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  She took a deep breath. ‘Let’s just put all that behind us and move on,’ she said, then emitted a soft chuckle. ‘And I promise I won’t hire Tremanny Enterprises to prepare dinner.’

  Now he laughed. ‘Touché,’ he replied, ‘and hopefully you won’t send me packing quite as quickly as you did your earlier visitor. He nearly ran me down in the lane.’

  She grimaced, remembering fat Freddie like a bad taste. ‘Just someone from a previous life,’ she said. ‘Best forgotten.’

  He nodded, but obviously didn’t want to leave things there. ‘Must have left half an inch of rubber on the road though,’ he said, his curiosity very evident. ‘Could do with an anger management course, don’t you think?’

  Lynn had no intention of entering into a discussion about her former boss and abruptly changed the subject. ‘Would you like a drink or something? Whisky, wine—?’

  ‘Lord, no,’ he interjected again. ‘Not at this time of the day and also, I’ve a novel to get on with. I hardly think alcohol would be much of a cure for writer’s block.’

  ‘Tea then, or coffee?’

  He stood up with a shake of his head. ‘Thanks anyway. I must be off. Only came to apologise – and to give Archie a walk, of course.’

  Lynn snorted. ‘Oh thanks,’ she retorted and bent down to rub Archie’s ears. ‘Just don’t spoil things by telling me who was your priority.’

  He gave another chuckle as she turned towards him. ‘Archie naturally,’ he said. ‘See you at 8pm then.’

  She was still smiling as she watched him make his way up the lane towards the main road, Freddie Baxter and his threats as far from her thoughts as they could possibly be. Suddenly life was beginning to look promising again. Suddenly for the first time since the bomb blast, she felt a surge of optimism for the future.

  She would not have felt quite so good about things had she known about the big black BMW parked in a gateway further up the lane and the two men in the car, who had witnessed Murray’s brief visit and his slow hesitant departure as he felt his way past them with his white stick, aided by the ever-patient Archie. Freddie Baxter’s grin could not have been broader as he started the powerful engine and pulled away. ‘Well, well, well, Mr Wiles,’ he commented to his companion in the front passenger seat. ‘Seems our little girl has an admirer – a blind pillock, no less. What is it they say? There’s none so blind as those who cannot see? Now that could be very useful to us, very useful indeed.’

  ****

  The public car park in Mullion village was virtually empty when Lynn pulled in close to the exit and got out of her Mercedes. She was determined to give Alan Murray a dinner he would never forget – for the right reasons – but as she walked briskly into the tiny village, her excitement was mixed with trepidation.

  What if she couldn’t get all the ingredients for her ambitious menu? After all, Mullion only had a few small shops. Maybe she should have gone into Helston? That was the trouble with living in the back of beyond – choice was limited. Okay, so the crab salad starter should not pose a problem. Seafood was pretty plentiful in this part of the world. But the fillet steak entrée she had in mind might prove elusive. Then what? Beans on toast? And another thing, what if it all went wrong that night or Alan failed to turn up? She started to feel sick, wondering if her offer of dinner had been a mistake. Well, it was too late for second thoughts now.

  She need not have worried, however. She managed to get everything she wanted – including a premium Italian red wine, a bottle of Chardonnay and a nice slab of Cornish Yarg cheese to follow her planned lemon meringue sweet.

  Elated by her successful shopping trip, she headed back to her car with a spring in her step. But her elation didn’t last long. A man wearing a dark hooded anorak was crouching by the front wheel of a small jeep a few yards from where she had left her Mercedes, ostensibly checking one of his tyres. She was immediately suspicious. What was he really doing there? Waiting for her to return perhaps? She noted the thin, angular build and the hooded coat and swallowed hard. It could easily have been the same man she had encountered on the headland the previous night, but as it had been dark at the time, it was difficult to be sure.

  Who the hell could the guy be and what did he want? Press? Possibly, but he didn’t seem to be carrying a camera of any sort. Furthermore, she didn’t recognise him from her days with the agency and she prided herself on knowing by sight most of the “rat-pack”, as the celebrity press were called. But if not press, then what? She shivered, keen to steer her thoughts away from the dark place to which they were heading and making every effort to focus her mind on her evening with Alan instead.

  But it was almost impossible. Even as she quickened her step, forcing herself to resist the temptation to cast another glance in the direction of her suspected stalker, she prepared herself for the moment when he would suddenly spring to his feet and sprint towards her in an attempt to cut her off before she could reach the driver’s door of her car. But he did nothing of the sort, and unable to stop herself throwing him a covert glance across the roof of the Mercedes as she flicked her remote and threw the door open, she saw to her surprise that he had not moved from his crouched position by the front wheel. In fact, he was apparently still engrossed in his examination of the tyre. Nevertheless, she suspected he was watching her out of the corner of his eye as she climbed into the driver’s seat – or was she just being paranoid again?

  Cursing through gritted teeth, she stalled twice before she managed to pull away and she was trembling fitfully as she accelerated along the narrow road out of the village, gunning the powerful car to a reckless 60mph as the exit road opened up before her. Thinking her suspected stalker might come after her, she glanced in her rear-view mirror, but there was no sign of the vehicle. Instead, what she was presented with was the single blazing headlight and flashing blue lights of a police Traffic motorcyclist. Seconds later the warbling note of the siren forced her to pull over to the side of the road.

  ‘Bit of a hurry, weren’t you, ma’am?’ the bearded policeman said, peering in at her, his grey eyes sweeping round the interior of the car.

  She winced, feeling totally stupid and searching for an excuse. ‘Sorry, officer, but I … I was trying to get away from a man who’s been stalking me.’

  Deep down, she now felt sure that the character with the Jeep had not been stalking her at all, but was just some ordinary motorist her imagination had seized upon to satisfy her rampant paranoia, but the blurted explanation was out before she realised what she had said.

  The policeman removed his sunglasses and studied her with renewed interest. ‘A stalker, you say?’ He turned to stare back along the empty road. ‘I don’t see anyone.’

  Lynn inwardly cursed herself for a fool. This was the last thing she wanted – arousing the curiosity of one of Cornwall’s finest and drawing unwanted attention to herself. ‘I’ve probably lost him now anyway.’

  He grunted. ‘What did he look like, this stalker?’

  Shit! She had done it now. Might as well just run with it. ‘Thin build, wearing a hooded coat. That’s all I could see. His face was obscured. But he … he was driving a jeep.’

  He produced a pocket book in a battered wallet and a pen. ‘Index number?’

  ‘I didn’t get it. I’m afraid.’

  He frowned. ‘Seen him before, have you?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, he followed me home on the headland above Bootleg Cove, where I live.’

  ‘What in a jeep?’

  ‘No, no, he was on foot.’

  ‘How do you know it was the same man if you couldn’t see his face?’

  She shrugged. ‘Same build, same coat. Bit of a coincidence.’

  ‘And why would he be stalking you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably a perv.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Would you step out of the car for a moment, ma’am.’

  Hell’s bells! Why couldn’t she just have accepted the speeding ticket? She’d have been on her way by
now.

  Climbing out of her seat, she forced a smile. ‘Really, it was probably my imagination.’

  He didn’t answer, but she could feel his eyes studying her with a new intensity.

  ‘Don’t I know you, ma’am?’

  She laughed unconvincingly. Surely cops weren’t into fashion mags? ‘I wouldn’t think so. I haven’t been living down here long.’

  Another grunt. ‘Licence?’

  The sudden change of tack took her by surprise and she simply stared at him. ‘Driving licence?’ he said.

  Her heart sank. Now her cover really would be blown. Reaching into the glove compartment she handed it over, watching for his expression to change when he saw the name ‘Lynn Giles’. But it didn’t and he handed the licence back after a cursory glance, obviously more interested in its validity than anything else.

  ‘Well, Miss Giles,’ he said, returning his wallet to his pocket, ‘I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt this time. If I catch you speeding again, I’ll throw the book at you, do you understand?’

  She nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, yes, thank you.’

  ‘And this stalker,’ he added drily as he turned away, ‘I suggest you come up with a better excuse than that in future, eh?’

  He treated her to a brief smile. ‘Nice car, though. Take care of it.’

  She breathed a deep sigh of relief as he roared off. No speeding ticket and her cover still intact. How lucky was that?

  Not that lucky, as it turned out. When she got home, she found that the French doors of The Beach House had been forced open – and if that wasn’t enough, the sudden thud of a cupboard door or drawer being closed indicated that the intruder was still inside.

  CHAPTER 7

  The bar of The Blue Ketch Inn was half full when Freddie Baxter ushered a reluctant Vernon Wiles through the door and all conversation stopped for a few seconds as the regulars gave the visitors the customary once-over.

  Wiles inwardly cringed. He hated being the centre of attention, much preferring the anonymity of the shadowy backstreet world of heaving flesh and sweaty film sets, which had been his life for 20 years. Now that Lynn Giles had so forcefully turned down the offer to “star” in one of his films, he couldn’t wait to shake off the indecently clean, salty tang of Cornwall and the sound of waves breaking on the shore, and get back to London’s poisonous cocktail of pollutants and the rumble of heavily congested traffic. At least then he would be on familiar territory. Not stumbling around some gorse-covered wilderness, up to the ankles of his new suede shoes in cow shit and being bitten half to death by sand flies – or whatever else the creepy-crawlies which seemed to infest the heathland scrub were called.

  The trouble was, his business partner and financial backer seemed in no hurry to leave and, as always, he called the shots.

  ‘Fresh air, Vern,’ Freddie Baxter had said with an extravagant wink, ‘that’s what we need – clear out the old lungs.’

  It was obvious that fat Freddie was up to something and it didn’t take the IQ of a genius to work out that whatever it was, it centred on Lynn Giles. Baxter was one of the most vindictive men Wiles had ever met and from past experience he knew it was a big mistake to cross him. The flamboyant entrepreneur would do practically anything to get even with someone who opposed him and spotting the blind man heading for The Beach House seemed to have sent his vengeful scheming mind into overdrive.

  What nasty little plan he was hatching, Wiles had no idea. Freddie rarely confided in him. But it was an even bet that lunch at The Blue Ketch was an essential part of it.

  Baxter’s bulging wallet hit the bar counter with just about the right amount of force and the thin cadaverous man on the other side slid off his stool like a serpent and slithered over to him, his snake-eyes eyes glinting. ‘Couple of double whiskies,’ Baxter said with an affected gasp.

  Snake-eyes nodded. ‘No problem, sir,’ he said in a thick Cornish accent and turned towards the optics. ‘Any partic’lar one?’

  Baxter took another deep breath and shook his head. ‘No, no … a Grouse will do.’

  The barman took his time pouring the two whiskies and slid them across the counter with an attempt at a smile, raising an eyebrow as the fat man drained the glass in a single gulp. ‘Looks like you needed that, eh?’ he commented, his question hanging in the air.

  It was the cue Baxter was waiting for and he went for it. ‘Damn right, I do,’ he retorted. ‘Nearly killed a man out there.’

  Conversation in the bar abruptly died and the barman leaned forward across the counter. ‘You don’t say?’ he breathed. ‘On the road, was it?’

  Baxter tapped his glass, ignoring Vernon Wiles’ astonished stare. ‘Stepped right out in front of me,’ he went on. ‘How I missed him, I just don’t know. Really shook me up, I can tell you. Damn fool with a black Labrador. Must have been blind.’

  ‘Maybe he was,’ another rough voice chimed in.

  Baxter turned to look at the man standing a few feet away. His bearded weather-beaten face and woollen hat suggested he was either a farmer or a fisherman and the hand holding the nearly empty pint glass was calloused and dirty. ‘What do you mean?’ he replied, playing him along.

  ‘Didn’t ’ave a white stick with him, did ’e?’ the man continued, without answering the question.

  ‘Yes, I believe he did have a stick, come to think of it. Don’t know whether it was white or not, though.’

  There was a murmur of understanding from the other drinkers. ‘Alan Murray,’ another voice piped up. ‘Lives up at The Old Customs ’Ouse on the ’eadland.’

  ‘Says ’e’s a writer,’ the barman came back in, though we got our doubts about tha’. Bit of a mystery is our Mr Murray, I reckons. Al’ays wanderin’ about with ’is dog, talkin’ to hisself on one of them tape things.’

  Baxter pushed his glass across towards him, nodding in the direction of the optics. ‘Well, he’s a bloody menace, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘What d’ye expect from an Emmet?’ someone else chortled and there was an answering roar of laughter from the rest of the drinkers.

  ‘Emmet?’ Baxter queried with a frown.

  ‘Vis’tor,’ Snake-eyes replied. ‘That’s what we calls ’em down ’ere. In Devon it’s Grockles.’

  ‘Which, I suppose, makes me and Vernon here Emmets as well?’

  Snake-eyes hesitated, obviously not wishing to upset customers. ‘S’pose it do really,’ he agreed carefully.

  And fat Freddie laughed too, nodding his understanding. He could afford to laugh. After all, he had got what he had come for, hadn’t he? Now he could sit down with Vernon and enjoy a nice lunch.

  ****

  Lynn froze on the patio decking, staring in open-mouthed astonishment at the splintered frame of one of the French doors. If she had entered The Beach House via the front door as usual, she would have been unaware of the break-in until she’d reached the living room and would have been totally unprepared for anyone lurking inside.

  Gently setting her shopping bags down against the wall, she swallowed hard. Yes, but now she was aware, what did she do about it? The sensible course was to call the police on her mobile, but that would mean attracting unwanted attention – maybe even result in a leak to the press about her whereabouts – and that was one thing she couldn’t afford. Then what? Quietly vanish and come back when it was safe to do so? But how long would that be and what if the intruder was waiting for her return anyway? Then there was the curiosity thing. Who was her burglar? Why had he picked her bungalow of all places? She just had to find out.

  Seeing a small hand-fork projecting from a patio planter beside the open door – she had been using it a couple of days before to pot a shrub – she carefully retrieved it, conscious of the fact that her heart seemed to be pounding almost as loudly as the breakers on the beach behind her. Then gritting her teeth, she pulled the damaged French door open a few more inches and stepped over the threshold into the living room, straining her ears for the slightest s
ound which would reveal her unwelcome visitor’s whereabouts.

  Silence. The floorboards creaked slightly as she crossed the room and she froze again. Damn it! Her intruder must have heard her car drawing up and the sound of her footsteps on the decking as she’d arrived. He would now also know she was actually inside The Beach House.

  She waited for him to make a move, but there was nothing, save a fly buzzing irritably against one of the living room windows. Wincing in anticipation of further creaks from the floorboards, she advanced a few more steps, stopping again when she passed through the connecting doorway into the hall.

  There was the sudden screech of a seagull from directly overhead and she heard something land on the roof, claws scrabbling on the sloping tiles. More thuds from above, then the sound of flapping wings – and a return to silence.

  Thrusting the little fork out in front of her, she pushed the right-hand door open with her other hand and peered into the spare bedroom beyond. Even from where she was standing she could see that the room was empty. But through the crack between the door and the frame she noted that all three drawers of the single wooden chest just behind it had been pulled out, their contents strewn across the floor.

  What the hell was the arsehole looking for – jewellery perhaps? Or maybe some loose cash?

  She checked her own bedroom directly opposite and saw much the same story. Open drawers gaping at her from a corner chest and the door of the single wardrobe leaning outwards on one hinge, clothing apparently pulled from the hangers and spilling through the gap on to the fitted carpet.

  Then she noticed the window. It was wide open, the corner of one of the curtains ripped from the rail and the curtain itself pulled through and hanging down the exterior wall.

  Striding over to it, she leaned out, staring up and down the narrow passageway which connected the front garden to the back steps of the decking. There was no sign of anyone.

  Wheeling around, she ran back into the living room and out on to the patio again. Shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun, she studied the cove and the path leading up to the headland. Her gaze met only a jumble of rocks and shingle at the foot of the steps, giving way to an empty beach. She was too late. Her intruder had flown, leaving her with the burning unanswered question – why? Somehow she sensed that this was something she really wouldn’t want to know.