Never Look Back Page 2

  And people were so courteous and trusting here. That was a worry. They made eye contact and they smiled. Many even spoke. Good morning, good morning! How are you today? The friendliness would make it easier. It meant people would be less wary. That was something to point out.

  She watched the ambulance and police car speed past, lights flashing. That was something else she needed to check : travel time to the nearest hospital.

  Not that there should be any need. Probably. And even if there was, they'd use the helicopter. They wouldn't go by road. Unless …. Unless the chopper wasn't big enough for all the casualties. Or there was mechanical failure, or something worse. A hit, maybe. Heat-seeking missile.

  Not here, surely! She gave a little grimace. But you had to allow for these possibilities. All possible contingencies, they had told her.

  She stood at the top of the street – what did they call it? "Main Street"? Cute! – and gazed down its length one last time. She'd seen enough. For now. She would get back and study the maps and plans with a better feel for the place. Then she would let them know. Give them her advice, her professional opinion. See how they liked it. Not much, probably.

  She was under no illusions. The older guys didn't like her. Couldn't be bothered with her. Thought she was a waste of space, probably. The young ones didn't think that, of course, but they didn't count. Anyway, she knew why they liked her. Most of them. Randy bunch! She smiled ruefully.

  The man sitting on the bench beneath the horse-chestnut tree was another one. He wasn't all that young, but he kept studying her. You would have thought he'd seen enough by now. She gave him a sunny smile and turned away.

  The phone in her pocket buzzed and vibrated.

  'Yes?'

  She listened to what he said and then replied. 'I saw the ambulance and the police car. But nothing's going on here. Nothing's happening at all.'

  She listened some more. 'Right. One body. I've got that.'

  It wasn't great, she thought afterwards. No linkage, probably. All the same …. She would stick around a while longer. She needed to know for sure. It was the sort of thing that could make a difference.

  *

  Jake called in at The Gallery to see Cedric and Caitlin.

  Caitlin was wielding a feather duster, reaching into dark corners of the shop and standing on tip-toe to destroy cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. She didn't immediately look round when the doorbell clanged.

  'Spring won't be here for a while yet,' he said. 'You're ahead of yourself.'

  'Jake!'

  Caitlin spun round and laughed. 'Where did you come from? And who's that with you?'

  'Apache. You remember him, don't you?'

  He tickled the cat's ears. Apache decided he wanted to be on firm ground. Jake released him and he took off into a dark corner, where the clutter of antiques was at its most dense.

  'He can smell the mice,' Caitlin said. 'Lord knows, we've got plenty of them here. And dust,' she added, stooping to blow some off the head of a black-marble Venus.

  'You could try selling a few things,' Jake suggested, glancing around the crowded interior. 'Then you wouldn't have so much dusting to do.'

  'Sell things? Oh, no! That wouldn't do. Not at all. We'd have nothing for customers to look at then.'

  'Just a few things, I meant. Just enough for customers to be able to get inside the shop.'

  'What a cynical man you are, Jake.'

  He grinned. He knew she didn't mean it. In fact, he knew she liked him a lot. And he liked her in return. If only she'd been twenty years younger, and not married to Cedric, who knew what might have happened?

  'You don't mind cats?' he asked.

  She shook her head. 'Not ones like Apache.'

  'Can I leave him with you for a while?'

  'Why? Are you going away?'

  He hesitated. 'Maybe. I mean, yes. Just for a while. Probably.'

  'You don't seem very sure.'

  'No, I'm not.'

  She studied him. Looked concerned. 'Jake, is everything all right?'

  'Yes.' He shrugged. 'It's complicated.'

  She studied him a moment longer and then said, 'Leave Apache here. We'll look after him.'

  'He can look after himself,' Jake said with a small laugh. 'He usually does. But ….'

  'You don't have to explain, Jake. And don't worry. Rupert won't eat him!'

  'It's Rupert I'm worried about. Apache likes dog for dinner.'

  He was relieved. He hadn't liked the idea of Apache just hanging around the cottage, waiting for someone who might never return. And he couldn't take Apache with him. He didn't know where he was going, for one thing – or even if he was going anywhere at all.

  'How's business?'

  'Could be better. But Cedric's pots continue to sell, even if my pictures don't.'

  He was a potter, she a painter. But the antiques and old tat seemed to give them the greater part of their livelihood.

  'What?' Jake said now. 'Those coffee mugs of his, the ones with Sharon and Tracy on the side? And Lee and Wayne? People actually buy them?'

  'Unfair, isn't it?'

  'I'd much rather have one of your paintings.'

  She smiled. 'That's very sweet of you, Jake. But you can't afford my paintings.'

  'When my boat comes in ….'

  'Is that coffee ready?' a voice called from a back room.

  Caitlin looked indignant. 'Not unless you've made it!'

  Jake smiled, even more so when Cedric came into view, looking slightly more dishevelled than usual. He patted himself down and was enveloped in clouds of white powder. Jake guessed he'd been potting.

  'Not in here!' Caitlin shrieked. 'I've just finished dusting.'

  'Sorry.' Cedric looked contrite for a moment. Then he winked and chuckled. 'Hello, Jake! Thought I heard your voice. What's going on?'

  'Not much. But I'm loaning you my cat.'

  'Nice.' Cedric peered around myopically. 'Not that Apache thing?'

  'That's the one.'

  Cedric looked unsure.

  'He's a good mouser,' Caitlin said.

  'Ah!' Cedric beamed. 'Just what we need. Coffee, Jake?'

  'Not just now, thanks. I've got to get on.'

  'Well, we'll take care of him. Where is he?'

  'Getting down to work, I think.'

  'He's down in the cellar,' Caitlin said. 'Already!'

  Jake grinned and left them to it. Apache was one thing less for him to worry about.

  Chapter Three

  'We got one of them.'

  'But not the other, I understand?'

  'Well, we got one.'

  'We needed both.'

  'Yeah.'

  'And you were supposed to do it quietly. What happened?'

  'With Sanderson?'

  'Yes. With Sanderson.'

  'Someone came along too soon. The farmer. We couldn't get the body away in time.'

  'You couldn't divert his attention?'

  'Not enough time. Either we did what we did or he saw what had happened to Sanderson. We took the decision.'

  Sigh, followed by a silence.

  'What about Ord?'

  'I didn't get him.'

  'I know that. You missed?'

  'I missed.'

  Long pause. Then : 'You'd better try again.'

  'Right.'

  'Take Grady with you.'

  'Grady?'

  'Don't argue.'

  'I'm not arguing! I just ….'

  'Take him.'

  Silence.

  'And another thing. Don't call me on this number again. I don't want to risk anyone checking the records.'

  'Right. About Ord. How long have we got?'

  'Six days now.'

  'It's not long. We should have taken him out in Majorca.'

  'We tried. Remember?'

  'You should have sent me. It's not so easy here.'

  'Never mind that. Just do it!'

  Chapter Four

  Jake wondered about the woman. What she was doing in Cragley. It might just be some sort of survey. Property values, say. Or to do with the Council Tax. But, if it was, he was suspicious about her doing it here today, the day someone had taken a crack at him. Or was he being paranoid again?

  It could be coincidence. But he didn't really believe in coincidence. What had kept him alive so far was the belief that things happened for a reason. If you could work out the reason, you could do a lot to protect yourself – and stay alive.

  Anyway, he didn't like it, what had happened this morning. And he couldn't make his mind up what to do. He'd come here three years' ago to get his life back, hoping there was something left of it. He'd done that but now it was in jeopardy again, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

  He still had the option of getting back in the Land Rover, starting the engine and moving on. Disappearing again. It was an option with a lot of appeal. Maybe he would. Just because he hadn't done it yet didn't mean he wasn't going to.

  He saw Will Taylor coming along the street and got up to have a word with him. Sergeant Will Taylor, the greater part of the local constabulary. He was grim-faced. Different altogether to the man he occasionally had a chat with over a pint in the pub.

  'Can't stop now!' Will snapped.

  'What's up?'

  Will grimaced. And did stop. He turned towards Jake. In a low voice, he said, 'Accident, over at Fellside Farm. The cottage there.'

  'Accident?'

  'Fire. One bloke dead, apparently.'

  'Who is it?'

  Will shook his head. 'Never met him myself. Incomer. Been there a year or two, they say, but to my knowledge I've never even seen him.'

  While Jake was deliberating over whether to say anything about his own problem, which would have meant breaking cover, Will nodded and said, 'I'd better get on. See you later.'

  Jake nodded and turned away. Another apparent coincidence, he was thinking. It was turning out to be quite a day for coincidences in Cragley.

  *

  He began to relax. The sun was shining. It was warm. Late September. Perfect time of year. He started up the Land Rover and headed back to the cottage. Carefully.

  The kitchen was a mess. He swept up the bits of plaster and lath from the wall, along with chunks of stone. He swept up the fragments of glass and splintered wood from the window. Some cups and plates had somehow managed to get broken. He swept them up, as well. Did some half-hearted dusting – plaster dust everywhere. Stared at the hole in the wall. Then, to keep out the wind and rain, he pinned up a sheet of polythene over the gap where the window used to be. After that he was stuck for something to do.

  He went upstairs and replaced the shotgun in its cabinet. Then he took it out again. Stupid thing to do. What made him suppose he didn't need it any more? Denial, probably. Wishful thinking. But this thing wasn't over. It had hardly even started. The shotgun would stay where he could reach it.

  He looked in the room he used as a studio and gazed at all the stuff he hadn't taken with him in the Land Rover. Paintings. Sketches. And photographs. Insects, mostly. And some birds. Life on the moor.

  But, much as he'd liked doing it, the art work, and as interesting as he'd found it, he hadn't taken it with him that morning. He hadn't put it in the Land Rover. He wouldn't now either. If he travelled, he would travel light. So it couldn't mean that much to him.

  What did? Nothing much, he thought bleakly. Not since Ellie. And that was the truth of it.

  He left the studio and slammed the door behind him.

  He spent some more time thinking through what had happened. He didn't get far. He didn't know much. Someone had had a pop at him, and he didn't know who. All his years in the service, he didn't even know where to start looking.

  Virtually all those years had been spent overseas. Distant places and times. How likely was it that someone from the old days could have found him here, given the steps he'd taken to conceal his trail? Not very, he concluded.

  His thoughts returned to the woman in the village, the stranger, the visitor. The coincidence of it. She worried him. So he'd better check her out.

  *

  She was in The Wild Orchid Room, an old-fashioned tea shop that somehow managed to stay in business against all the odds.

  He sat at an empty table and spread out a weekly newspaper he'd picked up from the shelf near the door. The local newspaper. A waitress he knew arrived to take his order. Tea and a fruit scone? That would do nicely, thank you.

  'This is last week's paper,' he pointed out.

  'How can you tell?' the waitress asked.

  'From the date.' He showed her. 'Right there. It says.'

  'Well, this week's is no different,' she assured him. 'I wouldn't worry you're missing anything.'

  He smiled at her. 'You're not very busy?'

  'We have been. It's just quiet at the minute.'

  She bustled away. He directed his smile at the young woman a couple of tables away. 'On holiday?' he asked.

  She stared at him coolly for a moment. 'No,' she said.

  'Just visiting?'

  'Just visiting,' she agreed, looking away.

  She didn't want to talk. Not to him anyway. He wasn't bothered. He'd already established something he'd been wondering about. She was definitely English. And if she really was just visiting, she was visiting with a purpose. He'd seen her checking out the main street.

  'This is a nice time of year to be visiting,' he suggested, turning his attention to the tea that was about to arrive.

  'Yes?' the woman said vaguely.

  She gathered her bits and pieces together while he poured his tea. She placed a bank note on the table and moved the sugar bowl to hold it down. She was leaving.

  She gave him a faint smile as she passed by. A farewell smile. He nodded and leaned forward over the newspaper. He didn't look round when the door-bell clanged as she left.

  'Now there's only you,' the waitress said, as she began to clear the adjacent table.

  'Don't worry, Sylvia. I'll not be long.'

  'Oh, stay – please! We don't want the place to look totally empty.'

  'She was a visitor, that woman,' he suggested carefully. 'So there's one or two around still.'

  'One or two. That's about all.'

  'Did she say where she's from?'

  Sylvia shook her head. 'Not to me, she didn't. At first I wondered if she was a reporter, but she didn't ask any questions.'

  'Reporter? Why would one of them come here?'

  'Well, he used to come in quite often. He would sit at that table in the corner, there, and do the crossword in The Telegraph.'

  'Who would?'

  'Him!' She sighed and added, 'That man that died in the fire. Nice man, he seemed. Quiet, like.'

  Jake stared at her.

  'The fire over at Fellside Farm,' she said patiently. 'Last night.'

  He nodded. 'Oh, that one,' he said at last.

  Chapter Five

  He caught up with the tall, blonde, young woman again in The King's Arms. He'd guessed she might be there, the only hotel in the village. She was studying her mobile. Then she was texting, jabbing her index finger hard at the key pad.

  And she was expecting a bar meal, judging by the place setting at her table. Jake remembered he'd eaten nothing all day himself.

  'Do you want to see the menu?' Tom Fairbrother, the landlord, asked.

  'Has it changed?'

  'Not since last year.'

  'That's what I thought,' Jake said with a grin. 'I'll just have the Famous Northumbrian Sausage then.'

  'A wise choice.'

  'Let's hope so,' Jake said, lifting his glass.

  He looked round again. The pub was quiet. Early evening. Not many visitors. Just the one, in fact, not counting himself. She was still texting with great concentration. Reassuring a boyfriend or husband, perhaps. Or boss. They would take some reassuring, the way she looked. They would be worried to death when she was out of their sight.

  He wondered if he was wasting his time, hanging on to her. Probably. He didn't suppose for one moment she was the one who'd taken a pot at him that morning.

  He turned back to his host. 'What have you heard about that fire, Tom?'

  The other man pursed his lips and continued drying glasses. 'Fellside Farm?' he said after a moment. 'The bloke that died?'

  Jake nodded.

  'Not a lot. It seems to have been a bad business, though.'

  Jake nodded again, and waited.

  'What I heard was there was no need to take what was left to the hospital.' Tom shook his head. 'The lads from the Fire Service were pretty upset when they came in here.'

  Part-timers, Jake thought. Volunteers. Road-accident attenders more than firemen. Shopkeepers, butcher, mechanic, joiners. They would have come in for a well-earned drink after the job was finished. He could imagine them being gutted.

  'I let them have a couple of rounds on the house,' Tom added quietly. 'What they'd had to do, they deserved it.'

  There was no denying that.

  'So the whole house was gone?' Jake asked.

  'The cottage, you mean? No, that was all right. It was the vehicle. That's what he was found in. A big Toyota Land Cruiser, or something.' Tom shrugged. 'One of them 4-by-4s, anyway. I can't see the point of them myself. What's wrong with the Land Rover?'

  'Nothing. Nothing at all. So what happened?'

  'Hard to say.' Tom shook his head. 'It was burned out. Right by the side of the track.'

  Jake found that interesting. Big, expensive, modern vehicles didn't suddenly burst into flames. Not often, anyway.

  'He'd crashed, had he?'

  'Well …. I don't rightly know. The Sergeant just said the vehicle was off the track leading up to the farm.'

  Not a high-speed crash, then. You'd be lucky to get out of second gear on most farm tracks.

  'Anyone else involved?'

  'Just him, I believe.'

  Jake nodded. In the mirror behind the bar he noticed the young, blonde woman was taking an interest. She was staring at them. Nothing like a disaster to tear people away from their mobiles and laptops.