by Wendy Reakes
In the
Shadows of
Strangers
First published in 2016 in Great Britain.
Copyright©ShadowsofStrangers2016
The moral right of Wendy Reakes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with
the copyright, designs and patents acts of 1988.
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author and copyright owner.
ISBN-13:
97815114444088
ISBN-10:
1511444088
Wendyreakes.com
For Jake
1999
Eve of the Millennium
If there were two things that annoyed Katherine Killa more than speech writing, it was the inability to drum up the appropriate words to write the damn speech in the first place, and more importantly, it was when the sun blasted through the window and hit her right between the eyes. She held her hand up to her face as a visor and pressed the intercom on the phone. “Can we do something about this damn sun?”
Her assistant came into the office, walking swiftly and surely as if she was gliding on rollers beneath her black Mary Janes. One of the most important people in Katherine’s life, Bridget Garineau was French born and spoke perfect English with just un petit accent français. She took care of Katherine like a silent mother, while Katherine looked after her in return. Each year Bridget’s salary, bonus and benefits made six figures, but that didn’t buy her loyalty. No, her devotion to Katherine Killa came without a price, borne out of years of mutual respect and friendship.
She sat at her desk with her pen poised over a yellow lined pad, watching Bridget tug the cords at the side of the dome-shaped windows. The vertical blinds shaded the room instantly, allowing her immediate and grateful relief. Bridget glanced over her shoulder. “Is that better?”
“Thanks.” She offered a curt nod. Her reaction seemed abrupt, but Bridget knew her well enough to know she had more important things on her mind. “Is everything ready for tonight?”
“I must still type your speech.”
Oh god, the speech! “I’m not happy with it. I’m thinking of ad-libbing.” She glanced at her watch. Cartier’s, with a platinum bracelet strap, a gift from Jack, bought to commemorate the new millennium and the occasion when, only three months before, after all those lost years, they’d found each other at last.
He was the man she’d always wanted, even when their lives seemed destined to run side by side, instead of crossing in the middle as it did in October 1999. When she saw him that night, a feeling of love and longing -and pure lust- had hit her like a runaway train. There and then, she’d promised herself never to let him slip away again, after they came together, as they should have twenty-years before…before one person and his single desire interfered with their lives in the most catastrophic way.
She ran her thumb across the glass on the watch and realised time had moved on from when she’d last looked. Three o’clock! Damn! She’d promised Jack she’d be home by three. She tore the page from her note pad and offered it to Bridget’s outstretched hand. “I’m going home early.” To Jack!
“Good idea. Get ready for the party.” Bridget’s eyes remained on the page as her arm reached out and grabbed Katherine’s coat. She passed it over with one efficient movement.
Stabbing her arms into beige cashmere sleeves and with one swift tug, she pulled out her long auburn hair until it fell down her back in thick, natural waves. Perching on the edge of the desk, Bridget was scrutinizing the scrawl of her speech. “Can you fax it over to the house? I’ll see you later at the party.”
She offered a dismissive wave of the hand. “Oui, oui.”
Her new silver ‘99 Audi was parked in its own bay at the rear of the building next to the Four Oaks pub. ‘Reserved. Ms Killa’. She detested the sign. She thought it made her look self-important and she had never been that. She made a mental note to have it changed. Flicking the key remote she got into the car and threw her handbag onto the passenger seat. She loved the aroma of the interior. The car was only a week old and she never wanted that new leather smell to wear off. She switched on the ignition, pulled the seatbelt across her body and just before she reversed out, she pushed a CD into the stereo, ‘Learn French with Michel Thomas’. A car went behind her, forcing her to stop quickly. The tightened seatbelt hurt her neck. Merde!
When she arrived at her Chelsea townhouse ten-minutes later, her heart raced with anticipation at the thought of seeing Jack. She tossed her keys into a silver bowl on the table and shuffled through some unopened mail. All junk. Throwing her coat over a chair and abandoning her shoes, she walked barefoot along the hall to the kitchen where she grabbed an already opened bottle of wine from inside the fridge door. She poured a large glass and took a long satisfying drink. “Jack?” she called.
The dining room was just through the double glass doors leading from the kitchen. The dark green walls, with a rug of gold over a highly polished wooden floor, made the room look inviting, especially at night when they dined by candlelight with a fire burning in the grate. In the centre, a large cedar wood table dominated the room with eight high-back chairs placed around it.
Jack had his back to her. He was deep in thought with his papers strewn across the shiny surface of the table. She put her arm around his shoulder and bent down to nuzzle his neck. Without a word, as if he’d been expecting her, he turned and slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. His mouth covered hers as he unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse. He ran his hand inside, over her black lace bra. She wanted him more than ever. And she wanted him now. “Have a shower with me?”
Her finger stroked the scar at the side of his face, a stark reminder of their first meeting over twenty-years before. He was unshaven, but she liked him like that. His dark hair was uncombed and he had no scent other than his own body odour. His hands felt rough against her skin, but she loved the feel of them. The roughness of his palms was the result of a lifetime’s manual labour. Jack was no pen-pusher and she liked that. He’s wore no jewellery except for his watch and today, off duty, he wore jeans with a navy jersey shirt, open at the neck where she could see dark hairs sprouting from his chest. His jaw line was strong and prominent, his nose straight, his skin tanned, and his eyes were as blue as the sky on a summer’s day. She loved them. She loved him.
She kissed the tip of his nose. “Give me a couple of minutes and then come up.”
She left him clearing up his papers and went slowly up the stairs to the galleried landing that overlooked the kitchen. She considered leaving a trail of clothes behind her, like in the movies. Jack would find that funny. But before she could instigate her playful plan, she stopped near the bedroom sensing something wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She just knew something’s wasn’t as it should be.
Tentatively, she walked into the room and stopped just beyond the door. Everything looked neat and tidy. The bed was made, cupboards were closed, pictures were hanging straight on the walls, and yet…there was something.
Then she knew.
It was that rancid smell of stale cigars mixed with the pungent odour of sweat and aftershave.
It was too late to react when she saw Frank Warner’s reflection in the mirror. He’d already stepped out
from behind the door and he’d grabbed her with stabbing fingers. Oh God! He shoved his left hand across her mouth, using the other arm to engage her shoulder as he placed his face next to hers. His foul breath made her want to gag and his large belly felt repugnantly soft when he pulled her up against him.
“Don’t make a sound,” he hissed. He loosened his grip slightly. “I’m not going to hurt you as long as you stay quiet. Understood?”
She nodded and he let her go. “What are you doing here?” she hissed back. She glanced towards the door and wondered if Jack had heard anything. Don’t come up, Jack. Don’t come up.
“I’ve come for him,” he said but she already knew that. He’d been after Jack for years. He nodded his head towards the door; his smile vicious and foreboding. “Gordon Bentley’s boy has poked his nose into my business too many times and nobody screws with ol’ Frank Warner.”
Her voice was a half-whisper as her eyes followed his to the door. “What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see.” He pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and pointed it towards her. “It’s payback time and Jack Taylor is going to rue the day he ever fucked with me.”
Chapter One
1977
In a grand Victorian mansion overlooking the sea on the South Wales coast, Mrs Garford watched a small pan of milk heat atop the oil fired stove. It was a good stove, as old as the house itself and one she ensured was kept in mint condition with plenty of spit and polish. Only last week her employer, Gordon Bentley, typically distracted, left a pot of mulled wine unattended, while he went off to do something else. When the cursed cocktail subsequently boiled over, a cinnamon crust had been deposited on her lovely stove. That was how she’d seen it the next day, since he’d not found the time, nor the inclination to clean up after him. No, Mr. B. didn’t have to clean that old stove. He was too rich for spit.
A quick glance at the clock on the wall above the back door told her it was way past her bedtime. One o’clock! Still, with a nice cup of warm cocoa she’d soon be in the land of nod. Her thin lips stretched to a yawn as she plucked a fleck of wool from the sleeve of her favourite cardigan. It was her sister’s yellow creation, made with the best Welsh wool acquired from Swansea’s indoor market.
Mrs Garford poured the hot milk into her Best Cook mug and gave it a clinking stir, then, guided by the hazy blue light of the electric fly zapper, she held the cup in her left hand as she pushed open the swing door leading to the hall. Voices. She allowed the door to swing shut as she discreetly stepped back and kept her foot inside the jamb. She peered through the six-inch gap to the highly polished oak staircase dominating the centre of the entrance hall. There, Gordon Bentley was pacing and muttering, as he always paced and muttered when he was seriously perplexed.
She watched him stoop, bending at the waist to rub a scuff from his brown leather slippers, made earlier when he’d kicked the wall outside the front of the house. From what the gardener had told her, Mr. B had been out of his mind with fury when his sixteen-year old daughter, Teresa, took off with some ‘long haired lout’ driving a white convertible. The long haired lout was the name Gordon Bentley always used when describing Teresa’s boyfriends. Long hair or not.
‘That girl’s got no shame,’ the gardener, Will had said at the time. ‘She’s had everything she’s ever wanted and that’s how she repays them.’
Mrs Garford noticed how Mr. B couldn’t -or wouldn’t- be distracted from the vigorous rubbing of his slippers, despite the gentle voice calling his name from the floor above. She watched Alice Bentley, tall and regal, come down the stairs with characteristically soft footsteps. “Gordon, why are you still up?” she admonished.
He ignored her question and focused on his own. “How can I get this mark off?”
Alice pulled the belt of her robe tighter around her trim waist. She was the epitome of elegance, even in her prim night-time attire. “Don’t bother about that. You’ve probably torn the leather. I’ll get you some more.”
“I like these. I’ve broken them in.” He talked like a schoolboy at times, a trait, which often causes the household staff to chuckle over their morning tea.
Taking a small sip of her cocoa, Mrs Garford wished they’d hurry up, so that she could go to bed. Both of them were staring at the offending scuff now and even she found herself stretching her neck to see how bad it was.
Gordon Bentley, under normal circumstance, was always perfectly groomed. His position as chairman to one of the biggest paper product companies in the UK, required him to be well turned out every day. When he left the house at seven-thirty each morning, dressed in a tailor made suit, his shoes were always highly polished and never scuffed.
The cook watched Alice go to the chair inside the hall near the front door. She looked pale and tired; all done in! “It’s a pity we couldn’t have broken in Teresa,” she said.
Gordon offered a solemn nod of the head as he took the chair across the other side of the hallway. Now they looked like two royal sentries awaiting the arrival of their little princess. “I’m thinking of calling the police.”
“That’s not necessary. You know what she’s like. Besides she’s old enough to make her own decisions.”
“Old enough!? She’s barely fifteen.”
“Sixteen!”
“Sixteen then! Listen, Alice my love, while she’s living under our roof she should be made to abide by my rules.” He poked himself in the chest with his thumb.
Alice rolled her eyes as she often did when it came to her husband’s thought process. “She’s my daughter too you know.”
He leaned forward with his head in his hands. “Honestly, darling, I can’t take much more of this. How did she end up so damn wild?” He ran the tips of his fingers over his bushy black eyebrows and then up through his mop of wavy hair, black with thin strands of grey above his ears.
With her foot in the door jamb and her cocoa now bordering on lukewarm, Mrs. Garford sighed. She felt sorry for them. They’d been good parents to that wild child of theirs.
“Haven’t we always said it was just a phase?” Alice was saying. “She’ll grow out of it, just like she grew out of all the others.” She rose to her feet to stand patiently at his side. Her elegant hand rested upon his shoulder. “Come on, love. We may as well get some sleep. Who knows what time she’ll be back?”
He reluctantly took her hand. “I’ve made a decision,” he said, just before they climbed the stairs. “I’m going to cut her off. She’s pushed me too far this time. I…I’m washing my hands of her.”
“That’s silly. She’s our only child.”
“Just watch me, Alice. I’m going to teach that girl a lesson. I’m going to put her out of our lives and into someone else’s.”
Alice paused on the fourth step of the grand staircase. “You’re not suggesting...”
He tugged her arm so that she kept moving. “That’s right. I’m going to marry her off.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and added, “Just as soon as I find someone who’ll have her.”
As Mrs. Garfield watched them climb the stairs out of sight, she wondered who’d be first to hear about that revelation. Rose Killa should be in early. She’ll be very interested to know the Bentleys are going to marry off young Teresa.
Clucking her lips, the cook gently closed the kitchen door and put the bolts on.
Then the phone rang.
Chapter 2
Teresa Bentley pressed the cold flannel to her head, courtesy of the girl sitting next to her. “What did you say your name was again?” They were sitting side by side, alone in the waiting area of the police station. It had been a rough night and any minute now, her parents were going to come rushing through that door to make a big fuss about nothing.
The girl sitting next to her was a dark haired beauty with big forlorn, brown eyes. Forlorn until she smiled. That’s when her face shone and her expression changed her whole demeanour. Her perfect teeth inside rosebud lips were the envy of Teresa, not because sh
e has bad teeth herself, but she had to confess to a slight crookedness; the result of refusing to wear braces at the age of twelve. The girl was a tad shorter than she. Teresa was 5ft 11, so she guessed the girl was a five-foot tenner. She was slim, but unlike Teresa who boasted an athletic frame, the girl next to her was rounded with a good bust and a small waist, something Teresa could never lay claim to.
Teresa pulled the flannel from her forehead, turned it around to find a cool patch on the other side and pressed it back upon the bruise above her eye. Her father was going to blow a hissy fit when he saw the state of her, especially when the bruise came out in the morning, all black, blue and swollen. Never mind her old man, if there was any permanent damage she’d hunt down that Donny Baroque and cut his willie off.
She’d met the ‘long haired lout’, as her father had dubbed him, at the fairground two days before. He’d been working the waltzer with no shirt covering his amazing six-pack. He’d given her a lot of attention, making eye contact with her while her friends screeched and called his name, ‘Hey, Donny, where’s Maria?’ Twisting in the shell shaped seat, their bodies fell to the side as they all shook with screaming gaiety, Teresa had grabbed the rail and leaned forward, allowing the breeze to whip out her shoulder length feather-cut hair. Karen Carpenter was her idle and Teresa looked just like her. Carefree and sexy, so she knew how to work it. Donny had leaned in as he jumped and danced upon the backs of the chairs, making them spin faster. He was clearly adept at fairground tactics and despite her stomach churching at the force of the ride, Teresa had wondered what else he was adept at?
Two days later he’d picked her up from home for their first date. He’d insisted on coming to collect her rather than meet her back at the fair. She remembered being impressed by that, as she’d also considered how her father would react to Donny’s gentlemanly gestures. She’d guessed it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference. No boy she’d ever brought home had been good enough for her father. Bad choices her father always called them, which didn’t sit well with Teresa one little bit. After all, they were her choices, her life, and if her father didn’t like it, as far as she was concerned, he could take a running jump into Swansea bay.
