Fault Line - Retail
Page 39
‘Signor Lashley, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘I cannot wake him. I think … I think he is dead.’
From the peaceful expression on his face it would have been easy to believe he’d slipped away, naturally, in his sleep. But the empty pill bottles on the bedside cabinet told a different story. He’d planned this, as he’d planned so much else. It came to me, as I looked down at him, that the transfer document he’d referred to, lodged with his lawyer, was in fact his will. He’d said all he had to say. I’d heard his final testament.
Almost at once, I noticed an envelope propped against the bedside lamp, with my name written on it in Lashley’s hand. I tore it open, expecting to find a note inside.
There was no note. But there was a message for me, nonetheless.
It was a photograph of Oliver. I’d never seen it before. Yet I remembered it very well. It was one of those I’d taken at Goss Moor the last evening of his life. He was dressed in his blue jeans and green sweater, with his knapsack hoisted on his shoulder and the slanting sunlight falling as a splash of gold on his blond, tousled hair.
There’d been a film in the camera after all. This was the proof that Lashley had lied to me about that. I sensed it was his private confession to me that he’d lied about what had happened at Relurgis Pit as well. He’d been unable to face me with the worst of the truth: the part he’d played in Oliver’s death and, later, in Muriel’s.
I searched the cabinet for the rest of the photographs. They weren’t there. He’d probably destroyed them long since. Perhaps it didn’t matter. What would they have shown me that I didn’t already know or suspect? Oliver would have had no illusions about the risks he was running by confronting Lashley. Now the last of my illusions had been stripped away.
Elena phoned Lashley’s doctor, who said he’d be there as soon as possible. As it was, I had to leave before he arrived. Meeting Vivien off the ferry seemed more important now than ever. I borrowed the Lexus and, as I sped down the steep, zigzagging road towards Marina Grande, I glanced ahead of me, out to sea. A vessel was approaching across the bay from Naples. It was the ferry, with Vivien aboard. They were so much faster than when she and I had first come to the island, more than forty years before. But no matter. I’d be there in time to meet her at the dock, as promised. And then …
The future. Uncharted territory. Old ends and new beginnings. The story of part – or all – of the rest of my life.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am very grateful to Roger Preston, Derek Giles and Ivor Bowditch for sharing with me their extensive knowledge and experience of the china clay industry. This is, of course, a work of fiction and no resemblance is intended, nor should any be inferred, between the companies they worked for and those I have invented for story-telling purposes.
I am also very grateful to Ben Aldington of Westover Sports Cars, Poole, for introducing me to the delights of the Lotus Evora, Adam Lashley’s transport of choice.
About the Author
Robert Goddard was born in Hampshire and read History at Cambridge. His first novel, Past Caring, was an instant bestseller. Since then his books have captivated readers worldwide with their edge-of-the-seat pace and their labyrinthine plotting. The first Harry Barnett novel, Into the Blue, was winner of the first WHSmith Thumping Good Read Award and was dramatized for TV, starring John Thaw. His thriller, Long Time Coming, won an Edgar in the Mystery Writers of America awards.
Also by Robert Goddard
Past Caring
In Pale Battalions
Painting the Darkness
Into the Blue
Take No Farewell
Hand in Glove
Closed Circle
Borrowed Time
Out of the Sun
Beyond Recall
Caught in the Light
Set in Stone
Sea Change
Dying to Tell
Days without Number
Play to the End
Sight Unseen
Never Go Back
Name to a Face
Found Wanting
Long Time Coming
Blood Count
For more information on Robert Goddard and his books, see his website at www.robertgoddardbooks.co.uk
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First published in Great Britain
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Copyright © Robert and Vaunda Goddard 2012
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This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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