As she emerged from the woods she saw lights were starting to pop on all over the castle. Alicia’s mother, Lady Vyne, was working at her laptop computer, her slim silhouette easily identifiable in the huge window of the library. She had paused to chat to her assistant, Kenzie. No, not chat; the conversation was too intense for that. He rested one hand on her shoulder as he leaned towards her, his mouth only inches from hers. Natalie quickly dropped her gaze, unwilling to act the voyeur.
The sun had set and it was too cold to hang around. She turned right, taking the garden path between a grove of ancient yews. These grew so thickly, the branches drawing together above her head made it seem darker. Directly ahead was the chapel. Only two walls of it remained - redbrick on the inside, pale stone for the exterior. ‘Re-imagined’ in Victorian times as a folly, her father had helped the illusion by planting shrubs and flowers amongst the fallen stones. Now there was no floor, just earth and grass, and one remaining window, which gave a fine view of the castle and framed a little orange glow a few feet beyond.
Natalie stopped, peering through the darkness.
A man stood on the other side of the chapel, directly in its shadow. His hair was dark and his clothes were dark. She would never have seen him but for the cigarette he was smoking - the orange glow that had caught her attention.
It felt as though all her breath had been expelled out of her. Who was he? The Vyne family had always had been happy to let the villagers walk all over the estate, provided their privacy was not compromised. But it was too late to be taking a walk and there was no evidence of a dog. There was also something in the way he stared impassively at the castle that made Natalie think it would be better for her if he did not know she was here.
She took a step backwards, intending to disappear into the woods, but as her foot made contact with the ground a distinct crack disturbed the silence.
The only twig in the vicinity and she’d trodden on it.
Cliché or not, the man had now turned to look back through the chapel window.
“Who’s there?” he said.
She took another couple of steps back and made such a racket with her boots scuffing up the loose stones on the path that she gave up trying to be quiet and hit the woodland track running.
“Hey, come back!” he called.
Surely he wasn’t serious?
Natalie sprinted through the yew grove and down the path towards the walled garden, slipping and sliding all the way. Her boots were low-heeled but not designed for woodland rambles. At this rate she’d break her own neck before he even got the opportunity. She could hear him close behind, cursing at the uneven ground. And that was another thing. If his intentions had been honourable, would he risk frightening her half to death by chasing after her?
The gravel path tracked steeply towards the walled garden. In places, it had been shored into steps with sections of wood. In the dark these were a hindrance. More than once her foot caught against a piece of jutting timber, almost sending her flying.
Once past the walled garden, the path levelled off and she was able to move more quickly. To her right she caught glimpses of white light, as the street lamps flickered on one by one. To see civilisation so close was reassuring, but she knew it was only familiarity with the path that had given her the advantage. As it grew narrower, unseen brambles caught at her clothes and the thin branches of the undergrowth whipped back against her skin.
He was drawing closer. Soon he would be able to reach out and -
Suddenly her feet were running across tarmac, past the old Lodge and through the stone arch of the castle gate. Her car was in front of her, parked skewed on the grass verge, exactly where she’d left it. She thrust her hand in her pocket for her keys. There was a brief moment of panic, when she failed to locate them, then their cold metal dug into her fingers and she dragged them out, squeezing hard on the fob until she heard the reassuring click of the central locking disengage.
As her fingers closed over the door handle, she risked looking back - and saw him fall out through the undergrowth and onto the castle drive, much as she had done a moment earlier. He straightened, checking to see which direction she’d taken, and then saw her standing on the grass beside her car. As she watched, too terrified to move, she saw his expression change into one of shock. Then he said something, one word that she didn’t quite catch, and held out his hand.
It was all the motivation she needed. She wrenched at the handle, and by that point it seemed like a miracle the door even opened. She almost fell into the car, pulling the door closed behind her and locking it.
Her overwhelming relief vanished the moment his palm slammed against the side window.
Horrified, she watched his hand slide down the glass before she heard the door handle rattle.
What the hell was she still doing here? What if next time it wasn’t his fist, but a rock?
Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly get the key in the ignition. The engine firing caused him to thump on the window again. Although it drowned out his voice, she could see his lips forming the word ‘please’.
‘Please’ what? ‘Please open the door’? As though that was going to happen!
With more assurance she slid the car into gear, released the handbrake and put her foot on the accelerator. The tyres skidded briefly, got a grip, and then the car shot forward across the grass, causing him to jump out of the way. She barely had time to jerk the steering wheel around to avoid a collision with the castle wall, before the car bumped back onto the road.
Hardly daring to believe she’d got away, she glanced up at her rear view mirror. She could see him plainly in the light from the streetlamp. He was still standing beside the castle gate, staring after her.
It was only then she realised what he’d said when he’d first seen her.
He’d called her ‘Sarah’.
11
Natalie pulled into the basement car park of her apartment block, half-expecting to see another car draw up behind her. Had it really happened? Her hands still trembling, she took her phone from her bag and kept tight hold of it as she went up in the lift. She didn’t relax until she’d closed her apartment door behind her and poured herself a large glass of wine.
After which she switched on her laptop and did something she had never thought of before. She typed ‘Geraint Llewellyn’ into a search engine. There were several pages of entries. It appeared Geraint shared his name with an opera singer, a couple of rugby players and several random Welshmen. Further down the page other familiar names began to appear. Calahurst. Hurst Castle. Sarah Grove.
It was a shock to see her sister’s name on screen. She sat back in her chair and thought about what to do next? Click on a site or let the past stay buried?
She moved the cursor across the screen, hovering over a couple of entries, before making her decision. The screen went black. She put down her wine glass and leant forward, thinking something had gone wrong with the computer. The screen flashed, seemingly torn apart by a jagged streak of lightning. Great - cheesy SFX. She gave the site the benefit of the doubt, waiting for an ‘enter site’ link to appear. Instead, there was another flash of ‘lightning’, revealing a brief glimpse of a lily pond, complete with rotting corpse. Natalie stabbed the back button. Sick bastards.
The second site was more clinical. There was no SFX to sex up events which had no need of embellishment, only the facts, which were well researched and mostly accurate. She scrolled down the index. Sarah was listed under ‘S’ and subtitled ‘the girl in the lily pond’.
The link took her to another page. At the top was a photograph of Sarah. It was a school photograph, released to the press at the time of the murder. With her white-blonde hair, Sarah looked angelic and vaguely other-worldly. There were more pictures too - of Hurst Castle and the famous gardens. These were slightly blurry and amateurish. Presumably the author had taken them himself. The photograph of the castle showed the south wall of the castle burning with scarlet Virginia cr
eeper, so it must have been taken in the autumn. The photograph of the lily pond had no lilies in it and the water was mud-coloured and only a couple of feet deep. That picture had been taken more recently. She imagined the photographer had to shin over the padlocked gate to get it.
Right at the bottom of the screen was another picture. A drawing, not a photograph. Something the police liked to call ‘an artist’s impression’. Of a man in his early twenties, with long dark hair, tanned skin and a direct gaze. It was not an accurate likeness. Natalie could have given a better description, but no one had thought to ask her.
Would she have told them?
That knot of fear returned to twist her stomach. It hardly seemed credible. There had been a massive manhunt, a search of every fairground in the UK, every port checked and his picture circulated throughout Europe. For fifteen years there had been nothing - no trail of evidence, no positive sightings - it was as though he’d vanished into another dimension. Yet tonight she’d seen him standing in the castle grounds as though nothing had happened.
Geraint Llewellyn.
Her sister’s murderer had returned to Calahurst.
12
Fifteen Years Previously
Why should Sarah have all the fun?
Natalie waited for her sister to disappear into the darkness before climbing onto her bedroom windowsill, keeping her head low to avoid banging it on the beamed ceiling. From there it was a matter of slipping through the window and onto the flat roof of the porch beyond. Her father had planted climbing roses along a metal trellis, curving up and over the brickwork, but this was not the time for an elegant descent. She sat on the flat roof, swung her legs over the edge of the porch and lowered herself down. It was further than she had thought, but she landed safely and was soon running down the path, hurdling the gate rather than wasting time opening it.
She passed beneath the stone archway onto the main road, where there was a long queue of traffic and a steady stream of people weaving between the cars parked on the pavement opposite. It would be easy to avoid being seen - but just as easy to lose Sarah in the crowd.
Everyone walked in the road, despite the passing cars, and occasionally Natalie lost clear sight of her sister. She quickened her pace, pulling up the hood of her cardigan in case they should spot her and send her home, but Sarah and her boyfriend were lost in a world of their own. The man had his arm curved around Sarah’s waist and his hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. He was tall and had dark hair, cut short, but at this distance that was all Natalie could see. He could have been anybody.
A few hundred yards along and the road began to widen and slope towards the village. Floodlights had been set up alongside the hawthorn hedgerows, and a police officer was stopping traffic to allow pedestrians to cross over to where a funfair had been set up. There was only one entrance - a narrow muddy path, which led over a ditch to an open gate and a queue of people waiting patiently to get in. Natalie dropped back a few paces to allow Sarah and her boyfriend to pass through the gate ahead of her, and then attempted to sneak to the front of the queue, counting on her age and lack of height to let her pass unnoticed. It didn’t work. She was unceremoniously shoved to the back. By the time she’d passed through the gap in the hedge and elbowed her way out of the crowd, they had gone.
The fairground was crammed full of people, jostling against each other in the fight to be first in the queue for the rides. There were plenty to choose from - traditional fairground rides such as the dodgems and the waltzer, and other rides she did not recognise, with names like ‘the Destructor’ and ‘Afterburner’ - the kind of rides where you had to be strapped in before being flung around. These had the longest queues.
Waiting in line for the Destructor were some of the kids from school. She paused to watch them laugh and joke around, and then moved on quickly before they saw her.
It took no time to cross the field. In the distance were the first few houses of the village - the modern detached houses belonging to the newcomers. Beyond those were the older terraced cottages, leading down the cobblestoned street to the quayside. The Destructor had been the last significant ride and she could still hear the repetitive bass of the music. In some way the vibrant noise was reassuring. It proved she was not alone.
This part of the field was dark and silent. There was one last ride, almost indistinguishable from the shadows. The sides had been painted grey to resemble a fortress, although the paint was severely blistered. She walked to the front, stepping carefully over thick electric cables that snaked through the grass. From this angle the ride did not appear so derelict; there were even lights, flickering valiantly against the dark.
“Hello, cariad.”
The voice caught her by surprise. It took a moment for her to realise there was a paybox inside the ride, accessed by a metal ramp. Sat behind the glass window was a teenage boy, not much older than herself. He was wearing a black t-shirt, emblazoned with the name of some indie band she’d never heard of, which pretty much camouflaged him.
She pushed back her hood and shook out her long, white-blonde hair. As usual, it had the desired effect. For a moment he stared, then opened the door in the side of the paybox and stepped onto the metal platform.
“Hi,” she said, before he could trip himself up with a corny chat-up line. “I’m looking for my sister.”
“There are two of you?”
OK, she had walked into that one.
“You’ve got it,” she told him. “Have you seen her?”
“I’ve not seen a soul. No one comes out this far. I can’t think why.”
He had a faint accent, although she could not place it. Scots? Irish?
“Thanks, anyway.” She flipped her hood back up and would have walked away - she should have walked away, if he hadn’t said,
“Aren’t you going to take a ride?”
It was the last thing she wanted to do. The ride was old-fashioned, rickety and seriously cheesy. Was it supposed to be a haunted house? A gothic castle? The entrance resembled a portcullis, complete with rusted spikes, hovering over a narrow track. Very Edgar Allen Poe. Then it dawned on her. She was looking at a ghost train.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Er, no. Sorry. Not my thing.”
“Too scary for you, huh?”
How young did he think she was? She fixed her eyes on his, in case he was in any doubt of her sincerity. “It’s a kid’s train,” she told him. “It goes round in the dark and stuff comes out at you. Vampires, ghosts - skeletons too, I expect - all made out of plastic and papier-mâché. I bet there are even rubber bats and fake cobwebs strung up from the ceiling, am I right?”
“You can believe that if you want to,” he said, stepping back into the paybox, “if it makes you feel safe.”
There were two carriages waiting on the tracks and she could hear others rattling around inside, accompanied by the ubiquitous screams. The carriages appeared uncomfortably small and had been roughly painted, presumably to resemble skulls. The platform and steps that led up to the ride were metal, but the rest seemed to be nothing more than huge sections of plywood bolted together, designed to be flat-packed onto a lorry.
Still, he was kind of cute.
She walked up to the paybox and leant on the counter. Now they were inches apart, with only the glass between them, she could see him more clearly. There were tiny lines fanning from the corners of pale-green eyes and dark shadows beneath them. He was older than she had thought. Not a boy of her own age but an adult. Twenty? Twenty-one? Far too old for her. Her father would have a heart attack.
She grinned.
“You could keep me company?” she suggested.
There was a flash of indecision behind those cool green eyes. “Who would start the ride?”
“The ghost?”
He gave a low chuckle. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”
The doors to the ride crashed open and two carriages rumbled through to join the others at th
e back of the queue. The occupants jumped down, hardly before the ride had stopped, and ran laughing into the night.
“Do you want a beer?”
It took a moment for her to realise he was talking to her.
“Or coffee?” He reached behind him and flicked a switch. Instantly the ride was plunged into darkness. “It’s bloody cold tonight.”
“Um, sure,” she said. “OK … ”
He closed the paybox and locked it, leading her across the grass to a line of caravans parked in the shadow of the trees. Some had lights in their windows and there were people milling about outside. No one gave them a second glance. He led her towards a small, scruffy-looking caravan at the end of the line. Was this where he lived? There were no lights on. They’d be alone. This was such a bad idea.
“Is this where you live?” she asked him.
“It sure is.” He leaned past her to unlock the door. “Home sweet home.”
That was a matter of opinion, she thought, catching a whiff of stale air, cigarettes and beer. There was a split second while she re-considered her options, but even though common sense was telling her she should run, she still went up the steps.
The caravan was no better on the inside. It was functional - which was about the best she could say - and extremely cramped. The doorway led directly onto a small seating area with a table and an equally tiny kitchen. Every available surface, and there were not many, was littered with clothes, empty drinks cans and what looked like the remains of beans on toast on two plates. Wedged beneath one of the benches, half hidden by an old blanket, were three old video recorders, stacked one on top of each other, and a couple of car radios.
He took off his money belt (which hardly made a sound as he dropped it onto the counter), then pushed the clutter from one of the benches, flipped the blanket back over the junk stored beneath, and gestured for her to sit down.
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