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  She heard the crack of the branch as she followed the footpath into the tangled scrub, which skirted the edge of the cliffs for 100 yards or so before emerging on to a gorse heath. The path wound its way through waist-high gorse and among stunted wind-blasted trees, which had taken the shape of the gnarled old men of children’s fairytales, and in the moonlight they looked almost alive. She froze, using the sleeve of her jacket to wipe away the self-pitying tears which had started brimming in her eyes, and peered through her smeared mascara at the path snaking away ahead of her. The sound had come from somewhere to her right, a few yards ahead of her, she was sure of it. A fox? Maybe a badger? Hardly. Not out here anyway, and this had been a heavy ‘crack’, like a shoe or boot inadvertently stepping on a fallen branch rather than the wrong-footed move of some nocturnal predatory animal.

  She shivered and gripped the torch she had brought with her more tightly in her hand before moving off again, her eyes darting left and right, looking for the slightest sign of movement. There was nothing and the alarming sound was not repeated. Maybe she had been mistaken? She was already over-wrought and imagination could easily play cruel tricks in such circumstances.

  The derelict engine-house appeared suddenly as she rounded a curve in the path, its attendant chimney stack reaching towards the face of the moon like an accusing finger. She stopped short, swallowing hard. She had passed this relic to Cornwall’s tin-mining past so many times in the weeks she had occupied The Beach House without giving it too much thought, but that was until now.

  Silence, but for the murmur of the sea at the foot of the cliffs just yards away. She turned her torch around, so that the heavy end was held out in front of her like a weapon, and advanced slowly towards the ruined building. Nothing. The moonlight peered myopically through the empty windows, illuminating them like jaundiced eye-sockets, and a night bird of some sort rose with a startled cry from the tangle of ivy choking the door-less entrance.

  Shaken at first by the panic-stricken flight of the bird, she now breathed a sigh of relief. There was more heath, extending for about 20 yards beyond the engine-house and then, 30ft or so further on, the path dropped away into a cleft leading to the cove and her bungalow. Nearly home, thank goodness. A reassuring thought – but it was then that she happened to glance behind her and wished she hadn’t.

  The dark figure had appeared suddenly from the scrub behind her, striding purposefully towards her along the track. A man, she felt certain, wearing a hooded coat, with the hood drawn up over his head. She stifled the sharp cry which rose to her lips and quickened her pace, heading past the engine-house, then out of the scrub and across the heath towards the cleft in the cliffs and the path down to the cove.

  She risked another glance over her shoulder. The man seemed to be walking faster too and actually gaining on her. She tripped and almost fell, reached the cleft, and practically threw herself into it, stumbling once before breaking into a run down the steep slope towards the sea. She thought she heard footsteps behind her, thudding on the parched earth. But then she was out in the open again, sticking to a narrow line of shingle bordering a jumble of rocks to her left, conscious of the surf now licking at her shoes after the in-rush of the tide a few hours before.

  The wooden bungalow stood on a ridge several feet above the beach, accessed by a flight of steep wooden steps anchored into the sand by the supporting posts of twin handrails. She caught her knee on the left-hand post as she went for the steps two at a time. The pain almost made her falter, but the thought of what was behind her drove her on regardless. She made the decking at the top with a gasp of relief, then yanked her key from her pocket and rammed it into the lock of one of the French doors with a force which threatened to remove it from its hinges.

  Slamming the door shut behind her, she locked up again and leaned against it, drawing breath into her starving lungs in long agonised gasps which set her chest on fire and brought a metallic-tasting bile up into her throat.

  Closing her eyes tightly in suppressed panic, she waited for her pursuer to reach the door and try to force it open – listened for his heavy footfalls on the wooden decking. But all she could hear was the sound of the sea, and as her breathing normalised and the shakes in her legs grew less and less, she edged her way along the wall to peer out of the living room window.

  Moonlight still flooded the cove and the only sign of life was the black silhouette of what looked like a freighter of some sort way out on the horizon, displaying the usual glittering navigation lights. Her pursuer had completely disappeared.

  Frowning, she tip-toed to the small square hallway at the front of the bungalow, picking up a heavy iron doorstop on the way. There was no sign of anyone on the patch of lawn which served as her front garden or on the track leading up to the main road, past where her silver Mercedes car was parked.

  She checked the house thoroughly after that, satisfying herself that the front door was tightly bolted and the kitchen and bedroom windows were securely fastened. Then she returned to the living room and peered through the window to ensure no one was lurking out there on the decking. But there was no sign of a soul.

  ‘Silly cow!’ she breathed, pouring herself a gin and tonic from the assortment of bottles on the sideboard. He was probably just a late-night walker or jogger. Nothing more.

  She gulped down some of the spirit and shivered, her fears returning in a rush. So maybe he was, but then what had he been doing lurking about in the copse in the first place? Yeah, and why had he come after her the way he had? She glanced at the luminous dial of her wristwatch – 11.30pm. What was a walker or jogger doing on the cliffs at this time of night anyway? And if he wasn’t a walker or a jogger, exactly what was he? A mugger or sexual pervert maybe? Perhaps something even worse? Remembering the warning from Detective Chief Inspector Benchley about the terrorists who could still be looking for her, she shivered again, her imagination conjuring up all sorts of horrific possibilities.

  It was past 1am before she managed to pluck up sufficient courage to climb into bed. Even then she lay there for a long time, turning the night’s events over and over in her hyped-up brain and wondering what to do about them.

  At first, her run-in with the character in the hooded coat took pride of place in her disturbed ponderings. Yet, as the initial panic gradually subsided and common sense began to prevail, she found herself looking at the incident in an entirely different light. Frightening though it had been at the time, was it possible that her own imagination had coloured things to the point that neurosis had taken over? There was really nothing to say that the hooded man had actually pursued her. She had only assumed he had, thought she had heard his footsteps pounding after her. Despite all her previous suspicions, misgivings – call them what she would – she had absolutely no evidence to back them up. She had met a hooded man on a lonely clifftop late at night and had assumed he was up to no good. Yet he had said nothing to her, had made no attempt to assault her, and in the end had disappeared before she had reached home. Surely, if he had been up to no good, he would have done something unmentionable to her before she had got away from him? She was over-reacting, letting her imagination rule her head. It was a balmy night. Why shouldn’t he be out for a walk, just like her? Yes, the more she thought about it, the more stupid her fears seemed to be, and in the end she found herself dismissing the whole incident as another non-event.

  Alan Murray was a more difficult proposition, however. She had reacted like a fool to a perfectly innocent gesture and had probably put him off her for good. So, what did she do to rectify the situation? Go and see the man in the morning and apologise or just make out the spat had never happened in the first place and hope that he would come around again eventually?

  Going for the apology option was certainly the obvious course, but it was not as simple as it appeared. After all, what would she say to him? “Sorry I behaved like an idiot last night, Alan, but I thought you were trying to screw me.” She snorted. Oh, that would really sound good
, wouldn’t it? Probably result in her digging an even bigger hole for herself than she had already.

  She frowned at the lamp-lit ceiling. On the other hand, she couldn’t just bury the whole thing, could she – try and make out it had never happened? What would he think of someone who had insulted him in his own house, then run off into the night like a naive schoolgirl after her first petting session? Somehow she had to make amends and no matter how embarrassing that was, she would have to do it.

  She was still thinking of his lithe tanned body and ready smile as she finally succumbed to the rhythmic swish of the sea below her bungalow and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  The rap on the front door came at precisely 11am next morning, just as Lynn finished dressing. Opening up, she found a very fat bejewelled Freddie Baxter, dressed in one his usual flamboyant outfits, standing on the doorstep with another man, wearing a polo-necked sweater and jeans. Damn it! With all the night’s excitement, she had completely forgotten that they were coming.

  ‘Hi sweetness,’ Baxter smarmed, openly appraising her trim figure in the beige shorts and white T-shirt. He waved a podgy hand in the direction of his companion. ‘Thought I’d bring along my business associate who you’ll be working with on set.’

  ‘On set?’ Lynn said, frowning as she ushered them through into the living room. ‘What are you talking about, Freddie? I thought you had a modelling job in mind?’

  The fat man fell on to the settee beside his companion like a sack of cement, mopping his florid face with a brilliant yellow handkerchief. ‘So I have – in a manner of speaking,’ he replied, then added, ‘Any gin on that little sideboard of yours, sweetness? Need a large one.’

  Lynn’s mouth tightened, but she went to the sideboard and did the honours anyway, adding the contents of a small bottle of tonic to the tumbler.

  ‘And what about Mr … er …?’ she queried, nodding in the direction of the other man as she handed over the glass.

  Baxter’s companion declined a drink with a shake of his head. ‘Vernon,’ he said in a soft lisping voice. ‘Vernon Wiles. Everyone calls me Vern.’

  Well, they would, wouldn’t they, she mused? She studied the pinched white face, long thin nose and restless brown eyes, thinking uncharitably of how much he reminded her of a weasel.

  ‘Lovely spot, my dear,’ Baxter continued between slurps, ‘but too damned hot for me right now. Talk about an Indian summer—’

  ‘So, what’s this job you’re offering then?’ Lynn cut in, irritated by the small talk and anxious to get this odious little man out of her house so she could head over to Alan’s place to sort things out.

  Baxter grinned, exposing a mouthful of gold fillings. ‘Sort of filming, sweetness. Vernon here is a film producer, aren’t you, Vern?’

  She sat down carefully in the armchair opposite, staring briefly at her bare feet and wishing she had put more nail polish on her toenails. ‘A film producer?’ she repeated, unconvinced. ‘A film producer with who?’

  Wiles smiled. She wished he hadn’t, for he exposed a rack of crooked teeth which looked none too clean. ‘Small company,’ he answered for Baxter. ‘We call ourselves “Verniscope” actually.’

  ‘Verniscope? Never heard of you.’

  ‘No … er … probably not. We provide entertainment for a select niche market.’

  Lynn’s eyes narrowed. ‘And why are you interested in me?’

  Wiles shifted in his seat a little uneasily. ‘We need a new lead actress.’

  She laughed bitterly. ‘What, for a horror film? You can see the scars on my face. I’ve plenty more. All over.’

  He held up a slender white hand. ‘Oh please, our audience wouldn’t mind that. They like the unusual.’

  Lynn started, gripping the chair arms so tightly as she leaned forward that the whites of her knuckles showed through the skin. ‘Exactly what sort of films are we talking about, Vernon?’ she grated.

  He smiled again, then shrugged. ‘Romances mostly—’

  ‘You mean porn, don’t you, you dirty little moron?’

  Wiles looked decidedly uncomfortable now and he threw a swift pleading glance at Baxter. The fat man sighed. He didn’t embarrass so easily. ‘Oh come on, Lynn, you’re not some naive teenager. You’ve taken your clothes off before.’

  She sprang to her feet so suddenly that Wiles nearly jumped off the settee.

  ‘Yes, Freddie,’ she blazed, ‘but not to satisfy the perverted appetites of the dirty raincoat brigade. I was a model – a damned good one – and with your lucrative agency business, I’m surprised that you have involved yourself in this kind of filth.’

  He grinned. ‘Just a little side-line, I assure you,’ he replied. ‘Meeting the needs of the market and all that – just like you were doing when I first found you in that bar, pole-dancing. Forgotten that, have you?’

  ‘That’s a whole lot different to the sort of filth you’re talking about. How can you even think that I would stoop so low as to … to—?’

  ‘Money,’ he cut in. ‘A lot of it. It’s a business that pays top-notch salaries. Vernon is prepared to make you a very good offer.’

  Lynn was quivering with anger now, her fists clenched tightly by her sides. ‘I don’t give a damn what this little creep is prepared to offer me – now get out, the pair of you!’

  Baxter’s near permanent grin faded. Switched off like a neon sign on a rundown city street. ‘It’s only a friggin’ movie,’ he exclaimed in exasperation. ‘You wouldn’t actually have to do anything, just pretend. And it’s not as though we’re talking about snuff – only a bit of simulated Rumpy-pumpy.’

  ‘I said, get out!’

  Baxter scowled and hauled himself to his feet with much panting and wheezing. ‘I come all the way down here to help you and this is all the thanks I get,’ he grumbled.

  Lynn snorted. ‘You came down here, Freddie, because of the cut you thought you were going to get out of the porn films, nothing more. Well, now you can go back disappointed, can’t you? Life’s a real bitch, isn’t it?’

  The fat man’s face twisted into a vindictive mask and he waggled a podgy finger a few inches from her nose. ‘You’ll find out just how much of a bitch life can be if you cross me,’ he snarled. ‘Just remember that the press – not to mention the scumbags who planted that bomb – have no idea where you have gone to ground at present and the celebrity tabloids in particular would just love to get a few hot shots of the famous Lynn Giles, post-incendiary. It would make brilliant dramatic visuals for the glossies – you know the sort of thing, “Top Model, then and now”. Maybe I should give them a bell?’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Wouldn’t I? Now you listen to me, Miss! Those scars of yours cost me a bundle. Not only did I have to pay you that extortionate severance bonus, but I was on the verge of clinching a serious contract for you that would have set me up for life. Now the whole lot’s gone to rat’s shit. Well, you’re going to make it up to me, whether you want to or not, and you’d better believe it!’

  Waddling to the door after Wiles, he turned and stabbed a finger in her direction. ‘You know my mobile number,’ he finished, ‘and you’ve got 24 hours to agree terms. After that, things are likely to get pretty nasty.’

  Then he was gone and as the sleek black BMW pulled away from the house with a swirl of gravel, Lynn stared into the mirror through her tears and saw the end of the world.

  ****

  ‘Anyone in?’

  Lynn had not heard the knock on the front door and she swung round quickly. Alan Murray was feeling his way through with his stick, a large bunch of flowers clasped awkwardly in the same hand, preceded by an enthusiastic tail-wagging Archie. She hesitated, taken aback by his sudden appearance, her head still reeling over her run-in with fat Freddie. Then recovering quickly, she stepped forward and took his arm.

  ‘Alan, what – what a nice surprise,’ she said in a low halting voice as she guided him towards the settee. ‘I … I wasn’t … er �
��’

  ‘Expecting me?’ he finished for her, sitting down heavily and patting the black Labrador’s head as the animal dropped obediently on to the floor beside him.

  She bit her lip. ‘Well, we hardly parted on the best of terms last time, did we?’ she commented wryly.

  He gave an equally rueful smile, his face turned slightly away from her. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to apologise.’ He thrust the bunch of flowers out in front of him with a grin. ’A peace offering. I hope the florist picked the best and the taxi driver didn’t damage them.’

  She took the flowers and laid them across the coffee table, feeling her embarrassment mounting. ‘They’re … they’re beautiful, thank you … but it’s me who should be apologising. I behaved like a silly schoolgirl—’

  ‘And I behaved like a chauvinist pig,’ he cut in, waving her to silence. ‘No excuses. I was right out of order. I can only ask you to forget what happened and give me a chance to make amends.’

  ‘Make amends?’

  His boyish grin returned with a vengeance. ‘Another dinner date perhaps?’ he suggested. ‘There’s a little place I know in Lizard Town that I’m sure you would like.’

  ‘I have a better idea,’ she said on sudden impulse. ‘Why don’t you let me cook for you this time? It’s the very least I can do. Shall we say here, at 8pm tonight?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s hardly me making amends, is it?’