The Girl on Shattered Rock: A gripping suspense thriller

by Matt Hilton

  8

  Ten days earlier Leah had been sitting in a place as unfamiliar to her as the cabin on Shattered Rock, feeling equally out of her comfort zone. She was seated in a deep and plush leather settee in the corner of one of the exclusive private clubs in London’s West End. Downstairs was a world famous restaurant where sports stars and celebrities gathered when they wanted to be noticed, but she was on the first floor in the exclusive members’ club where business could be conducted without the intrusion of prying eyes or eavesdroppers, though other publishing professionals were wont to frequently drop by their table to make brief pleasantries. Leah wasn’t a club member; she was there strictly as a guest of her literary agent, Allison Bronstein, who treated the club as her second office. Allison – or Ally – was an expansive woman, both in girth and in her flamboyant dress code. Currently she was squeezed into a mustard-coloured knitted dress, crimson shoes and wore a fringed turquoise shawl slung haphazardly over her round shoulders. Large pearls encircled her wattle of a neck, and her mop of black curls was tending to grey, and pinned back over one ear with a large red fascinator. Her huge spectacles were the proverbial jam jars, also framed in red. In skinny jeans and a white blouse under a navy jacket, Leah felt woefully prissy by comparison.

  Leah found the settee too low for comfort, and had perched herself on the harder edge so that she could reach her coffee without having to struggle her way out of its sunken depths each time she wanted a sip. On the opposite side of the table sat Ally’s second glass of wine. Ally lounged, at home in the matching settee. Leah was positive that members entering the club from the glass elevator would be able to see right up Ally’s dress, but was too embarrassed to point it out to her agent. She avoided looking for fear of catching another flash of dimpled white thighs and the shadow of black briefs. Maybe, she thought, it was a deliberate stunt of Ally’s to attract the eye of some of the male editors she’d not yet made contact with. Leah felt hot, her scalp tingling, and twice she’d sloshed her coffee into the saucer because of her shaking hands but it had nothing to do with Ally’s shameless posture.

  ‘I’ve a few ideas that I’m playing around with,’ she fibbed, after Ally had asked how her next book was coming along. ‘But haven’t decided on the final one yet.’

  ‘Send me an email with your synopsis ideas in it, I’ll be able to steer you in the right direction.’ Ally reached for her wine glass and took a deep slurp from it. She immediately looked round, waving a pudgy arm to attract the attention of a waitress standing at the bar. ‘I’m going to have another. You sure you don’t want something a little stronger, Leah?’

  ‘I’m fine with coffee. Thanks.’ To punctuate her words, she picked up her cup on its saucer, trying not to drip coffee into her lap as she took a sip. She looked for a napkin and placed it under the cup to soak up the spillage, then placed cup and saucer down again. The napkin dulled the rattle of china.

  ‘You look as if you’ve had too much coffee already,’ Ally pointed out. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just feeling a little rushed this morning.’

  ‘Meeting Pete after this?’

  Ally had obviously picked up on the fact Leah kept glancing at her watch. She was on the clock. Pete had demanded that she join him in the bar at a nearby Marriot hotel for lunch. Leah pursed her lips, didn’t meet Ally’s gaze as she nodded.

  Ally leaned across the table, placing ringed fingers on Leah’s knee. She looked incredibly uncomfortable; her posture was constricting her lungs. She wheezed something that was intended as support, before sitting back, adjusting herself in the settee. The leather squeaked and made a noise not unlike an expelled fart. Leah closed her eyes.

  ‘You really need to put the incident with Jerry behind you,’ Ally said. Then she turned quickly, waving her arm again at the slow-moving waitress. To the young server’s credit she was already on her way over with a freshly poured glass of Ally’s favourite tipple. Leah waited until the waitress delivered the glass, and made small talk with Ally.

  ‘It was embarrassing for both of us,’ she said once the server was out of earshot. ‘In fact I was mortified. I know Jen said not to worry about it, but I do. I hope she doesn’t think I’m going to be difficult to work with because of my domestic problems.’ Jenny Scott was her editor at the publishing house. ‘I swear to you, Ally, I’m not. I won’t let my personal situation interfere with my work.’

  Ally took a sip of wine while considering Leah’s empty promise. She adjusted her spectacles, causing Leah to meet her gaze this time. ‘I have full faith in your ability to deliver. But…’

  Leah waited.

  ‘Well,’ Ally went on. ‘Time is becoming an issue. Jen wants the book before December seventeenth. She wants to read it over the Christmas break so she can work on a strategy before publishing reconvenes in mid-January. She wants first dabs at the end of financial year marketing budget. If you don’t deliver the book before everyone breaks up for the holidays it might cause problems for her.’

  Leah had already been apprised of the importance of timings, and knew that if her book were late to the table it would likely be dismissed by the marketing and public relations teams at her publishing house, and wouldn’t get the push it required to the market. Just because her debut novel had been a huge seller, her second could easily flounder for attention when so many other “products” could steal the all-important budget. There were hundreds of cases where mega-selling debut authors had been dropped when their second book didn’t achieve even greater success. Just because she was contracted to three books didn’t mean a thing: the publishers would probably print a limited number of copies, to uphold their end of the contract, but as far as Leah was concerned she could forget about future deals, from her current or any other publishing house. Her name would literally be dirt on editors’ tongues.

  Leah was under no illusion: her name would also be dirt to Allison Bronstein, because Ally’s success was tied equally to the successes of the authors she represented. If Leah didn’t make the big bucks, then neither would Ally. And Ally had a certain lifestyle that she enjoyed, and hoped to maintain, and she couldn’t do that when her star authors didn’t knuckle down. She could pretend to be concerned about Leah’s personal situation, but really she was more concerned with securing her fifteen per cent.

  ‘Have you reasoned with Pete?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Leah said, though it was obvious what Ally meant.

  ‘He should respect your work ethic, and allow you the time and space to get it done. Haven’t you talked with him about this?’

  ‘Of course we’ve talked. He also works. But that’s the problem. Pete has set hours; he doesn’t understand how fluid my day is. I can’t write if I’m doing publicity and marketing, so often I only get to my computer on an evening when he’s home. He says our private time should be precious to us both, and by that he means it shouldn’t be interfered with.’

  ‘I’ve heard similar from other writers.’ Ally pulled at the shawl, unnecessarily adjusting it on her shoulders. ‘Their spouses aren’t all as demanding as you make Pete out, but some have caused problems for them too. I know of a few marriages that have failed because—’ Ally caught herself, realising she was going somewhere Leah wouldn’t want to hear ‘—but there are as many others that are as strong as ever. Perhaps your sudden fame is just taking Pete a little getting used to.’

  ‘Well, if I fail to deliver my next book, my fame isn’t going to be an issue for anyone.’ Immediately she said it, Leah wished she could take back her words. She caught the narrowing of Ally’s eyes. She held up her hands. ‘Don’t worry: I’ll have that book in Jen’s hands for December come hell or high water.’

  9

  How prophetic Leah’s last statement sounded now as she stared at the gently swaying bracelet.

  She’d endured the high water on the boat ride over to Shattered Rock, and currently, if things weren’t exactly hell they were growing decidedly worrying.

  When
coupled with the sounds that had abruptly wakened her, the subtle movement of the bracelet carried more weight than it would under normal circumstances. Ordinarily she might convince herself that the swinging bracelet was down to movement of the floorboards under her feet, transferring up through the table to set the bracelet in motion. But when she had already entertained the notion that somebody had been inside the cabin while she slept, this was evidence of her fear.

  After putting down her car keys, she reached for the bracelet, fingers shaking, as if it held an electric charge about to shock her. She withdrew her fingertips, but she was being ridiculous. She steeled herself, pressed the bracelet against the laptop screen to halt its movement. There was no static charge in the metal links. And in all likelihood the movement was down to her walking around as she’d searched the cabin for interlopers. ‘Leah, you’ve finally lost it,’ she scolded herself. Then, to add validity to her theory she took a couple of experimental bounces on the kitchen floor and not only did the bracelet jiggle but the laptop computer shifted too. ‘See, you’re worried about nothing.’

  But she couldn’t help another glance at the now secure door.

  ‘You’re just being forgetful,’ she reassured herself, ‘or mad. Just listen, you’re speaking to yourself. First sign of madness they say.’

  She shook her head at the forced humour. ‘Surely you can’t be going stir crazy already, Leah?’

  The idea of coming to Shattered Rock had come out of her last meeting with Ally Bronstein. After promising to meet the deadline, she’d flippantly said, ‘Even if it means taking a sabbatical to get it done I’ll have it on Jen’s desk before December seventeenth.’

  ‘You know something, Leah? I think that’s a wonderful idea. You wouldn’t be the first of my authors to do something like that. I’ve one thriller writer who always takes himself away to the wilds of Scotland for a couple of weeks when he wants to get his latest project finished. He books a log cabin on the shore of one of the lochs, swears by the solitude. No email, no ringing phones, and no family commitments demanding of his time or attention: maybe it is something you should consider.’

  Leah had laughed off the idea at first.

  But Ally had smiled conspiratorially. ‘Think of it as a well-earned break. But don’t forget to keep all your receipts, though; you can always write off any expense against your tax liability if you’re working.’ She’d made the inverted commas sign with her fingers, winking knowingly. ‘Plus, it will give you some breathing space away from Pete.’

  ‘Pete isn’t going to like the idea.’

  ‘By the sound of things, Pete isn’t happy with much of what you do. Perhaps it’s time you put your foot down, Leah, and showed how important your career is to you.’

  And now Leah was on the island, with a bare patch where her engagement ring used to be and sporting a bruised wrist and bad memories. Though she had to admit that the sense of freedom outweighed both reminders of her fight with Pete.

  This was the first time she’d been alone – genuinely alone – since moving in with Pete almost four years ago. It felt good to make decisions without having to clear them with her ex-fiancé first, or by having to second guess how they would go down. When she thought about it, she wondered why she’d waited this long to make the break. She’d known for the past twelve months that their relationship was failing, and she only wished that she’d had the courage to end it before it had sunk so low. The first time he’d threatened to slap her should have been the time to get out, she shouldn’t have waited until he’d physically raised his fist to her.

  Immediately she felt guilty.

  Pete hadn’t struck her. In fact, she was the one who’d resorted to violence when she’d slapped him.

  No. She was making excuses for Pete. If she hadn’t shocked him with that slap to the face, God knew what would have happened next. He was going to hurt her, and the slap he’d received was minor in comparison to what he intended dealing out with his fist. Her action had been instinctive; as had the way she’d plucked off her engagement ring, threw it at him and run for it as soon as she could. She had nothing to feel guilty about, and much to be thankful for. Leaving Pete to come to Shattered Rock just might have saved her life.

  Or placed her in another kind of danger.

  Who had been inside the cabin?

  ‘Stop it!’ she hissed. ‘There was nobody here. You’re just freaking yourself out.’

  She thought again about the sleeping pills she’d downed. Lately she’d been relying on them too much, and their lingering effects were becoming almost as unwelcome as the nightmare they were prescribed to quell. Occasionally she woke feeling hung-over, her memories muddy. Last night she’d drank beer before taking them, and weren’t there implicit instructions not to mix alcohol with her medication? Little wonder she couldn’t clearly state if she’d locked the door correctly or not.

  She headed directly for the bedroom and found her toiletry bag. She fished out the remainder of her pills, bouncing them on her palm, tempted to go and flush the lot down the toilet. When she’d visited her GP, the doctor’s conclusion was that her nightmares were fuelled by her subconscious mind: a way of telling her that she was stuck in a suffocating relationship, and her fear of drowning was a metaphor. Leah had to admit that being in a relationship with Pete Langston was at times akin to drowning in air. Her GP had diagnosed mild depression and had prescribed the sedative to help her sleep. Well, now that she was free of Pete, did she really need pills?

  ‘Too soon to know for certain,’ she concluded and put the medicine away. She looked at the bed. She should go back to sleep. Instead she went through the cabin checking rooms, windows and finally the doors again. When she was positive that everything was locked securely she went to the kitchen and opened a drawer. Then she returned to her room, undressed and collapsed on the bed. After a moment she thought it safer if she put down the knife she’d taken from the drawer. She placed it next to the lamp on the bedside cabinet, and only then turned off the light.

  10

  Morning was heralded in by a cacophony of birdcalls, and the tumult was loud and cheerful enough to rouse Leah from sleep with a smile on her face. Sitting up, she immediately spotted the kitchen knife she’d left in easy reach. In daylight, with the birds chirping merrily, the knife was an unwelcome sight. She opened her bedside cabinet drawer and flicked the knife inside, quickly shutting it away. What was she thinking taking a knife to bed with her? It was a jarring reminder of how uncomfortable she’d felt last night, but now as daylight reached its caressing fingers through the window she felt totally at ease, and it was now difficult explaining why she’d been so disturbed. First nights in strange places could have odd effects on certain people, but Leah had grown used to unfamiliar hotel rooms having just completed her book signing tour of the UK, and this was the first that had affected her negatively. Then again, all those other rooms hadn’t been on a secluded island in the Irish Sea.

  Never mind last night. Put it behind you, she decided. Then headed in search of coffee. When booking the cabin, it came with a special offer of necessary supplies, and McBride had certainly come through. Not only had he delivered the coffee, milk and beer she’d requested but also added a full range of groceries and tinned goods. There were also treats in the shape of cookies, chocolate bars and cakes. But this morning Leah couldn’t bypass a fried breakfast. She quickly prepared a feast of eggs, bacon, baked beans and buttered toast. She was still in her knickers and vest top, but bugger it, she was alone on the island! She took her breakfast and a large mug of coffee out on the balcony and sat there feeling totally liberated as the sun broke fully over the island, setting the craggy headland to the south ablaze with colour.

  Leah felt good, at peace. Maybe today she would even get some words onto her computer screen.

  She ate ravenously, even mopping up the last of the bean juice with her toast, then swilled it all down with coffee. She wanted a second mug, but decided to wait a minute or two whil
e her breakfast settled. She glanced down at her bare legs, noting the goosebumps on her flesh, and the faint shivering in her thighs. It was still chilly, and she thought it would be a damn good idea to have a warm shower and get dressed as soon as she’d filled her caffeine quota. Her feet were grimy from having wandered around barefoot both during the night and while preparing breakfast. When she pushed back a lock of her brown hair it felt greasy, and she found a fir needle stuck in it. ‘God, Leah, you’ve gone native,’ she said and liked the sound of it: though admittedly she decided a shower was a priority now. She got up, carried her plate and cup to the kitchen, readying to head for the bathroom to switch on the water heater. As she passed the table she glanced at what was on it.

  The dishes almost spilled from her hands, and she had to juggle them to the sink, before spinning around and staring at her computer. Actually, she was staring at something else: an empty space at one corner of the screen.

  The bracelet was gone.

  She took a lurch towards the table, hand outstretched, as if by some miracle the bracelet was still there just invisible to the eye. She forced herself to stop, and stood swaying gently, her equilibrium off. Where the bloody hell was the bracelet? She leaned over the computer, but it hadn’t slipped down behind the screen. It wasn’t on or under the table either. No. This was totally wrong! Panic didn’t surge this time, but it trickled through her as she continued scanning on and around the table. The bracelet couldn’t have just disappeared; it had to have been moved. The question was by whose hand?