by Anna Jacobs
Euan and Molly were waiting for them in the dining room with glasses of white wine in front of them and the bottle chilling in a cooler next to their table.
When they were offered a drink, Ross smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid wine doesn’t agree with me at the moment.’
‘What can we get you instead, then?’
‘Ginger beer would be nice.’
Euan raised one hand and the waitress hurried across immediately to take his order.
‘How long are you back for this time, Cindy?’ Molly asked.
‘A few months. I’m getting tired of flying to and fro.’ She turned to explain to Lara. ‘My youngest son and his wife live over here and are expecting another child, so I want to be around for that.’ She chuckled. ‘They said the second one was their last but nature has tricked them into a third. My daughter-in-law is not amused by it and it’ll help if I’m around to look after the other two while she produces the little dear. I like children. Do you have any, Lara?’
‘Yes, two, though they’re well past being children now. Darcie lives nearby and has a delightful baby daughter, but Joel isn’t married and travels a lot for his work.’
Lara was relieved when the focus shifted away from her. Her companions were very easy to chat to, if you had something to chat about, but she needed a respite from the main thing going on in her life. She’d no doubt be lying awake again for part of the night worrying, as she had done every other night since she’d arrived in England.
As they finished their desserts, she suddenly felt very tired and could see that Ross was fading.
‘Would anyone like a liqueur?’ Euan asked.
Lara shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’m only just out of jetlag and I’m running out of steam for today.’
Ross glanced sideways at her and then across at Molly. ‘I think we’ll leave you three to it.’
‘We can walk Cindy back to the village,’ Euan said at once.
Lara let out a long sigh as they strolled back to what everyone onsite called ‘the village’.
‘I enjoyed their company,’ Ross said.
‘So did I. But I really am tired now.’
It was still not fully dark because twilight seemed to linger in the UK, unlike Australia with its abrupt daily descent into darkness. When Lara stumbled, Ross quickly grabbed her, then offered his arm. ‘Hold on to me. I’ve got good night vision.’
‘I haven’t, I’m afraid.’ She hooked her arm into his and it felt comfortable, so she left it there.
‘I’ve been watching you, Lara. This is getting you down, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not surprised. Isn’t there any word from the police yet?’
‘No. I’m beginning to wonder if they’ll ever trace him. He’s been very clever.’
‘The police can be clever too and very persistent, especially with the more serious crimes.’
She could only shake her head. She didn’t dare let herself hope.
‘Nil desperandum.’
‘My dad always used to say that.’
‘Well then, it’s obviously the correct advice. And here we are. Home.’
‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’
He stepped away from her. ‘Thank you for your company. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning suit you?’
‘Yes. Or before that, if you’re ready. I’m an early riser.’
‘I used to be. Now, I never know when I’ll wake up – or when I’ll get to sleep. Go inside now and I’ll wait to see you lock your door as a gentleman should.’
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
Lara sketched a mock curtsey and opened the door. But for some weird reason as she turned to close it, they stood staring at one another. She admitted to herself that she didn’t want to go inside and be on her own again.
When he raised one hand and turned away, she nodded, forcing herself to close her door again.
As she put the lights on, she thought what an easy person he was to be with. So were the others. She’d fallen lucky with her neighbours.
She looked round. Even with such tatty furniture, for the first time it felt – well, like a home.
She didn’t linger downstairs but took her book up to bed with her – and wished she still had the warmth of Ross’s hand to hold instead.
Now, don’t be a fool, she warned herself. But to no avail. She really liked him.
She woke in the middle of the night, angry with herself because she’d been dreaming about Ross: his kindness, his charm and his intelligence. She didn’t usually dream about men in that way. Oh dear! She was no better than a stupid schoolgirl with a crush on the lad next door.
How strange! Guy was the only other man she’d dreamt about in that way.
Her whole world was topsy-turvy at the moment, so why not her dreams too? Well, Ross wouldn’t know about featuring in them, would he, so what did it matter? Even a practical, middle-aged woman was allowed to dream.
The moonlight was so bright she didn’t need to switch the lights on as she went to use the bathroom.
On her way back she looked out of the window at the moonlit scene. It was so beautiful she lingered.
Then a shadow moved and a figure in dark clothing wearing a hoodie walked along the far edge of the grass. Who would be out there at this time? The person seemed to be coming from the hotel towards the village.
The hotel had a good security system, but there was nothing in the unoccupied individual houses such as hers. A shiver ran down her spine. She’d better get some stronger bolts fitted to the doors. It didn’t hurt to be careful. And she’d mention the prowler to Ross.
She went into the next bedroom and switched on the light to show that people were wakeful here, then hurried back to the other room to watch. The figure had turned round and was running away towards the lake now.
That was not a good sign.
She watched for a few minutes longer but there was no sight of the person coming back or of anyone else hanging around for that matter. Perhaps it had been one of the hotel’s security staff? No, they’d not have run away when she switched the light on.
But why would anyone be walking round the houses? Checking them out?
Did someone know Ross’s aunt had had a lot of valuable collectibles and antiques? She’d definitely tell him about this prowler in the morning, just in case.
Getting back into bed, she tried to get to sleep, but it was a while before she managed it because she couldn’t get out of her mind the way the figure had turned and run away when she put the bedroom light on.
She was definitely going to get some heavy duty bolts fitted. She couldn’t afford to have a monitored security system installed, but maybe she could buy an alarm and attach it to her doors herself? She’d had enough practice with electronic gadgetry over the years.
Thank goodness there were people on either side who would come running if she shouted for help.
She was still trying to work out what was going on when she fell asleep.
Chapter Twelve
Sandra had come into John Crichton’s life when he was going through a very bleak time after the death of his wife. His secretary of many years retired suddenly and he had to find a new person. Sandra was head and shoulders above the other applicants and he had no hesitation in hiring her. She didn’t have job references, but she was a widow, needed to earn money and was well qualified.
At first he hid what he’d been doing from her. Well, it was just a game, wasn’t it? He’d started working out how to diddle his clients and get away with it, just to keep his mind busy. He’d grown so bored after his wife died.
But Sandra was good at her job and inevitably she found out what he’d been doing. To his relief she joined in the game, and they had fun plotting and planning together. That led to a few dates and she didn’t seem to mind that he was twenty years older than her.
Then one day she said suddenly, ‘You know, we could actually do this, John. Get rich and make fools of all these earnes
t savers who bore you to tears with their fiddling worries.’
He didn’t believe her to be serious, so laughed. ‘I suppose we could.’
She didn’t pursue the matter but the seed had been sown, and when she went away for a few days to visit a long-time friend who was ill, he found himself working on the details again, this time more carefully, checking out possibilities, wondering if he could really get away with it.
The excitement made his heart skip a beat, then go faster. It thrilled him as nothing had done for years. But he still held back. He wasn’t a criminal, was he?
One day some months later, following an afternoon appointment with a particularly obnoxious client, he ushered the stupid bitch out, then turned back to Sandra and said in a harsh voice he hardly recognised as his own, ‘Do you really think we could do it, run off with their money – starting with hers?’
She stared at him open-mouthed, then a smile lit up her face. ‘Yes, I do. And why not? I think you’re as bored with this careful life as I am.’
‘Oh yes. Very bored.’
She grabbed his hand. ‘I’m not bored with you, John darling, never think that, but some of these customers think having half a million pounds in the bank entitles them to demand your attention for the slightest thing and they treat me like a rather stupid shop assistant. I don’t know how I keep my mouth shut sometimes.’
That made him even angrier, because he’d seen some people talking down to her.
The game turned into reality as easily as that!
They got married and then took their time, working through every detail, checking every potential action more than once. He didn’t intend to get caught. Oh no!
And he wasn’t putting Sandra’s freedom in danger, either.
Step by step they planned and re-planned what to do. He took care of the financial side of things, she dealt with the practicalities of getting away afterwards.
They laughed at the obnoxious customers now, shrugging away the thought of how this would affect the nice ones.
‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,’ Sandra would say, then whirl him round in a triumphant dance.
She made him feel ten feet tall, and he was intoxicated, enjoying himself more than he could ever remember in his whole life.
The morning it all began for real, John transferred his clients’ money into his new account and it felt like an anti-climax, it all went so smoothly.
He went to Paris that same afternoon, travelling by train and leaving Sandra to ‘shut up shop’, as she called it.
He nearly went mad during the two long days he spent on his own in the small serviced flat she’d rented under their new names, waiting for her to join him. Suddenly his fantasy had turned into reality and just as suddenly he started to be afraid, absolutely terrified of something going wrong.
He didn’t dare go out in case he ran into someone he knew, so ordered meals to be sent in from the café on the ground floor. He didn’t finish one of them. Most of the long daylight hours were spent staring out at grey skies, feeling hemmed in by the taller buildings surrounding the four-storey block of flats.
He lay awake half the night.
He didn’t enjoy watching French TV, because they spoke too fast for him to understand what they were saying. He’d never been good at languages. With some difficulty he managed to download a couple of English-language movies, but couldn’t settle to those, either.
He watched the occasional comings and goings of other tenants in the courtyard below and on the third day positioned himself by the window to watch for Sandra long before she could possibly be due.
When he saw a blonde-haired woman getting out of a taxi, he sighed and looked away, then looked back in shock. Was it? Yes, it was Sandra!
He buried his face in his hands and muttered, ‘Thank goodness! Oh, thank goodness.’
She looked very different with the new short hair style and her brown hair transformed into a gleaming silver blonde. Even her clothes were different in style. She looked younger, far younger than she had before, and that upset him because his mirror had told him that morning that he was looking haggard and old.
He was waiting for her with the flat door open and when she got out of the lift, he hurried to carry her luggage, not daring to hug her even till the door of the flat was safely closed.
‘You came! You came!’
She leant back in his embrace and smiled as she traced her fingers down his cheek. ‘Silly boy! You’ve been worrying, haven’t you?’
He nodded and gave her another hug.
‘You should have trusted me. Your new persona and passport didn’t set off any alarms and neither did mine.’
She’d waved one hand airily when he asked how she’d managed to obtain these new identity papers. The ease with which she seemed to have done it worried him more than a little. He wouldn’t have known how to begin. How come she’d known? Not just passports but driving licences, lots of bits and pieces of documentation had appeared by magic, though at some cost.
She’d chosen their new names and he was now Anthony Grey, while she was Mary Grey, née Jamieson.
As Grey, he had an appointment the following day with a leading plastic surgeon Sandra had found for him. They both listened intently to what the fellow said.
‘Everything you ask is possible, monsieur, but before we can do the work, there are some tests we need you to take. You are not a young man and it’s best to be careful.’
‘Oh? What sort of tests?’
‘A survey of your general health. We need to be sure you can cope with a long time under anaesthetic. My secretary can book you in for next week.’
‘Can’t you do the tests sooner?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
It seemed a very long week, even with Sandra to cheer him up.
On the day of his appointment she dropped him off at the clinic and went out shopping for new clothes for him while he took the tests.
Then he had to wait around for the results. He was surprised that Sandra hadn’t yet returned. What was taking her so long?
When the door to the luxurious little private waiting room opened and she came in to join him, he felt better at once.
She was carrying some expensive-looking, monogrammed carrier bags, which she placed on the floor before coming across to kiss him. ‘Nearly there now, Anthony darling.’
It took him a few seconds to realise she was using his new name. ‘Yes, um, Mary. I do wish they’d hurry up with the results, though. I finished the tests nearly an hour ago.’
She came to sit beside him, taking his hand. ‘Hang in there, love. It’ll all be worthwhile in the end.’
‘Mmm.’ Her arrival had cheered him up, as her presence always did.
The surgeon came in to see them a short time later, accompanied by a nurse, and they took seats opposite, looking so grave that John’s heart skipped a beat.
‘Something unexpected ’as come up, I’m afraid, monsieur.’
The surgeon’s English was good, with only a slight French accent, but it still took a few moments for what he’d said to sink in. John’s heart began to thump in his chest. What could be wrong? Surely the police couldn’t be on to them already?
It was Sandra who asked, ‘What do you mean?’
‘There is a problem with your heart, monsieur. I’m afraid a series of operations, such as you ’ave requested of me, would not be possible for you. The risks would be too great.’
The room spun round and everything went black.
When he came to, John was in another room, lying on a narrow bed. He was attached to a heart monitor and even he could see from the visuals that his heart was beating irregularly – well, he could feel it doing that. It’d been behaving that way for years.
The surgeon stood beside him, watching the screen, frowning. ‘This incident only confirms that your heart is not up to such operations, I’m afraid. You can see how erratically it’s beating.’
‘Surely there
is something that can be done about that?’ John gestured to the pulsing, jagged peaks and troughs on the screen.
‘Not as much as would be needed, I’m afraid. Your heart is showing wear and tear on a basic fault that you were probably born with. You must have noticed the irregular rhythm, surely?’
‘I’ve had that all my life. Never thought much about it.’ He’d always hated doctors messing around with him. Only the most extreme need had brought him to seek this man’s services, the need to change his appearance completely.
‘You should ’ave paid attention to the signs earlier. Now, it is probably too late to repair the fault, but you should consult a cardiologist, who will help you manage the condition. If you live quietly and carefully, following his advice, you will enjoy many years yet, I’m sure.’
John turned to Sandra, who was looking as shocked as he was feeling, then asked the surgeon, ‘What if I’m prepared to take the risk of an operation?’
‘You may be but I am not, monsieur. None of the major procedures you were contemplating could even be considered. No reputable surgeon would undertake them after seeing that.’ He waved one hand towards the screen.
‘But I—’
‘Please allow me to finish. If you go to a less skilled surgeon, the sort who will do anything for money, the operations will probably kill you.’
He looked so smugly certain as he said this that John had a sudden urge to punch him in the face. Instead he turned sideways to look at Sandra.
She shook her head as if to warn him not to say anything else, then turned to the surgeon. ‘You’re sure a cardiologist couldn’t help us prepare for, perhaps, a lesser operation or two?’
‘A cardiologist will be able to help your husband get the most out of his life, madame, but no one can perform miracles. Some things are’ – he gave a very Gallic shrug – ‘beyond our power to correct. One day, perhaps, but not for many years.’
