Below him in the hall near the front door he could see the outline of a figure. He tried to call out some sort of challenge but he seemed incapable of speech. The dark figure turned and looked up at him. A hand went into a pocket and Alex saw the glint of a gun and the arm lifting toward him. He knew his reflexes were weakened but forced himself to concentrate, aim and fire. He heard the echo… was it his gun, or was it another? Then came the pain in his head and he could feel himself falling headlong, down, and down…
*
Fowler cursed to himself. Nothing had been said about this man being armed! Although he had been under express orders not to use a firearm, out of habit he always carried one. There was no way he was being shot at without some sort of retaliation. Pulling his own gun from his coat pocket, he aimed at the swaying figure on the stairs. At the same time as he pulled the trigger, he felt the wind of a bullet just missing his own head.
He saw the naked form crumple and topple down the rest of the stairs, the head hitting the square newel post at the bottom with a sickening thud. He moved closer to the still figure and examined it in the dim light. He had aimed for the head and from what he could see, with the other damage inflicted, no one was going to discover much. With the woman dead, the man could have committed suicide. That would explain the firearm. He scrabbled around until his searching fingers found an ejected spent casing – hoping it was from his gun. He knew his firearm was of a make used by the police. Anyway, he’d been assured that any forensic formalities would be moved along with haste, so perhaps he could get away with what had happened.
His breathing heavy, he opened the front door and slipped out. All he had to do now was dump the car and make it to his arranged pick-up point. The car hummed into life and cruised away.
Church Road returned to its usual pre-dawn quietness, but an hour or two later a baby started to cry.
CHAPTER 25
The strong spring sunshine poured its brightness and warmth over the churchyard. Variations of colour were everywhere but to Sarah McIntyre the world was just… grey. For her there was no warmth in the sun. She was cold, and knew that the coldness was coming from deep inside her. It had been this way since she had heard the news, and she suspected it would continue.
She had been ready to leave for work when the police officer had arrived. In complete disbelief she had heard him out, and then fainted. On coming to her senses again she had found herself lying in her bed with a worried Jerry holding her hand. It was just a nightmare, she’d told him. Something to do with her pregnancy perhaps… But once again she heard the dreadful words, this time from Jerry himself.
There never seemed to be any tears for most of the time, just a complete empty void. The one thought repeating time and again: her sweet little Catherine – dead! She would never again see those sparkling green eyes smiling at her, or hear her soft voice. They had both been so happy, with motherhood having come to them at the same time. All the plans they had made… like passing on clothes from Peter as he grew out of them. Now it would still happen, but Catherine would no longer be involved. She would not see her own son grow and do all the things children did, for better or worse. She had been so happy about the future and all it held. She would also no longer have her beloved Alex.
Sarah just couldn’t work this part out. How could they say all those dreadful things about him? There was no way it could be true! But the authorities were adamant that it was; even Jerry told her it could be possible. Still she refused to accept the conclusions.
Day moved into day and nothing else seemed real; she was drifting. She wasn’t bothered whether she ate food or not, and sleep was something she dreaded, as the thoughts crowded in again. Then she became aware that her mother was there. Jerry told her he’d sent out an urgent request for her to return to the UK. She noticed he always had a worried face these days, and at night he would hold her, and talk to her, encouraging her to sleep.
Always, there was little Peter! She wouldn’t let anyone else care for him. She had to do it herself. When she held him in her arms she tried to pretend that she was Catherine, imparting to him the love and affection that he would no longer know. This was when she cried, but she always tried to hide it.
She knew she was ill. She could feel it in herself, but somehow was certain that it wouldn’t affect her unborn child. She had built a wall inside her, shielding the baby from the rest of herself. She had tried to explain it to her mother and Jerry, but she could see that they didn’t understand.
Today had been the funerals. She had fought for the right to organise these as she wished. She weathered a dreadful argument with Jerry, who tried to forbid her being involved, saying that she was taking on too much. She knew he was taking a stand because he was concerned for her, and she understood his obvious worry. However, sensing her implacable resolve, he had given in; and she had never felt more grateful for his continuing love and care for her than at that moment.
She knew what she wanted to happen with the formalities, and afterwards. She conveyed these instructions to the funeral director and also spoke to Reverend Jones of St Luke’s about her wishes. He understood her request and the reason behind it, but was reticent about whether his superiors would agree. She had pushed him on the matter, and at the end everyone acceded to her wishes. Tomorrow her instructions would be carried out; and in a few days she would come back to this graveyard to make sure and say a final goodbye.
*
There was a large turn-out for Catherine’s funeral. Lionel Franklin did not attend, pleading ill-health. She was pleased about that. Something deep inside her said that it would be wrong to have him here. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to make a final visit to the funeral parlour, although Jerry attended and told her that Catherine looked as beautiful as ever. Seeing the coffin brought into the church, with the one bouquet of cream roses, was almost her undoing. Jerry placed his arm around her waist and supported her throughout the service. Luigi Gandoni stood on her other side, holding himself stiff and erect, his face a mask of sorrow. His wife Maria was beside him, weeping as though her heart would break.
Alex’s funeral followed, and she felt vindicated by the number of people who remained in attendance for this.
On leaving the church and standing, for once, alone, she was approached by a man, a total stranger to her.
‘Mrs McIntyre? I apologise for intruding at this sad time. My name is Ellison and I’m a former… colleague of Alex Hartman. We knew each other in our youth and I felt I wanted to attend for old times’ sake.’ He then made a somewhat cryptic remark that she didn’t understand. ‘I am of the opinion that the authorities have made a grave mistake in this whole matter, but…’ – he gave a shrug – ‘once again, my condolences.’
As he walked away she noticed several thick-set men surrounding him. Who could he be? Without her being aware, Alex’s colleague Sergeant Johnson had come to stand at her side.
‘I hope he didn’t upset you, Mrs McIntyre?’
‘No, he was very polite.’ She told him what the man had said.
Looking, with narrowed eyes, after the departing limousine she heard him mutter, ‘Someone else thinking straight, for a change.’
Then he left her, still wondering what it all meant.
She watched the last people departing and saw Jerry and her mother coming towards her. It was time to go home – to see Peter.
*
Lionel Franklin glanced up from the papers he was perusing, to look at the clock on the desk in front of him. The funerals should be over by now. It would have looked better if he’d gone to Catherine’s, but as the day approached he’d become conscious of an uncomfortable feeling about attending, and pleading illness was a good way out. So far he felt he had managed to portray the appropriate attitude that others would consider necessary during the legal formalities, but to attend the funeral itself might have been, even to his own conscience, less th
an tasteful. He doubted Sarah McIntyre would mind. He never had the impression she thought much of him; he likewise of her.
When he was told about the two deaths, at first he was incandescent with rage that his plan had been thwarted. But then he realised that the ramifications might prove to be even more beneficial. It had therefore come as a shock when he found out that there were Wills, and the McIntyres had been made guardians of Peter.
This would, of necessity, lead to disclosure of information re the trust fund, but it would be an easy matter to massage the figures somewhat. Above all, he had to keep some sort of control, and this meant having to maintain a level of civil contact. He decided that he would appear generous in offering financial assistance, and when the boy was ready for schooling he would assist there also. It was imperative that the McIntyres be kept as amenable as possible in order to avoid any awkward financial questions, and to keep Hartman’s solicitor quiet. With subtle pressure he would attempt to steer the boy into an ideal career, but for the time being, with any luck, their matters could still proceed as before.
*
In the quiet of the evening, Sarah sat with Peter in her arms and told him all about the events of the day.
‘So many people have shown they cared for your parents, Peter. You were so lucky to have their love, even for a short while. But Jerry and I, and everyone else, love you and will always do so. You might not have your real parents as you grow up, but you have so many people who will care for you, that you’ll not be on your own. In a short while, you’ll have a little playmate too!’
Tears streaming down her face, she stroked his soft cheek. ‘Oh, my dear Peter, we’ll try so hard to make up to you for your loss. Aim to be good in all you do, and Catherine and Alex will be proud of you. I know it won’t be easy, but I’m sure you’ll grow into a fine boy.’
Holding the small body close to her, hearing his even breathing in the silence of the room, she became conscious of a growing certainty which softened the harsh edges of grief still inside her.
‘Peter, some day the truth of what has happened will be discovered. I know it. I’ll always believe it, and I’ll hold on to that belief no matter how long it takes.’
PART THREE
CHAPTER 1
With the sun shining out of a cloudless blue sky, Peter Hartman let his gaze travel over the dazzling white slope in front of him. There were fewer skiers on the top part of this run at Canada’s prestigious Lake Louise resort. None but the more confident attempted the challenge, and most started lower down the treacherous slope. As an expert skier, he himself had no problem with the awkward terrain.
Then he spotted her. The bright red ski jacket stood out well against the snow. She was moving fast and he would have to ski at full speed to catch up with her. Could he put his plan into action? Without giving himself any more time to debate the matter, he launched himself down the slope. He was soon overhauling her, but skiing well within his capability. Watching her fluent, assured turns, he realised that she also skied to a high standard. As he came nearer, he washed off some of his speed. He didn’t want to cause a real accident, after all!
Closing in level with the flying figure, he called out a warning and passed her, near enough to bump her shoulder, sending her off line. He braked to a stop at the side of the run and rolled into the soft snow, losing a ski. He picked himself up and looked round. The girl was a few yards away from him. She too had ended up in the soft snow and was just attempting to sit up. Discarding his goggles and remaining ski, he struggled up the slope towards her.
‘I’m so sorry. Are you alright? I’m afraid I lost an edge further up and couldn’t stop in time.’
He caught hold of her arm, and steadied her for a moment as she regained her footing. The girl shook off his hand, and busied herself retrieving her skis and poles. She then turned and looked at him.
‘You know that it’s dangerous to be in areas like this if you’re not a good skier? We could have been hurt!’
Now he was closer, he was able to confirm his first impression when he had seen her in the hotel, that she was a pretty girl. Snow flecked her honey gold hair, and her clear skin was a pale pink from her exertions. Her eyes were the colour of caramel, several shades darker than her hair, but their expression at the moment was as frosty as the landscape around them.
‘I must apologise again.’ He contrived to adopt a chastened look. ‘If we skied down the rest of the way together, perhaps I could buy you a drink in the café.’
She was still looking at him, but the expression in the brown eyes had now changed. He found out why a few seconds later.
‘After an experience like this, I wouldn’t be sure of my safety; either skiing, or anything else.’
To his consternation he realised that she had misinterpreted his actions. Too embarrassed to explain, he watched her straightening herself and preparing to launch off again down the slope. In a moment she would be gone, and it would all have been for nothing.
Then, to his astonishment, the girl paused and turned to study him again. ‘Rather than attempting such a dangerous way of introducing yourself, perhaps you could take a safer course and buy me a drink in the hotel bar tonight.’
With a slight smile she skied away, leaving him standing there, mortified. All the planning and effort on his part, and it was so obvious to her. What on earth had made him think up the whole crazy idea anyway? Bored with his own company, he’d wanted someone of his own age to talk to but, as usual, didn’t feel able to just walk over and talk to her.
Could he, now? After all, she had invited him to do so. Feeling happier, he retrieved his skis and carried on down the run. There was still time to get back up to the top again and try a final fast descent.
Changing for dinner in his hotel room that night, Peter began to feel nervous again. For goodness’ sake, why was he being such an idiot? Here he was, twenty-four years of age, and his experience with the opposite sex was lamentable. Rob would put it stronger than that, he thought! If he’d been here with him, as planned, he would have achieved several conquests by now. He knew that wasn’t his own style, though. He always shied away from the idea of commitment, and found even casual acquaintance difficult. There had been a couple of girls at college, but he’d felt no particular need to extend their relationship into anything serious.
Yet, he acknowledged his loneliness. Although, during his life, there had been people around who cared for him, there was still… something missing. He knew what it was, of course, but tried never to dwell on it.
He looked in the mirror. Aunt Sarah said that he had his father’s eyes and his mother’s hair colour. He knew this was true. No one guessed that he kept a photograph of his parents in his wallet. It was taken on their wedding day, and he looked at it often. He had wondered whether to separate the two figures and keep them apart, reflecting what had happened, but felt a strange reluctance to do so. Perhaps he was influenced by Aunt Sarah’s vehement denial of any idea of a rift between his parents, despite others accepting the irrefutable facts.
Once again, he acknowledged that the events of the past had coloured his own view of relationships. As with his parents, how could you guarantee anything was permanent, however much it might seem so… just to have it fall apart? Better not to get involved in the first place, wasn’t it? He shook his head in anger. He went through this over and over, so many times, and never reconciled it within himself.
He’d been on his own too much over these last few days, and he made up his mind. Yes, he would see the girl tonight.
*
Christa Benjamin decided to take extra care with her appearance. The fresh air and exercise had brought the glow back to her skin after months of being in an office. She brushed her long hair until it shone, curling over her shoulders. Stepping into her dark green dress, she then sat down at the dressing table to fix her gold earrings. Her brown eyes softened as she smiled, th
inking about the events on the ski slope this afternoon.
She and her father had arrived three days ago and it wasn’t long before her naturally warm nature was disturbed at seeing the young man always alone in the restaurant, and she had commented on this to her father. After a moment of study, he suggested that she asked him to join them. It was odd… in normal circumstances she would have done just that, but for once she felt a strange reluctance. There was an air of solitude about him which troubled her.
She smiled again at his contrived introduction, which had surprised her in more ways than one! You would have to be a fool trying to negotiate the higher parts of that slope if you couldn’t ski well, and she somehow judged that he was not a fool. In fact, to have achieved that mock crash, without either of them being hurt, was the mark of an experienced skier. This was borne out by the fact that she had seen him take the cable car up to the summit again and watched most of his subsequent descent, executed to perfection.
She hoped he would accept her invitation tonight.
She was sitting with her father in the restaurant when the young man walked in. Holding her breath, she waited to see what would happen. He made his way towards his table, paused, and then came towards them. She started breathing again.
How nice he looked in his navy suit, his dark brown hair curling on the collar of his jacket… and from nowhere she had the urge to know what it would feel like under her fingers. She was startled by her thoughts. What on earth was she thinking about? She’d just met the man, and not in a conventional way at that.
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