She glanced at her watch. It was still not yet six a.m., but she decided to find her way to Laura’s house, in a tidy suburban cul-de-sac called Clarke Close, and wait there until an acceptable calling time. Laura and her husband had twin daughters, who Lilian reckoned would be nine or ten now and at school. So surely it would not be too long before the family would be up and about and preparing for the school run.
Just before eight a.m., which seemed like a respectable hour, she approached the front door of her cousin’s house, a freshly painted semi with a neatly bordered front garden. The place seemed suspiciously quiet. There were no windows open and no vehicles in the driveway.
She rang the bell. Once, twice, three times. There was no reply. She walked around the gravelled path to the back of the house. She had not really expected to find the family breakfasting on the lawn, even though it was such a lovely morning, but it had been worth a try.
With a sinking heart she retraced her steps, back around the house and down the driveway towards her car. Stupidly perhaps, she’d just expected Laura, with her young family and working husband, to be at home.
Then it hit her. The previous day had been the last Monday in May. Of course. The Whitsun bank holiday and school half-term. It may have meant nothing to her, but the Beggs’ family were quite probably taking a holiday. They could be away for the rest of the week.
She was glumly wondering what to do next when, just as she reached the pavement, he stepped out in front of her. At first she didn’t realize what was happening. She tried to move to one side, apologizing, like you do when you almost bump into someone. If you’re English anyway.
Then she realized the man must have been waiting for her, concealed by the high garden wall of her cousin’s property. He was tall and well built. His hair and beard both very dark. The wrong colour for Kurt St John. His eyes were dark too. Also the wrong colour for Kurt St John.
All the same, it was him.
And Lilian had no idea why she was surprised.
She had known he was going to find her sooner or later, hadn’t she? She’d known that he would come for her, wherever she was and whatever obstacles she and the forces of law had appeared to put in his way.
She just hadn’t expected him to catch up with her this quickly, and he was supposed to be out of the country. Also she was sure she had shaken off William and the goons on that mad rush out of London, and that she had covered her tracks. She hadn’t even left a paper trail. Indeed she hadn’t been able to leave a paper trail as all her credit cards had been cancelled.
He stretched out a hand, placing it lightly on her left arm.
‘Don’t be afraid, my darling. I’m so sorry I hurt you so badly. That will never happen again.’
He smiled at her. The same smile she’d once found so utterly disarming. Now it just filled her with dread.
She tried to step back from him, shaking her head.
His fingers closed around her upper arm, their tips digging into the flesh. Her body remembered all the pain he had caused it. Remembered too that the more she resisted the worse it always was. That is what had happened the last time. The only time he had actually inflicted any damage other than superficial bruising and a twisted wrist or two.
She felt herself weaken. Felt her will leaving her. Felt her limbs begin to dissolve to jelly.
‘How... how?’
She couldn’t even get the words out. But he knew what she meant. She saw his glance shift briefly to the BMW and then back again to her. Of course. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have thought that he would take a chance on her getting away that easily. It was no accident that her car had been just waiting for her to drive it away from the one place even Kurt would not dare turn up at with the police looking for him, his own apartment. She had played right into his hands. He had put a tracker on her car. She should have realized that, bizarrely, she had probably been safer at Penbourne Villas than anywhere.
It was too late now.
‘My darling Lilian,’ he murmured softly. ‘I just want to talk, that’s all.’
She just wanted to run. Oh, she so wanted to run. However, she only had one fully functional leg. In any case she assumed he would have that option covered. She glanced around her. A black Range Rover, almost certainly the one which had stalked her in London, was parked at an angle at the end of the cul-de-sac, half blocking the road. She could see the shapes of two heads inside.
Kurt was still talking.
‘I have a room in the best hotel in town. Won’t you come there with me? We could have breakfast. Smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, your favourite. And maybe some champagne? Anything you want, you know how I like to spoil you...’
His voice droned on. He was smiling all the time. He began to stroke the side of her face with his free hand. The grip of his right hand on her upper arm did not loosen.
How had he dared to flout the law the way he had? He’d not only disguised himself, but, presumably, entered the country under a false passport. Or maybe, in spite of what the authorities believed, he had never left. She had been well enough aware of his obsession with her, his only weakness he always called it. How could she have underestimated it — and him — so? He regarded her as his property. Property he had come to reclaim.
‘We need to spend some time together, just you and me, time to rebuild our marriage,’ he continued, his tone soft and wheedling. ‘I want you to let me show you how much I care—’
She interrupted him. Her voice sharp, louder than she had meant it to be.
‘You bugged my car,’ she yelled at him.
The smile faltered. Just for a second. He didn’t bother to deny it. Well, there wouldn’t have been any point, would there? He just continued as if she hadn’t spoken. Only someone who knew him as well as she did would notice that the smile was now forced, and that his manner had grown that bit more assertive.
‘The room is all ready for us, sweetheart. Why don’t we go there now?’
It wasn’t really a question and certainly not an invitation.
He placed a strong arm around her shoulders, and in one fluid movement began to usher her towards the Range Rover.
‘My c-car. M-my bag...’
She stumbled over the words.
‘The boys will look after that,’ he said, reaching with his free arm to take the keys to the BMW from her.
She did not attempt to resist. She knew there was little point.
Thirteen
Helen’s House was a rambling Edwardian semi, one of a number in a tree-lined street of similar properties. But there the similarities ended.
Whereas the others were immaculately cared for, clearly the homes of the more well-off amongst Bidefordians, Helen’s House looked as if it could do with a coat of paint, at least two panes of glass, visible at the front of the house, were cracked, and its garden displayed none of the lavish and exquisitely cared-for horticulture of its neighbours.
Vogel knew that the refuge had been established almost twenty years previously, and he suspected that it may not have been a welcome addition to this part of town.
It disturbed him somewhat that in modern and allegedly enlightened times such a place remained necessary. And in a quiet country town like Bideford, too.
He was unsure whether the small, thin, bird-like woman with cropped dark hair who answered the door was a member of staff or a resident. She was not particularly welcoming. Nor did she appear at all surprised, or indeed much concerned, by a police visit. But then, Helen’s House provided refuge from violence. Sometimes extreme violence. And that was in itself likely to not infrequently call for a police presence.
The two officers were immediately led to a small, cluttered first-floor office at the back of the house. Helen Harris was sitting before a computer in front of a narrow window which provided an unexpectedly spectacular slice of view over the roofs of Bideford and the River Torridge.