by Paula Wynne
At the point where a blue haze oozed out of the living room, Hawk stopped dead. He pushed the door open with one finger. Sounds reverberated around the room, bouncing off the furniture and whirring straight at Kelby like a ghost being exorcised. The door nudged open enough to reveal the culprit.
One of Fat Cat’s soaps.
‘It’s only the telly,’ Hawk chuckled.
Kelby slumped against the wall in relief as he pushed the door wide open to see Fat Cat fast asleep on top of the old square TV. Below him, one of the BBC’s soaps blared as some haggard old female had it out with a younger man.
‘Hah, soap re-runs at this hour of the morning!’ Hawk grinned. ‘You forgot to switch it off.’
‘No, not exactly.’ Kelby blushed. ‘I leave the TV on for the cat in case he gets lonely.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘It started after my ex left.’
The stupid bastard had left her for a young tart he’d got pregnant, but Kelby had no intention of sharing those details with Hawk. She recalled the endless photos of her ex on Twitter and Facebook that showed him loading his Porsche with leaving-home-luggage. And the people gloating at what had happened. In the end, she’d sold her Chelsea home to get away from them. Now she hid out in the sedate yet prestigious, tree-lined celebrity drive near St George’s College in Surrey. The agent had boasted that Elton John and Cliff Richard were neighbours; not that she cared. She had bought privacy.
Kelby sighed and said in a low voice, ‘Leaving the TV on was more to do with my fear of being alone in the dark.’
‘Don’t worry. The dark scares a lot of people.’
‘Mine comes from the night when my parents left me and my brother with the babysitter for an odd night out.’ She swallowed hard at the haunting memory.
‘How old were you?’
‘Just a teenager.’
‘What happened?’ Hawk’s gentle voice prodded her to get rid of her demon.
‘At midnight the babysitter left. I waited alone in the dark all night with Gary. In the morning one of my aunts arrived with the police and told me about my parents’ accident.’
Hawk’s huge arms wrapped around her.
‘I know it sounds daft,’ her voice muffled against his chest, ‘There were no mobiles in those days and no way for me to get in touch with my folks, so I hid Gary in a wardrobe and climbed in with him.’
‘It’s okay.’ Hawk patted her shoulders.
‘I’m brave in public, but a coward on my own.’
She pulled out of Hawk’s arms, lifted Fat Cat and gave him a quick cuddle.
Back in the hallway, she watched Hawk check the house and then he showed her how to use the alarm. Thanking him, she watched him slide back into his car right outside her door. ‘I won’t be far. I’ll keep checking around the house. I’m here if you need me. Just call.’
Darting upstairs to her bedroom, Kelby slipped off her bra and pulled on a pair of Calvin Klein boxers. She often bought the soft t-shirt ones without the Y-front in Harrods, pretending they were for a man friend. She hopped into bed, careful not to disturb Fat Cat who was curled in a fluffy ball on the bottom corner.
With no hope of a decent night’s sleep, Kelby slipped between the cold sheets. For the first time since her divorce, she regretted being alone.
After reading two pages of The Economist’s world news, Kelby realised she hadn’t registered a word. Every sound outside magnified in her mind. The wind swept through a garden pergola, creaking around the grapevine arbour. It played havoc with the roof tiles, lifting them one by one, as if to tease her with frightening sounds. Somewhere downstairs a tap dripped. Although it drove her nuts, she wouldn’t get out of bed to find it and stop the irritating drip.
Dumping The Economist on her bedside table, she opted for her latest Dean Koontz novel. She soon gave that up too. Fine thing to be reading with someone prowling around her garden. At least with Hawk there, no-one would get inside.
Kelby hit the light switch and snuggled under the duvet, curling into a foetal position. Her king size bed was a cold, vacant void without a man’s warmth. She tried to empty her mind and get some sleep.
Fat chance.
49
Kelby crept around the house, trying to get away from a dark figure, but the more she tried the slower she went.
He yanked her from behind. Throwing one of her shirts over her head, he tugged it tighter and tighter. A large hand closed over her mouth. She coughed and spluttered, struggling to breathe.
She came around with her hands and feet bound to a chair in the kitchen. The dark figure made himself at home, munching on left over quiche and sipping on an open bottle of Rioja. For hours, her attacker taunted her. ‘You deserve to be raped,’ he hissed, ‘A she-devil like you needs to be exterminated.’ A loud bang on the door stopped his ramblings.
With a jolt, Kelby woke from her nightmare.
Too afraid to move, she lay under the warm duvet. For a long moment, she listened for someone at the door. Silence. Nobody there. It was only a nightmare about being tied up. Yet, it had been so real, she had felt the rope chafe her wrists. What a relief. The threat was over. She had escaped.
But how come her bedroom stank of stale tobacco?
The banging in her head refused to abate; she had to take a headache pill. Forcing herself up, Kelby rose in slow motion, her eyes taking in every square inch of her bedroom.
No sign of an intruder.
Kelby crept across the darkened room, fearing her attacker would appear from nowhere. Her ears were on red alert.
Calm down! She shook her head.
After a quick shower, she opened a drawer tangled with panties and bras. Distracted, and multi-tasking with her hands going in different directions, she lifted out a pair of knickers and her finger slid across the smoothness of paper.
Kelby frowned as she pulled out a magazine.
The same blood-smeared magazine centre spread stared back at her. This time, Teresina had been blacked out. Her glossy smile was scarred by the horrific graffiti while Kelby’s face had been smeared with a large bloody X.
She inhaled sharply. Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes checked every nook in her bedroom, and focused on the entrance, half expecting the attacker to be silhouetted in the doorway.
Kelby’s thumb instinctively popped into her mouth and her bottom row of teeth shaved along the nail.
Then, her spine recoiled with a new realisation. The internet stalker must have had something to do with Teresina’s death. His message was clear; she was next on his list.
Kelby bolted down the stairs, flung the door open, yelling to Hawk.
But his car was gone.
50
‘El Dio que mos guadre. May God preserve us.’ Tío’s usually smiling face contorted.
María stared at Tío. Still dazed, she muttered, ‘Oh, no, poor Moshe and Ribka will be terrified.’ She couldn’t face the thought of her village friends being sent away and asked, ‘Why are they doing this?’
Tío’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘They have lots of different reasons. The king’s more powerful if everyone is Catholic.’
‘But why? We have so many different religions in Granada.’
‘Yes, querida, but the king and queen want to increase their political authority and weaken opposition.’
A deep frown creased her brow.
‘Remember when we talked about Granada being the last bastion of Moslem rule?’
María nodded.
‘It was only a few months ago, in January, that Granada was conquered from the Moors, and the reconquest was completed. We have a few months to convert to Catholicism or we must leave Spain.’ He lifted his hat and rubbed the sweat off the top of his head. ‘They want to rule the world.’
&
nbsp; María jumped up and poured herself some water.
‘My family have decided to fund a sea captain who is looking for sailors to help him find new worlds.’
‘Cristóbal Colón?’
Tío jolted upright in his seat, his face aghast. ‘How do you know this, querida?’
‘You taught me when we did our lesson on the new world. The Italians call him Cristoforo Colombo, don’t they?’
He slumped back in his chair, muttering, ‘Yes, yes, of course. This news is driving me loco!’ He tapped the side of his head.
María touched his hand. ‘You are not a crazy person, Tío.’
‘Bah! Now they want Colón to find a new route to India.’
‘But you told me Isabella had turned his request down because it cost too much money.’
‘Si el emprestimo era bueno, emprestava el rey a su mujer. If making loans were good, the king would lend his wife.’ Tío shook himself as though the thought of the king distressed him. After a moment, he scratched his head and said, ‘Yes, yes, too much money, even though the rewards will be great.’ He stretched his body as though the conversation gave him backache. ‘The treasury has estimated that the expenditure for three ships and crew will be about the same as it costs the young royals to entertain a visiting noble for one week.’
‘How do you know so much about Colón’s quest for money?’
For a moment Tío stared at her, then he dropped his voice as though someone might overhear them, ‘You can never say this aloud, querida.’
Holding her breath, María hung onto every word he uttered.
‘My family are related to him.’ He waited for his words to sink in and continued, ‘Not many know of his Jewish origins. He is from a Converso family. Djidio bovo no ay. There are no stupid Jews.’
Taking a deep breath, María asked, ‘Does the King know of this?’
‘As I said, not many know Colón is a Converso.’
‘But if they support Colón, they can take control of the world and all its people!’ María’s heart beat so loudly she hoped Tío couldn’t hear it.
‘Yes, querida.’
‘Will your family convert? They have been so helpful to me.’
He remained silent for a long moment.
Tío sighed deeply and dropped his voice so low she could hardly hear him, ‘We have little choice.’ Tío said in a trembling voice, ‘In their search for would-be heretics, they’re torturing confessions out of those who have converted.’
‘Are they allowed to do that?’
‘They can do whatever they want. They are even seizing the properties of convicted heretics.’
‘You are not a heretic, Tío.’
‘Bless you, mi querida. But in their eyes I am.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Up till now my family in the north were blessed. They had the money to buy their way out of trouble if it came their way.’ He sighed. ‘Money is the solution to many problems, querida. Now they are going into hiding and I will go with them.’
‘Until when?’
Beside her the fire leapt over the logs, eating at any crack in the wood. As it spat and crackled, its heat warmed her cheeks.
‘Until this persecution is finished, we will leave our homes as they are until we can return to them. But listen, querida …’
María squirmed in her chair. A tremor in her spine tickled the base of her neck.
‘There is more.’
51
Barker tossed a fifty quid note at the driver and stepped out of the black cab into the early morning drizzle. A wave of foul-smelling heat, pumping out the smell of petrol fumes, rose from under the vehicle.
He hated travelling in cabs. They stank, and who knew what slob had sat on the seat minutes before him. But it was the only way to travel in the congestion zone. Although he was on a stealth mission, most people came to Harley Street’s prestigious medical mecca for private consultations about everything, from depressing terminal illness to conceited cosmetic body reordering.
Earlier, he’d had Kelby’s car fitted with the same device that killed Teresina. Every time he thought of how he could get away with his plan, adrenalin surged through him, setting his whole being on fire. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t discovered this rush before. A meticulous killing strategy thrilled him more than any business plan.
Rain splattered on Mata Gordo’s Victorian arched windows. Its facade begged passers-by to peer into the windows. Barker pressed the buzzer on a highly polished, black door. He wondered if Mata Gordo purposefully added a thick veil of mystery to their entrance. They certainly kept secrets like stones kept silent.
The door buzzed and clicked open. He stepped upon the shiny wooden pine floors of Mata Gordo Pharmaceutical. The smell of the place, pristine and lemon-like, caught him high in the nostrils. Medical smells, he hated. Lemon freshness, he loved.
Apart from the receptionist’s muted phone conversation in the next room, the imposing gabled lobby was silent. Only the occasional pigeon, flapping against the high octagonal tower’s skylight, disturbed the peace. For a split second he imagined himself to be inside an elaborate doll’s house.
The click-clack of his heels on the pine floor brought the receptionist scuttling into the hallway. She extended her hand, half bowing her head, as the ultimate show of respect.
Without doubt, she would have signed agreements to keep her trap shut about the goings on in here with the high profile clientele, political and medical.
The receptionist ushered Barker into Mata Gorda’s inner sanctuary. The plush décor eased Barker’s beating heart. It hadn’t stopped tapping against his ribs since Zelda had given him the ultimate coup de grâce for destroying another she-devil.
Rizado consumed his thoughts — almost taking over his game plan. Once his research had revealed its immense potential, everything would slot into place.
He needed to find Kelby’s secret plant.
52
Within seconds of slamming her front door Kelby heard footsteps crunch on her driveway. She peeped through the keyhole and saw Hawk passing the window.
She darted outside. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Hawk smiled. ‘Morning. I’ve just finished patrolling the grounds.’
The fire in her veins immediately melted and she softened her tone, ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘Why? I told you I’d be here all night.’
‘Your car …’ Kelby stretched her neck and saw it parked at the bottom of the garden behind the shed. She suddenly felt terribly stupid.
After she’d explained to Hawk, he said, ‘When we did the audit I did a sweep of the house for bugs, but I didn’t do an extreme sweep. This may have been there before I set things up.’
She nodded.
‘Or it could be a threat from within. I wonder if this person knows you.’
‘But who?’
This time Hawk shook his head.
Kelby made coffee to settle her nerves while Hawk made a few calls. Hawk’s colleague Roger, came over and drove Kelby to work while Hawk scoured her house and grounds to see how someone could have infiltrated the security system.
An hour and a half later Kelby swept through the glass double door of her office and spotted Zelda glued to her PC in the far corner. She hung her coat in reception along with a row of other wet, bedraggled and sad-looking garments.
She didn’t want to face another day of tedious mentee meetings. After the initial thrill of being on Devil’s Grotto, the gloss and glamour had quickly worn off leaving her with the dull ache of being in the public eye. She rued the day she had let Jon Thompson twist her arm to be on the show. At the time, it had sounded fun with lots of opportunities to meet new people. But now, with the trolling, it was too much hassle.
Greeting the early birds as she marched through the office, she spotted Jimmy. He waved at her and she nodded in return, knowing a hot cup of coffee would be in her hands in a few minutes. What would she do without him?
After an update on her security, she said to Jimmy, ‘Please call Stacie, I’ve been trying her mobile and her home number, but she’s not answering.’
‘What’s the message if I get hold of her?’
‘Put her through, I have to talk to her.’
‘Another bust up?’
Kelby dropped her gaze. Jimmy was too damn intuitive for his own good. ‘Get onto Stacie. ASAP!’
‘I’m on it.’ Striding to the door, Jimmy asked, ‘How’s Annie?’
‘Much better, thanks, but not out of the woods yet. The poor little thing looks so pale with those tubes stuck in her face.’
‘Did you get any sleep? Or did you spend the night working on those reports?’
Ignoring his question, she asked, ‘Have you heard any more about Teresina’s accident?’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘Get me everything you can find on it. Call Jon or the producers, they’ll know the latest.’
He saluted and disappeared.
Kelby slumped into her seat and stared at the dark thunder clouds crowding in around her window. She’d have to quit the show; she couldn’t tolerate this troll infestation.
A flurry of unfamiliar voices filtered into her office, and Kelby glanced through the internal window facing her staff.
PC Pike and Turkey-neck stood in reception staring directly at her.
53
Barker stared at the lard arse in a three-piece suit. Being CEO of one of Europe’s most affluent pharmaceutical companies gave Matt Gorden an inflated ego and plenty of excuses to overindulge. If he wasn’t suited up, he’d look like the Michelin Man.
