I gestured to the figure disappearing into the boathouse at the end of the pier. "He shouldn't go out to sea. He's not slept."
She didn't laugh. She thrust a carrier bag at me.
"Sandwiches. Coffee. Take it down to them. Go."
I grabbed it and ran.
There were two men in the boathouse, apart from Anton. One was already geared up and on the telephone. Anton and the other guy were pulling on their gear, listening to the speakerphone. It sounded bad. A boat in difficulties. A man in the sea, injured.
Anton looked up and saw me. He looked like hell. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his cheekbones were like razors. Not surprising, really. He was running on two shots of instant coffee and pure adrenaline. He looked and sounded so calm. And it was all an act of pure will alone.
Why didn't his crew mates see the signs? Why was I the only one to notice?
And then it hit me. I could hear him, his exhaustion, his desperate self-monitoring.
I, Selsis, the worst mind communicator in the Department, could hear Anton like any natural telepath.
I sat down rather hard.
He had heard me, that first day on the beach. And he had heard true. Now I could hear him. Who did a telepath hear? Someone they had bonded with. A twin. A fellow survivor.
A lover.
Good gracious.
Two other crew members arrived, called greetings, got to work in a measured way that was much faster than it looked, cutting no corners. I realised I was still holding Judith's care package.
I went to Anton. "Judith said I was to give you this."
He took it, passed it to one of the others, who nodded and made a mark on the white board at the end of the hut.
Anton said, "Don't look so worried. We train for this."
I wanted to say: Come back to me.
I didn't. Instead, I said, "Did you tell them you've been up all night?" Oh God, I sounded such a scold.
His lips twitched. "Not really relevant."
I touched his face. It was cold.
And suddenly a thought occurred to me. Anton was running on empty. Maybe I could give him my energy. It would take the whole of my accumulated store. I could never go home to the Institute. But hell, what of it? The Institute wasn't my home. Earth had taught me the word and the feeling, too.
Only…I'd never done it before. And it was the ultimate intimacy. I went hot, then cold, then terrified.
It was worth a try.
Not looking at any of the rest of the crew, who should not have witnessed this, ever, I said, "Give me your hand."
Anton was zipping up his jacket with heartbreaking care. "What?"
I took his right hand and held it steady. I could see where the pulse throbbed in his wrist. I had no idea whether this would work. If it didn't, I'd look an idiot. If it did, I'd probably die of emotional exposure. Neither seemed to matter.
I gathered my energy into stillness. It was what I had done when I set out for Earth, before I dissolved into particles and launched out across space. This was not so different.
I put one finger on that pulse, found another behind his ear and stopped thinking.
The energy flash was instant. Anton's pupils flared. Suddenly he seemed to be standing straighter, more co-ordinated somehow. I felt his mind settle into orderliness. And something more. He hesitated, just a second, then joined the crew, jogging towards their craft.
I felt naked. But rather peaceful. I raised a hand, though I wasn't sure he saw it.
Come back to me.
And in my bones, my blood, my synapses, Anton replied.
Count on it.
I did. And so did he.
THE END
About Sophie Weston
Sophie Weston has written 50-ish romantic novels, published in 27 languages and more than 100 countries, as well as short stories and non-fiction. She lives in London and reads widely—as a result of which she occasionally whips fellow enthusiasts on a walk round Georgette Heyer's Regency Mayfair.
She can be found at libertabooks.com/sophie, where she blogs regularly; SophieWestonAuthor on Facebook; and @sophiewestonbks on Twitter.
THE BODY AT SATIS HOUSE
by Lesley Cookman
Chapter One
"I don't actually believe in this place," grumbled Libby Sarjeant, as she struggled out of Fran's little Smart car.
She shook herself and stamped a bit to stretch her legs and settle her garments. Libby liked her clothes flowing and unstructured. But they had flowed a bit more than she bargained for in Fran's compact passenger seat. For the last few miles she'd been feeling like an Egyptian mummy.
"What do you mean?" Fran herself got out, much more elegantly. "It's there, look!" She pointed at the village sign.
Libby trampled across the unmown verge and held an overhanging branch clear of the waist-high sign. "Little Piddling sur Mer," she read out. "I mean—how ridiculous can you get?"
"And see what someone's added?" Fran approached the sign and peered at it.
"Oh!" Libby laughed. "Sur Merde! They've added a 'de'!"
"And someone else has painted it out. Or tried to."
"Serve them right," said Libby. "I bet it wasn't always 'sur Mer'. Pretentious buggers."
Fran sent her an amused look. "Someone's grumpy today."
Libby sighed. "I've been dragged away from home by someone who wants us to 'investigate' something and won't say what. Almost all of my friends and relations disapprove. And I've forgotten my laptop."
"Oh, stop moaning. I've got my phone if we need to look anything up," said Fran, responding to the only one of Libby's complaints she could dismiss. "We got here, didn't we?"
"Eventually," muttered Libby, who had her doubts about Fran's relations with her satnav. "Late."
"And it was a lovely drive," said Fran firmly. "Beautiful country and very little traffic."
Libby refused to be comforted. "Because we're at the end of the known world. How long is it since we've seen anyone?" She shivered. "And listen. There isn't a bird singing."
"It's the middle of the afternoon," said Fran practically. "The birds have all eaten themselves to a standstill and gone back to their nests to sleep it off."
"It's like the start of a horror movie."
"Nonsense." They'd both been professional actors but Fran, who was taller and had gone through a waiflike stage, had appeared in more than one horror movie and was inclined to laugh at the wrong moments. "You'll feel better when you've had a cup of tea." She strode back to the car. "Let's see if we can find this Satis House."
"Odd name—Satis House. I'm sure I've heard it before. Just can't think where." Libby climbed awkwardly back into the car.
Fran frowned and switched on the engine. "Yes, I thought that. I've been trying to remember ever since Cora got in touch." She glanced at the satnav screen. "Now, she said to keep straight on down this road without turning off. But it looks as if it goes into the sea."
"Horror movie," said Libby, pleased. "Told you."
Fran was unimpressed. "Keep your eyes out for a sign to Satis House. It could just be one of those homemade things, I suppose. I don't think there's a lot of money around."
Libby looked at her friend with affection. Fran had been her lodger for a while and they'd been friends ever since. "Is that why you said we'd come and help? Because they can't afford professionals?"
Fran shook her head. "No. Nothing like that. I can't really explain it…" She fell silent.
"Oh," said Libby, suddenly understanding. "One of your feelings."
Fran could be sensitive about her moments of intuition. But Libby had seen them in action and tended to trust them.
"Maybe a little," Fran admitted. "After all, I hadn't heard from Cora for years. The last thing we did together was a radio play back a while ago. I think she must just have picked up on the grapevine that you and I sort of looked into mysteries."
Libby peered out of the window in an effort to see what was on the other side
of the high bank. There wasn't even a footpath leading off the road. No sign to Satis House or anything else.
"But we're not going to visit her?"
"I told you, she doesn't live here." Fran was testy. "You never listen."
Libby took a deep breath, opened her mouth and closed it again. "All right," she conceded. "But her daughter lives here. And Cora thinks she's in trouble."
"I'm not even sure about that. Cora just said Estella could do with help and would I—we—see what we could do."
It seemed a small enough request to get Fran to drop everything, bundle them both into the car and bring them all this way. Fran was definitely unsettled, Libby thought. It must be a really strong feeling. Oh well, she would tell more in her own good time. Probably.
"How old is she?"
Fran thought about it. "The daughter? Quite young, I think. Twentyish." Then added dryly, "Old enough for Cora to want her living somewhere else, out of the eye of the tabloids. Won't want people to start doing sums."
"But why does she have to live so far off the beaten track?"
"Oh, come on, Libby. We came cross-country. We haven't even seen the town yet."
"Just seems strange," muttered Libby. "It's not exactly a thriving holiday spot, is it? I'd never heard of Little Piddling until yesterday."
"It's a thriving holiday coast, though," said Fran. "Little Piddling is probably a sort of genteel offshoot. Full of retired colonels and City boys' grannies."
"Precisely. Not exactly exciting for your normal twenty-year-old."
But Fran was leaning forward, scanning the hedgerow on her side of the car, looking for a gateway.
Libby settled back in her seat. "Do you think this Satis House is some sort of country house hotel?"
"Could be, I suppose. I told you. I don't know anything more than Cora told me."
"Which is basically that her daughter was asked if she could identify a dead body and is freaking out?"
Libby scowled through the windscreen. Her children were made of sterner stuff. She couldn't see her metropolitan daughter Belinda calling in her mother's friends just because she might know a dead body.
"I think the police must be treating it as a suspicious death," Fran said slowly. "Cora said the daughter would explain everything when we met. Estella."
Libby suddenly sat bolt upright. "Estella! Of course. That's it!"
"Eh?" Fran shot a quick look at her friend.
"Estella—Miss Havisham's Estella!" shouted Libby.
"All right, all right! Who—oh!" Fran stood on the brake.
"Careful!" Libby lurched heavily against the seatbelt.
"Miss Havisham's house in Great Expectations—Satis House. Of course." Fran put the car back into gear and set off again. "Sorry."
The road levelled out and suddenly they were looking at the town. It wasn't large.
"Looks as if we've missed Satis House, then. What do we do now?"
"Cora said we could park on the promenade and call Estella to come and meet us there."
Libby sniffed. "Sounds as if she expected us to miss the turning."
Fran's phone began ringing. "Answer that for me, will you?"
Libby fumbled for a moment with the unfamiliar screen. "Hello? Fran Wolfe's phone."
"Oh! Hello—are you Libby?" a very young-sounding female voice answered.
"Yes." Libby raised her eyebrows at Fran, who took the opportunity offered by a Non-Residents' Parking sign to pull over and stop. She took the phone and put it on loudspeaker.
"Hello. Fran here."
"Oh, Fran. This is Estella. Are you in Little Piddling yet?"
"Yes. We seem to be at the top of the town. Where are you?"
"Stay where you are and I'll come and get you," said Estella. "Can you see anything like a road name?"
"No, but there's a strange pink house just ahead of us—"
"Oh, yes. I know where you are. Just stay there, then, and I'll come and find you."
"Why couldn't she just tell us where to go from here, if she knows where we are?" grumbled Libby. "Honestly, this gets sillier and sillier."
It was less than five minutes later when someone tapped on Fran's window. She was pretty, in a blonde washed-out way, a far cry from the glamorous photographs of Cora that Libby had looked up on the Internet.
"Hello," she said, when Fran opened the door. "I'm Estella Hope."
"Fran." Fran smiled and held out her hand. "Nice to meet you, Estella. This is Libby."
Libby grinned across at the newcomer. "Hi. Where do we go from here?"
"We turn off just down here." Estella looked doubtfully at the Smart car. "There's no back seat."
"Well, no. That's rather the point," said Fran. "Is that a problem?"
"I was going to get you to give me a lift," said Estella.
"You aren't very big," said Libby. "You could squash into the luggage space. Couldn't she, Fran?"
They both climbed out of the car and, with a good deal of pushing and shoving, managed to get Estella wedged uncomfortably in the back.
"Now," she said breathlessly. "Go down past the pink house, and turn left."
Fran did as she was told and stopped. "Are you sure this is actually a road?"
Winding away from the road they were on was what was little more than a track.
"Oh, yes. It's all right, and you won't meet anything coming up."
"Hmm," said Fran.
Libby lowered her window and salty air filled the car. She leaned out to see where the wheels were. There were deep ruts in places, but at least there was no mud that she could see.
"It looks dry enough," she told Fran.
The track led down, rather bumpily, towards the sea. The smell of ozone got stronger. They eventually met up with a much smaller cliff track.
"You can park just along here," said Estella. "See? There's a sort of lay-by."
Fran pulled in to the side of the path. "Are vehicles supposed to be here?" she asked. "It looks more like a pedestrian footpath."
"Well, that's what it is, mostly," said Estella, "but it provides access for emergency vehicles as well."
"Which is what we're not," said Libby, getting out of the car and preparing to extricate Estella.
"I'm not so sure about that," muttered Fran, who'd been casting worried glances at Estella in her rear mirror.
Libby helped the girl climb out.
"So where's Satis House?" asked Fran, when they were all standing on the path looking down at the beach.
"There."
"Oh."
Just below the level of the path stood a lone beach hut.
Libby stared. "So much for my vision of a country house hotel, possibly with spa," she said. "Why am I not surprised?"
But Fran was walking towards it. She turned and beckoned Libby to follow, grinning. "Look at that. This is not just any beach hut. This is a Tudor beach hut. It's got gables and everything."
Estella looked a bit guilty. "I'd better explain."
"I would," said Libby ominously.
"Come on, then, let's go inside."
Estella led the way down to the beach hut, and produced a complicated set of keys. "Attempted break-ins," she said excusingly, ushering them into a minimally-furnished interior.
"Sit down," she said, indicating two armchairs of antiquated appearance, while she perched on the Formica-covered table at the back.
"Welcome to Satis House. I'm afraid the name is my fault. We used to come here when I was a kid and I called it that. I was very proud of being named after the heroine of a novel, you see, and this was my special place."
Libby was speechless.
After a quick glance at her simmering friend, Fran said hastily, "So you really were named for the character in Great Expectations?"
Estella nodded.
"Odd choice," said Libby. She'd always thought Estella was rather a nasty piece of work. "A Dickens connection?"
Fran answered. "Cora was playing the character in a run of Great Expectat
ions when she found out she was pregnant. That's right, isn't it?"
"Yes." Estella had clearly decided she had an ally in Fran and smiled at her. "I think she hoped it would inspire me to be a beautiful heartbreaker and save the family fortunes into the bargain. I'm afraid I've been a disappointment there," she added ruefully.
"Probably just as well not being a heartbreaker," said Libby bracingly. "Messy business, breaking hearts. Is it still your beach hut?"
"Yes. My grandmother left it to me when she died last year." She smiled reminiscently. "It had been in Dad's family since the war. He was long gone by then and my mother never much liked Little Piddling. So I got it in Granny Joan's will."
Fran looked round the bare little room. "But surely you aren't staying here?"
"Oh no. I'm up at Manor Farm. That's where Granny Joan and I lived."
"Where's that?"
Estella waved a hand towards the back wall of the hut. "A bit inland, near The Old Barge Inn."
"And is that where the—um—body was found?" asked Fran.
Estella shook her head. "No. No, that was here on the beach." She looked down at her hands and swung her feet. "It's just..." She stopped.
"What?" said Libby.
The girl shook her head. "I hate talking about it."
Libby could understand that, but it wouldn't help. And Fran was looking helpless.
Libby said gently, "Look, Estella. Your mother said she knew all about Fran and I helping out with the occasional police investigation. So she thought we might be able to give you a few hints on how the police do things. Help with your—how did she put it?—bit of trouble. Unless you tell us about it, we can't help, can we?"
Fran sent her a grateful look.
Estella nodded reluctantly.
Libby said no more.
Eventually Estella took a deep breath. "Last week a dog walker found a body. It—he—was lying right next to the hut. There was crime-scene tape and everything round it for a couple of days. The police made me go to the morgue and look at him to see if I knew him. But of course I didn't." She looked faintly sick. "The problem was that he had Satis House scribbled on a piece of paper in his pocket."
"And what else? ID? Credit cards?" asked Fran.
Beach Hut Surprise: Escape to Little Piddling this summer — six feel-good beach reads to make you smile, or even laugh out loud Page 12
