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  ****

  Vernon Wiles shook his head vigorously, spilling some of the wine in his glass down his sweater as he did so. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘I’m not getting involved in your madcap scheme. I’m going back to the Smoke.’

  Fat Freddie smiled, but there was no humour in it. ‘Be my guest, Vern,’ he said quietly, ‘but I’d have to hang on to my car and it’s a hell of a long walk from here. ‘Mind you, I suppose you could always hitch or try to catch a train from somewhere?’ He sat back in his chair. ‘And of course, I would have to reconsider my partnership with someone who ran out on me, which would mean no more financial investment in your little business.’

  Wiles gaped at him. ‘Come on, Freddie, you wouldn’t do that? It would ruin me.’

  Baxter sighed, pausing briefly as a young waitress set some cutlery before them both. ‘Sorry, Vern,’ he went on as she withdrew, ‘but back-scratching is a two-way thing, you know.’

  The big man leaned forward across the table. ‘Listen,’ he said earnestly, ‘I need to find out what that Giles bitch is up to. Then maybe I can force her to play ball. One night’s stay here, that’s all I’m suggesting and then it’s back to your beloved shithole.’

  Wiles frowned. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘You don’t have to like it. All you’ve got to do is to come with me when I drive out to that blind tosser’s place and wait with the car while I have a nose around.’

  ‘And what do you expect to find?’

  ‘Hell, how should I know? But any guy who takes a girl flowers has to have the hots for her, so it’s worth taking a closer look at him.’

  Wiles chewed his lip. ‘Then tomorrow it’s straight back to the Smoke, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘You’ve got it, Vern.’

  The little porn film man took a deep breath. ‘I just hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said.

  Baxter beamed. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ he said, raising a hand towards the bar to indicate they were ready to order their meal. ‘You worry too much.’

  Wiles made a face. Maybe he did, he mused, but something inside him told him that this time he had good reason.

  ****

  Lynn sat down heavily on the edge of her bed, her open jewellery case beside her and a brandy in one trembling hand. An inspection of her bedroom had revealed that around £50 had been stolen from a top drawer of her dressing-table. A small amount of jewellery, including a distinctive gold necklace, diamond ring and matching earrings, had also been taken from her jewellery box, the empty red felt interior of the box now leering up at her in a mocking grin.

  She took a deep breath, downing some of the brandy in a gulp. Walking in on the intruder had understandably shaken her and losing her best jewellery should have added to the trauma. Yet although she felt angry about the theft of her property, in a peculiar way she also felt relieved that it was missing. The fact that money and jewellery had been stolen suggested that the break-in had been motivated by simple gain rather than by something more sinister.

  The point was what to do about it? She had already made up her mind not to inform the local police. In a low crime area like this such an incident, involving someone like her, would arouse a lot of interest if the details got out and that would very quickly bring the celebrity press racing down to Cornwall from London to scupper her anonymity. Furthermore, the culprit was unlikely to be caught, whatever happened, and if she informed her insurance company of the break-in, they were likely to insist on her contacting the police before they did anything, which took her back to square one. She did consider confiding in Alan Murray – more as a means of reassurance than anything else – but then dismissed the idea as a non-starter. In the first place, she didn’t know him well enough yet and secondly, if she did tell him, he was also bound to put pressure on her to contact the police. As for Alan himself, in his condition he wasn’t in any position to offer her physical support for the future should her burglar come back, so why involve him at all? No, maddening though it was, she had no option but to swallow her pride and her loss, forget what had happened – and get her locks changed, of course.

  Draining her brandy glass, she set about clearing up the mess her intruder had left behind before concentrating on the special dinner she had to prepare for the evening.

  And as she bustled around the bungalow, the same hooded figure, which two days before had watched her from the clifftops, crouched among the rocks that bordered the beach, once more studying her every move through a pair of binoculars while munching on a small red apple.

  ****

  Vernon Wiles could not help fidgeting in the driving seat of the Mercedes as he stared through the fly-spattered windscreen into the dying day. It was as if the sea had been set on fire, creating a fierce orange glow tinged with liquid gold which seemed to be reaching further and further up into the heavens as the sun began its slow descent into oblivion. It would be a while yet before it was completely dark, but the little man took no comfort from that fact. With the departure of Freddie Baxter over two hours before, he had suddenly felt a growing sense of unease in the empty car park. His business partner had promised he would only be gone about an hour, so he was well overdue and that put him on edge. Whatever Freddie was up to, Wiles knew that he himself would be seen as a part of it all if things went wrong, and he didn’t like that one little bit.

  He’d never wanted to come to rural Cornwall in the first place. He hated the countryside – any countryside – with a vengeance. All those fields, hedges and woods did his head in and the coast had an even worse effect on him. Who in their right mind would want to live on the edge of a cliff, miles from anywhere? It didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t wait to get back to the mean dirty streets of the city he knew so well. In London, with all its noise and almost claustrophobic closeness, he felt safe and secure, but out here, in this empty wilderness, there was nothing solid to hold on to, nowhere to hide, and that infected him with a sense of isolation and agoraphobic vulnerability.

  What made things even worse was the fact that he was only still in this god-forsaken place because he had once again allowed himself to be intimidated by Freddie Baxter, and he was still seething over the other’s threat to withdraw his investment in his business if he didn’t play ball. Seething not just over the threat itself, but the fact that Freddie had felt confident enough to make it. Baxter obviously felt secure in his belief that weak, spineless little Vernon was totally dependent on him and that made Wiles feel subservient, humiliated and very angry. Deep down, he had always hated his so-called partner and his constant bullying and intimidation, which he had had to endure for so many years, and he longed to break away from him and go his own way. He knew that finding another financial backer wouldn’t be that difficult in his line of business. But Baxter made a formidable enemy and he was acutely conscious of the fact that, if he ever had the temerity to openly go against him, the fat man would, without the slightest compunction, do his level best to destroy him, just like he was planning to do with Lynn Giles if she continued to defy him.

  Wiles was determined not to let that happen, but as he sat there in the gathering gloom, his hatred for Freddie Baxter eating away at him like a cancer, he knew he only had two options available to him. He could swallow what fragments of pride he had left and sit in the car and wait, as he had been told to do, or for the first time in his life he could make a stand and drive off and leave him. Unless, he thought vindictively, Freddie were to take the decision out of his hands altogether by falling off a cliff and breaking his flabby neck. But there again, that was just too much to hope for …

  CHAPTER 8

  The taxi had drawn up in front of The Old Customs House with a swirl of gravel and Murray and Archie were already waiting outside when it arrived.

  From his concealed position in a patch of scrub just yards away, Freddie Baxter lowered the binoculars he had been using and watched with a sense of excitement as they left. Heavily overweight and in poor physical cond
ition, Baxter had found the half hour spent crouched in the undergrowth a real endurance test, but driven by a vindictive determination to “fix” Lynn Giles, he had stayed the course and now had come the reward he had never expected. He had already satisfied himself from his uncomfortable stint of surveillance that there was no one else in the house and with Murray and the dratted dog now conveniently out of the way – no doubt for a substantial period if Lynn’s new boyfriend was using a taxi – he was presented with the ideal opportunity to get up close and personal with the place. Maybe even take a look inside.

  He waited some time before he made his move, then hauling himself up off his knees with much panting and wheezing, he lumbered across the short expanse of heath to the front gate, smirking when he saw the sign, “Private. Beware Land Mines”. So, Mr Murray was a bit of a comic, was he, he mused? Be interesting to see what else the dickhead was.

  He rang the front doorbell first, just to make sure there was no one inside – ready with a plausible “lost motorist” excuse if anyone opened up – but the bell jangled on emptiness and satisfied after a couple of minutes’ wait, Baxter waddled down the side of the house and mounted the short flight of steps to the patio.

  Absolute stillness. Even the sound of the sea seemed to have receded into the gathering dusk. He cupped his hands and peered through the wooden patio doors, noting a living room sparsely furnished with a fully upholstered three-seater settee and some rather shabby dark wood furniture. He studied the eaves of the house. No sign of wires or an alarm box. He grunted and gently tried one of the doors – feeling a thrill when it gave slightly. ‘Careless boy,’ he muttered and pulling it open, stepped inside, freezing a moment to prepare himself for any burglar alarm activation. Nothing happened and a quick glance around the room with the aid of his torch revealed a total absence of anything resembling an infra-red sensor. He couldn’t believe his luck. The place was wide open. Now all he needed was a 20-minute nose around to see if he could turn up anything of interest on Mr Alan Murray. As it was, he found it in 15 minutes.

  ****

  Lynn was tired and edgy. She desperately wanted her special evening to be a success and although all the necessary preparations had been made, she couldn’t help checking and re-checking to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. With the strain getting to her, she finally decided to take some time out to relax with a drink, but it wasn’t to be. Clutching a glass of Chardonnay in one hand, she had only just deposited herself on the settee and taken a sip when the telephone rang, forcing her to set the glass down on the coffee table while she got up to answer the call instead.

  ‘Hi, sweetness,’ Freddie Baxter’s sneering voice greeted her.

  ‘Piss off, Freddie,’ she grated. ‘And the answer is still no.’

  There was a soft chuckle. ‘Now, that’s no way to speak to an old friend,’ he said. ‘Quite hurtful actually.’

  She tutted impatiently. ‘What do you want, Freddie? I’m busy.’

  There was a heavy sigh. ‘Well, you know, I was just sitting on this clifftop seat in the setting sun, looking down into your little cove, and I got to thinking that the only thing missing on this balmy evening is the company of a pretty girl and a nice bottle of wine.’

  She snorted. ‘Then call up one of your slimy boyfriends.’

  Baxter ignored the remark. ‘So you wouldn’t care to join me then? We could sit and watch the sun go down together.’

  She released her breath in a short, irritable sigh. ‘Do me a favour, Freddie, just sod-off back to London, will you?’

  Another chuckle. ‘Oh. I’m in no hurry to do that, luvvie. Actually, Vern and I have already booked rooms at The Blue Ketch Inn. Might stay a few days.’

  ‘Why don’t you just jump off the cliff instead. Do everyone a favour?’

  ‘Oh, your little teeth are so sharp today, aren’t they, sweetness? And just as I was about to give you the SP on poor old Blind Pugh too.’

  Baxter’s analogical reference to the fictitious character in Robert Louis Stephenson’s Treasure Island seemed to amuse him and his throaty chuckle almost ended in a choking fit.

  Lynn frowned, her senses sharpening at the heavily loaded remark. ‘And who’s Blind Pugh when he’s at home?’ she queried, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  Baxter laughed again. ‘Oh come on, my dear. No need to be coy. And I have to admit Alan Murray is rather dishy, in spite of his disability. I quite fancy him myself, in fact.’

  She swallowed hard. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t you, luvvie? Well now, that does surprise me, seeing as he brought you such a nice bouquet. He’s got a lovely home too. Just had a recce.’

  Lynn felt a mixture of anger and indignation surface in a rush. ‘You broke into Alan’s house?’

  There was a feigned gasp. ‘Broke in? Qui, moi? As if I would do a thing like that. But if good old Alan chooses not to lock his patio doors, well, who am I to pass up such an opportunity.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Your prerogative, sweetness, but it was a very illuminating visit, I can assure you. Discovered some rather interesting things.’

  Lynn was gripping the telephone receiver so tightly that she heard the plastic make a sharp cracking noise. ‘Like what, for instance? Alan is a nice, thoroughly decent man. A respected thriller-writer too.’

  ‘You sure about the writing bit, sweetness? Never heard of him myself, nor has anyone in the village apparently, and you won’t find any of his thrillers on the internet or in the library, of that I’m certain. I mean, what do you really know about him? And more importantly, exactly what does he know about you? See, I’m in a bit of a dilemma. Do I tell you what I’ve learned about nice, thoroughly decent Alan, or do I tell him what I know about not-so-nice you? For instance, is he aware of your rather unsavoury past or that he has actually latched on to damaged goods?’

  Lynn’s teeth were clenched tightly as she snarled back at him. ‘You’re sick, you know that, don’t you? A complete waste of a skin – it could have been given to someone else.’

  ‘Of course,’ Baxter continued, unabashed, ‘my dilemma could be overcome quite easily by a simple “yes” to a certain contract. Then all the little secrets you and I share could remain as … er … well, secrets?’

  ‘You can rot in hell,’ Lynn threw back at him.

  The menace was back in his tone now, low and deadly. ‘Maybe I will, sweetness, but not before I wreck what future you have left in this world.’

  ‘Go screw yourself!’ she snarled, and before he could say anything else she had slammed the phone down on him.

  ****

  Freddie Baxter had certainly struck gold and he’d hardly been able to contain himself after carefully closing the patio door of The Old Customs House behind him and making his way back to the front gate. Okay, so the whole thing had taken a lot longer than he’d intended and poor old Vernon would be worried sick by now, but one find had led to another and he hadn’t been about to quit while he was ahead. Coupled with which, he didn’t give a jot about Vernon’s feelings anyway.

  Stopping by the wrought-iron seat on his way back to the car and giving the Giles bitch a ring had been a spur of the moment thing, motivated by malicious glee. But while the call had only been short, it had been oh so rewarding. As a result, he was on a real high as he made his way through the gorse and scrub, which had previously sheltered him, following the narrow path towards the derelict engine-house. Once on the heath which lay beyond the last few yards of scrub, he had intended heading for the car park where he’d left Vernon and the BMW, but then suddenly he saw the figure in a hooded coat approaching him, head down, along the footpath. He scowled angrily. The last thing he wanted was to be seen coming away from Murray’s house. Fortunately it didn’t look as though the person had seen him, so at least he had time to hide. After a second’s hesitation, he stepped off the track into the undergrowth choking the empty doorway of the engine-house. Then feari
ng he could still be seen, he pushed right through a tangle of ivy into the evil-smelling gloom and froze as he waited for the approaching walker to pass by.

  But fat Freddie was in for a big surprise. As he stared through the doorway with mounting alarm, the figure turned sharply towards him and headed straight for his hiding-place.

  ****

  Alan Murray was very late. Lynn, dressed in a long blue dress and high heels, frowned at the clock on the bookshelf and sighed heavily. She was sure she’d told him 8pm. Yet it was now after 9pm and he still hadn’t turned up. The annoying thing was, she’d geared the meal to 8.30pm, to give them time for a pre-dinner drink and a chat. Now, not only would that be out of the question, but the lettuce leaves on the artistically arranged crab salad were already beginning to look sad and limp and from the smell wafting out of the kitchen, she knew that it wouldn’t be long before the dauphinoise potatoes and mangetout she had prepared to accompany her fillet steaks were ready.

  Damn! Damn! Damn! Where was the man? For the umpteenth time she crossed to the window to peer out into the evening gloom, but there was still no sign of anyone in the moonlit lane at the front of The Beach House and she thought that with his disability Alan would hardly come the back way, via the headland and the beach.

  But she was wrong. The sudden tapping on the French doors sent her back into the living room in a rush. The tall figure seemed to be leaning against the wall to one side of the doors and it was only when she opened up that she realised something was very wrong. Alan Murray was muddy and dishevelled and he staggered into the room like a drunken man, grabbing at her arm to steady himself as she led him to the settee. As he fell into the seat, rather than lowering himself into it, she saw that there was blood on his forehead, and although his dark glasses seemed intact, his face was dirty and the front of his jacket was torn.