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  She tossed her head contemptuously. ‘Are you blind or something?’

  He smiled again, but this time it was ironic and lacking in warmth. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am,’ he said. ‘Why else would I walk across a beach with a dog on a lead?’

  Lynn stared at him and unwittingly allowed the towel to slip through her fingers and drop to the sand. ‘You’re blind?’ she whispered, feeling embarrassed now for an altogether different reason. ‘Look, I … I’m so sorry. I just didn’t realise …’

  He silenced her with a wave of his hand. ‘No need,’ he said curtly. ‘I should be the one to apologise. After all, you’re quite right: I am a trespasser. Come on, Archie, time to go.’

  Before she could think of anything else to say, he had turned on his heel and was allowing the dog to guide him back across the beach towards the footpath, which led up on to the headland. ‘Damn!’ she breathed as she watched the muscular figure disappear from view. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’

  ****

  Over nine hours later, in an entirely different kind of environment some 300 miles away in London, the young police patrolman, ensconced in his patrol car at the back of Wong’s Chinese Restaurant, swore and dumped his take-away on the front passenger seat to take the message which had just come in over his personal radio.

  Switching on the car’s interior light, he scribbled down the address he had been given on the lid of the box containing his extra-large chow mein. Just his luck. It wasn’t often anyone could cadge a freebie out of Fu Wong and now that he had succeeded, the bloody thing was going to be cold before he could even stick his plastic fork into it.

  With five years at the sharp end of the Met, Dennis Jordan was well used to attending the bogus shouts as he and his colleagues liked to call the multitude of spurious alerts, which came in during the late evening when the pubs and restaurants turned out, and it was easy to get complacent about them. But the young bobby knew there was always a chance that one of them could be genuine and ignoring them was not an option, even if it did mean sacrificing one of Fu Wong’s best.

  Starting the engine, he turned out of the small car park at the back of the restaurant and joined the late-night traffic pouring back into the suburbs from the West End.

  He managed a few mouthfuls of his Chinese take-away on route, but then had to dump it on the seat again when he swung off the main road and shortly afterwards entered a familiar labyrinth of mean, unlit streets populated solely by shadows. His headlights caught a couple of those shadows peeling away from the front of a terraced house as he approached and with a wry smile he watched them disappear down an adjacent alleyway. He recognised them both as a couple of his resident dossers. Tenants of a twilight world of booze and drugs, who spent their days begging and shoplifting and their nights crashed out in any available derelict, sleeping off a skinful or an illicit fix. If they’d had anything to do with this call, he mused, giving his cold Chinese a rueful glance as he climbed out of his patrol car, then it looked like being yet another of the night’s hoaxes. But as it transpired, he could not have been more wrong.

  No lights showed in the windows of the rundown terraced house and the front door was wide open. Frowning, he directed his torch into the blacked-out hallway, then focused it on the staircase.

  ‘Police,’ he called, his voice echoing in the hallway. He knocked on the door with the base of his torch. ‘Anyone here?’ There was no reply. Although that was not surprising, as the place was obviously derelict, for some reason he felt a stab of apprehension and his heart began to race.

  He frowned. What was the matter with him? Okay, so checking derelict houses at night usually produced an adrenalin rush – you could never be sure what was waiting for you on the other side of the door – but he must have checked scores of them in his service and none had affected him quite like this. What was it the control room had said? A report of a break-in? But why would anyone want to break into a derelict? He checked the door. The lock was smashed and rusted. By the look of it, it was something that had been done a long time ago. Nothing to do with a recent break-in.

  Taking a deep breath, he moved towards the stairs, feeling the oppressive silence of this dark, creepy house pressing down on him with an almost tangible force.

  The bare risers creaked twice on his ascent, and reaching the top he quickly flashed his torch around the landing, half expecting a nightmare figure – like the murderous transvestite in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho – to rush at him out of the darkness, wielding a long-bladed knife. But apart from the distant sound of a train, nothing stirred.

  A number of rooms led off the landing, their open doors leering slashes blacker than the gloom around him, but immediately on his left one door was tightly closed for some reason. He knocked on it twice, calling again, ‘Anyone here?’

  From the street below, he heard the sound of a car drawing up and the metallic chatter of a radio. Another unit, thank goodness. As was usual in these cases, the control room had detailed some back-up.

  Feeling a lot more confident, he turned the handle of the door and pushed it open.

  The flies rushed out at him like angry hornets, forcing him back with a sharp cry as he swept them away from his face with both hands. His torch beam grazed a tattered blanket covering the window before splashing light wildly across the ceiling.

  ‘You okay, Dennis?’ his colleague shouted from the foot of the stairs. But Dennis Jordan was unable to reply. His horrified gaze was fixed on the figure slumped in the chair behind the table. That the man had been dead for quite some time was evident from the condition of the body and the stench which filled the small room. But the energies of the remaining flies, still feasting on the remains abandoned by the rats, lent a kind of grotesque quivering life to the partially decomposed facial muscles, which were locked into an obscene rictus grin.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Old Customs House was a white, two-storey building, which stood on the clifftop with its back to the sea and was bordered on the land side by tall shrubs. A notice on the slatted wooden gate warned, “Private. Beware Land Mines”, and Lynn smiled as she pushed it open. Mr Alan Murray obviously had a sense of humour, in spite of his disability.

  Just inside the gate, a turfed path ran down the side of the property for its entire length, between the line of shrubs and the house wall. Turning right, she followed it to the front of the place and a broad hard-standing where a lane trailed away through crowded woods, no doubt eventually connecting with the main road. A porch partially enclosed the front door, but there was no bell or knocker in evidence. She didn’t bother to rap on the weather-ravaged wood. Instead, she backtracked past the gate she had just used, down the side of the house, then at its end followed a high perimeter wall towards the sea.

  In just a few yards the path seemed to finish before a broken-down fence, close to the cliff edge, but that turned out to be an illusion. Closer inspection revealed that it actually struck off at a sharp right angle along a continuation of the perimeter wall behind the property, just a few feet from the sheer drop to the sea. It then disappeared into a tangle of gorse and bracken, only to re-emerge some 20ft further along, where steps crept down the cliff face between twin stone pillars. On the seaward side of the path, broken walls thrust their way up through the scrub masking the edge like jagged teeth and though the battered wooden sign just in front of her said nothing about land mines, it warned, “Danger. Concealed Mine Shafts”.

  She gripped the end post of the broken fence for support to peer over the cliff edge and shivered when she glimpsed a spit of sand scattered with rocks at the foot of the stone steps far below. It was one hell of a long way down and she had no intention of going any closer.

  Backtracking again, she discovered a stone archway set deep in the wall to her left, almost hidden by a tangle of climbing roses. A flight of steps climbed up through the archway and investigating further, she found herself on a small patio enclosed on the other three sides by another wall, this time only about 3ft high. S
he also found Alan Murray.

  He was dressed in a pair of khaki shorts, a green T-shirt and the ubiquitous sunglasses, and sitting at a round wooden table, talking into a Dictaphone. Archie, the Labrador, was stretched out beside him.

  The animal looked up quickly as she climbed the four steps on to the patio, and began to wag its tail in recognition. No doubt hearing her footfall, its master glanced towards her and switching off the Dictaphone, pushed his plastic chair back and stood up with a smile.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Miss Tresco. I wondered if you would call and see me after yesterday.’

  She stopped short. ‘I thought you were … were …’

  ‘Blind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I am.’

  ‘Then how could you possibly have known it was me?’

  He laughed outright. ‘I may be blind, but there is nothing wrong with my sense of smell – the suntan oil you wear is quite distinctive, if I may say so.’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Watson, eh?’

  His smile broadened. ‘Something like that. Also being blind, my other faculties tend to be sharper. Your lightness of step gave you away as a young lady and since I see precious few young ladies – particularly those who would walk round to the back of my house – I made a calculated guess.’

  She inclined her head in rather pointless acknowledgment. ‘Maybe your “Beware of Land Mines” sign put off all the young ladies there might have been?’ she suggested mischievously.

  He laughed. ‘That was just a bit of fun actually. Got a local chap to do it for me, but obviously I haven’t seen the thing myself. Good, is it?’

  ‘Well, effective anyway.’

  He laughed again, then looked serious for a moment. ‘Having said that, there are mines all along the cliffs here – old tin mines. Hidden shafts everywhere, and the cliffs are crumbling in places with deep fissures opening up which are concealed by the gorse. Even the public footpath on the other side of my patio wall has disappeared at one point. So it doesn’t do to wander too near the cliff edge.’

  ‘Yes, I saw the other warning sign just now.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know there was one. So you must have had a good look around, then?’

  She chuckled. ‘Just nosing. It’s a woman thing. Your own warning hint to stay away is pretty clear on its own, though?’

  He winced and pushed a second plastic chair towards her. ‘Yes, I must admit I do not normally encourage visitors. Bit of a recluse actually. But that certainly doesn’t apply to you, so please have a seat. I’m really delighted you chose to come.’

  She manoeuvred the chair and sat down a little uncertainly. ‘I don’t know why I did actually, except to apologise for my rudeness yesterday.’

  Another laugh and she noted how white and even his teeth were. ‘There was really no need, but I trust you are fully clothed now?’

  Lynn glanced down at her neat white shorts and matching blouse. ‘Oh yes, very respectable.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. But you must be thirsty. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘No, really—’

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘Then I must help you.’

  ‘No, damn it!’

  The rejection was sharp, almost violent, and his face had darkened appreciably. Half out of her chair, she sat down heavily again. Almost at the same moment his smile was back, as if he realised he had over-reacted.

  ‘I … I can manage, honestly. I’m well used to where everything is now.’

  She watched curiously and with growing admiration as he felt his way across to the open patio door and disappeared inside.

  If she expected the sound of breaking glass and a muffled curse as he knocked something over, she was pleasantly surprised. He was back with a selection of bottles and some glasses on a tray within minutes, setting them carefully on the little table beside her.

  ‘What would you like? Whisky, vodka, gin or just orange?’

  She smiled unnecessarily. ‘The orange will do just fine.’

  He picked the right bottle first time and poured without spilling a drop before half-filling another glass for himself from the whisky bottle. ‘You’re absolutely marvellous,’ she said, without thinking, as she took a sip.

  ‘And you are patronising,’ he retorted sternly.

  She bit her lip. ‘I was trying to be complimentary. There’s no need to take offence at everything I say.’

  He sighed and sat down opposite, ruffling Archie’s ears as the animal nuzzled his leg. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mary. Can I call you that? I’m afraid I’m a bit touchy about my … ah … disability. It’s very hard for sighted people to understand how important it is for a blind person to be treated normally and not to be regarded as some kind of a freak.’

  Lynn nodded grimly, remembering the intense press interest in her own condition, following the bomb outrage – the lengths to which the journalists had gone to obtain photographs of the scarred body, which had once adorned the glossy magazines. Sick, sick, sick.

  ‘Not only blind people either,’ she muttered bitterly, then added, ‘How did it happen?’

  Her sudden directness even shocked herself, but he seemed unperturbed by it.

  ‘Car accident couple of years ago,’ he replied. ‘Wrecked the optical nerves as well as my life. My wife was killed instantly.’

  Lynn shuddered. ‘How on earth can you keep going?’ she whispered.

  ‘What do you suggest I do instead?’ He drained his glass and sat back in the chair, playing with the rim. ‘Fate doesn’t give you a choice. Oh, I thought about the usual things – suicide, revenge against the drunken arsehole in the other car who had caused the accident – but in the end I recognised the futility of it all and just made the best of it.’

  ‘Aren’t you lonely out here all on your own, though?’

  ‘Not really. I have Archie and although he’s not much of a guard dog – bit of a coward actually and rarely barks or anything – he’s good company for me and he’s my eyes, of course.’

  ‘So, what do you do with yourself all day – apart from walking in on naked ladies on the beach?’

  He chuckled at the dig. ‘Creative writing has been my salvation. I’m not famous – only mid-list – but I don’t feel I’m doing that bad and it pays the rent for this place.’

  Lynn raised her eyebrows and leaned forward in her chair. ‘Writing? What, books, you mean? But how on earth—?’

  He tapped the Dictaphone on the table. ‘I use this. It goes everywhere with me – even to the bathroom.’

  ‘But don’t you find it difficult coming up with ideas when—?’

  ‘I’m blind? Don’t be frightened of the word, Mary – it is in the dictionary, you know. But to answer your question, no, I don’t find it difficult. In fact, I find it easier than when I had my sight. You see, as I indicated when you first came here today, the other senses like touch, taste and smell become more acute when you are in this predicament, and loss of sight also makes your imagination that much stronger.’

  ‘But what sort of books do you write?’

  ‘Oh, gory thrillers, I’m afraid. People being strangled, stabbed – even thrown off cliffs – anything goes really.’

  ‘I shall have to pop into my favourite bookshop in Helston and get hold of one of your novels – unless, of course, you have a spare copy here I could buy?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not available in hard copy, I’m afraid. All my books are digitised. It’s the way of the world now.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, I do have an I-pad, so I can easily order one. Have you a title for me?’

  He frowned and waved a hand dismissively. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t bother. You wouldn’t like them.’

  ‘You might be surprised. Do you write under your own name?’

  ‘Er … no, I use a non-de-plume.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’d rather keep that to myself for now.’

  ‘Whatever for? Being a professional writer is a real
achievement. I’m impressed.’

  ‘Maybe if you read my stuff, you wouldn’t be so impressed. The books are rather … er … risqué.’

  She grinned. ‘Risqué? What, you mean with naughty bits? That might be right up my street.’

  He fidgeted in his chair, obviously embarrassed. ‘Look, let’s just drop it, shall we?’ he snapped.

  Her mouth tightened, but sensing he was getting irritable and that she was not going to get anywhere anyway, she abruptly changed tack. ‘So are you working on something at the moment?’

  He nodded, relaxing a little now. ‘Since yesterday actually. Stumbling upon you on the beach gave me a marvellous idea for a new book.’

  ‘Me?’

  His smile was back and he chuckled again. ‘But of course. Mystery girl lying naked on the sand in a hidden cove. Who is she? What is she doing there? Excellent ingredients for a thriller.’

  It was her turn to laugh now. ‘Touché. But I’m hardly a mystery girl. After all, you know my name.’

  He shrugged. ‘Do I? So what’s in a name? I was able to get that from the local pub. But maybe it isn’t the right one, eh?’

  Lynn tensed. His face was turned towards her, but with his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, it was difficult trying to read his expression. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Oh, just a feeling I get. Maybe you’re running away from something. Trying to hide from the world perhaps?’

  ‘That’s silly. I … I’m just having a break, that’s all.’

  ‘A break? So what do you do when you’re not having a break?’

  She hedged. ‘Nothing especially. I … I’m between jobs at the moment.’

  ‘Doing what exactly?’

  She thought quickly. ‘I … er … I’m in teaching.’

  ‘Well, that’s interesting.’

  ‘Not really. Actually it’s quite boring.’ Lynn stood up sharply. He was getting far too close. ‘Now, if you’re through analysing, I must be off. I only came to apologise.’

  He must have sensed she was no longer sitting down, even though she had got up without moving her chair, and he stood up also, hand extended. This time she took it and felt a strange thrill run through her at the firm, dry grip.