It’s just a shirt.’ Dan laughed it off. ‘It’s no big deal.’

Just then Emma spotted the shirt. The barman was already wearing it, along with the broadest smile she had ever seen.

‘Hey, look, I’ve made two people very happy,’ Dan said, also noticing as the barman showed off the shirt to a customer. ‘He’s a huge United fan – said he’s been supporting them for twenty-five years, and he watches all the games he can get to see on the TV here. His dream is to go to Old Trafford.’

Emma continued to watch, as the barman simulated scoring a header. ‘I can’t believe you did it.’

Dan shrugged. ‘I wanted to. Now you can make your drink at home – a little bit of Mauritian sunshine in soggy, grey London.’

Emma kissed Dan. ‘You’re a big softy, Dan Carlton. Thank you.’

‘Anything for you, Em.’

The day passed quickly and, before they knew it, they were saying goodbye to the hotel and clambering aboard the minibus, which was already busy with fellow departing holidaymakers. The journey to the airport took less than an hour, and within no time they had checked in and found a couple of seats in the airport’s waiting area. But it was only when they climbed the steps to the aeroplane and entered the cabin that reality hit Emma. This was the end of the honeymoon, and they were, indeed, returning to reality.

She watched from the window as they prepared for take-off. Dan cupped his hand over hers as the plane taxied away from the terminal, heading for the top of the main runway. He knew that she wasn’t fond of taking off.

For Emma, it was definitely the worst part of any flight.
Maybe it’s a family trait
, she thought,
given Will’s similar, but worse, fear of flying
. The plane came to a halt for a minute or so, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

I’m still your number one fan.

This thought was unexpected and unwelcome. Emma glanced across at Dan, who smiled reassuringly.

The noise level rose as the engines sped up and, seconds later, propelled the plane forward at unnerving speed.

I can’t wait to see you again, Emma.

Emma gripped the arm rests of her seat as the plane rose into the sky, angling into the blue, leaving the ground far behind. She closed her eyes as the plane banked a hard right, gaining altitude as it turned.

I’m so glad you’re coming back to me.

Emma tried to shut out the thoughts.

She would arrange the counselling appointment for that week, if at all possible.