Tara Page 56

  'Sleep tight,' he said and left, shutting the door behind him.

  Sleep was the last thing on her mind. She wanted to believe there was a simple explanation to that ticket, yet in her heart she knew there wasn't. What a fool she'd been, blurting everything out to him. Maybe it was even things she'd said to Josh in the past that had helped this plot along?

  Tara waited till his car left the garage, then she sat up and pulled out the parking tickets. They were identical, only the dates were different. Tara counted back on her fingers.

  'Last Friday,' she said thoughtfully. 'He said he was going to Birmingham for the day. So where is this place?'

  Wearing only Josh's shirt she padded into his lounge and looked along the bookshelves. Right at the bottom she found a road map.

  'Lympne, Kent,' Tara muttered. '4 D, page 29.'

  There it was, a tiny little place which seemed to have no significant feature other than its airport, about four or five miles from Hythe, nine or ten from Folkestone, around a mile from the coast. Yet as Tara stared at the map, the place name and its position seemed strangely familiar. Had someone told her something about this village?

  Why would both Duke and Josh use an obscure airport? If they were catching a plane to France or Germany it would take longer to drive there than the actual flight. Could they be picking something up from there?

  But if there was an innocent explanation, why had Josh said he was going to Birmingham?

  She sat on the settee for a moment, the map on her knees. Then she went over to Josh's desk, hoping it might shed some light on the question. It was a Chinese lacquered one and she'd been with him when he bought it in Chelsea antiques market. It was a year ago and she'd been staggered to think anyone would spend eight hundred pounds on a whim. Lifting down the writing flap, she began to search it.

  The first thing she found was a small bag of white powder, tucked in with a lump of cannabis. She had no idea whether it was heroin or cocaine, and right now she didn't care. A whole clump of letters were held together with a bulldog clip. At first she put them to one side, but out of the corner of her eye she saw 'Final Notice' stamped on the top one.

  Taking the bundle over to the settee, she flicked through them. Every one was a final demand, some for small amounts from mills and knitwear companies, but there was a demand from the Inland Revenue for eight thousand pounds, another for the rates of another two thousand, and the mortgage on this house was almost a year in arrears, with the threat of repossession.

  'So you're up to your ears in debt,' she whispered. 'How on earth were you intending to pay for the alterations to the shop?'

  She put the papers back where she found them and continued her search. There was nothing else to interest her, certainly nothing to explain what he was doing in Kent last week.

  Opening the doors on to the balcony she leaned her arms on the wrought iron and looked thoughtfully down into the garden below, wondering what to do next.

  Josh said he rarely went out there, yet the initial effort he'd put into it by planting so many shrubs had paid off. They climbed the walls and drifted over one another, creating a beautiful jungle effect. A statue of a nude woman stood in one corner, a purple clematis clambering over her; even a little white wooden bench had been taken over by a clump of marguerites.

  As she looked at the statue it seemed to be telling her something, but she didn't know what. Why would a statue have any significance? Wasn't she just tired and getting her thoughts jumbled up?

  'Phone Mum,' she said wearily. 'Perhaps you'd better go home for a few days.'

  Mum! It was as if a door flicked open in her mind. Her mother had told her a story about statues, but what was it?

  Tara sat down on the settee, a cup of coffee beside her, and rang Greg's number. There was no reply so she tried the farm. It rang for some time before her mother answered, panting as if she'd been running.

  'Is there something the matter?' she said immediately. 'Aren't you at work? This is a funny time to be calling.'

  'I've got the day off, I'm feeling a bit poorly.' Tara already felt irritated. Why couldn't Amy just say what a lovely surprise it was instead of wondering how much it cost? 'I was just thinking I could do with a bit of a holiday, but I didn't want to come and get in your way.'

  'Don't be ridiculous,' Amy snapped. 'You wouldn't get in the way.'

  'Well, don't try to sound too welcoming,' Tara said indignantly. 'Perhaps I'd better ring off and try again another day?'

  'I'm sorry.' Amy's voice changed immediately. 'I didn't mean it that way. It's just I seem to be on the go all the time at the moment. You know how the farm is in the summer, so much more work, and what with the wedding plans –.'

  'Well, maybe I could take some of the chores off your hands,' Tara said.

  Suddenly she really wanted to be there, to put on a pair of shorts and a suntop, to be out weeding the garden or hoeing the vegetable patch.

  'Is everything all right with Harry?'

  'He's fine. We just aren't seeing much of each other nowadays,' Tara said airily. 'Josh is expanding in a different direction and he wants me to design for it. But I'll tell you all about that when I come down.'

  'That sounds very exciting, darling.' Amy's voice rose in pleasure. 'But I'm sorry about Harry!'

  'Just one of those things.' Tara forced herself to laugh lightly. 'By the way, Mum, did you ever tell me something about a statue?'

  'A statue?' Amy sounded bewildered. 'What sort?'

  'I don't know,' Tara said, feeling a little foolish. 'I just saw one in a garden and I got this feeling of déjà vu. It seemed to be connected in some way with you.'

  Her mother was silent for a moment. "There were statues in a garden once, a place your father took me to. I expect I told you about that.'

  Goose-pimples came up on Tara's arms. 'Where was it?' she asked.

  'Oh, in Kent somewhere.' Amy sounded a little impatient. 'Not far from Folkestone.'

  'Was this place special or anything?' she asked, shreds of memory coming back thick and fast.

  'It's the place you were conceived.' Amy's voice sounded slightly embarrassed. 'My seventeenth birthday. Bill took me there for the day out. We spent the day in the garden of a lovely old house. No-one lived there, you see, it was just lying empty.'

  'What was it called, the house?' Tara asked. A sick feeling was growing inside her.

  'Port Lympne,' Amy said. 'Your dad found it when he was stationed at Shorncliffe barracks near Folkestone. It was tucked away in woods, overlooking the marshes. It was his special place.'

  It was all she could do not to bang the phone down right away and run for the door, though somehow she made general conversation, about the farm, the wedding and Greg. Yet all the time she was imagining that house in the woods and Harry lying there, dead.

  'Look, Mum, I will come on down to see you if that's OK, but I'm going to stop off in Reading to see a friend first, so I'm not sure when I'll be with you. I'll phone when I'm on my way.'

  Wording a note for Josh was difficult. She didn't want him checking up and she needed to reassure him she had come to terms with Harry walking out on her. She sat sucking on a pen for some time before she found the right words.

  'Dearest Josh, I felt odd here so I got a taxi back to my place, then I'm going to make tracks for Somerset and home. I need time and space to think about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life and who I'm going to do it with. I can't thank you enough for helping me, for making me see the truth at last. I'll ring you in a few days when I've got my head together again. Love, Tara.'

  It was almost two when the train left Charing Cross and it was raining heavily. She had got a taxi back to her flat, changed, then got the Tube to the station.

  In jeans, a waterproof jacket, stout flat shoes and carrying a small rucksack, she could have passed for a hiker or student. There were only two other people in her carriage, both engrossed in magazines, and she wished she'd had the presence of mind to buy one too.
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  If only she knew the area! Now she was actually on her way, questions kept popping up and she didn't have answers to any of them.

  Her plan was weak. She'd take the train to Hythe, then a taxi out to the airport at Lympne. Back in her own flat she'd almost rung George or Needles and confided in them, but she knew they'd pour cold water on the idea. They might even pity her because she kept on pursuing Harry. So here she was, dressed up like a hiker with a Stanley knife, the only weapon she could find, tucked among her packet of sandwiches, apples and a drink.

  'I'll just take a look,' she told herself as the blocks of flats and Victorian terraces turned to semi-detached houses with big gardens. 'If I see anything suspicious, if there's any sign of any of them, I'll go and call the police straight away.'

  Hythe station looked so small and pretty in the rain, with polished brass on the waiting-room doors, and white painted tubs filled with geraniums and petunias.

  'Can I get a taxi anywhere?' she asked the ticket collector. He was entirely in character with the station, in full uniform and highly polished boots.

  'They don't come out much until the six o'clock,' he said as he clipped her ticket. 'You could try phoning the rank in the town but I don't expect there'll be anyone there just now. It's not that far to walk though, love. Just keep going down the road.'

  He had already lost interest in her and was reaching out to grab the tickets from other passengers, touching his cap for certain regulars.

  'I didn't want the town,' she said weakly. 'I wanted to get out to Lympne airport. Is that too far to walk?'

  'Lympne airport?' A tall, thin man in a dark business suit who was just flashing his season ticket stopped short.

  'Yes, do you know it?' Tara asked.

  'I'm going that way myself. I can drop you off in Lympne village, if that's any help. It's only a bit further on from there.'

  Tara thanked him profusely and followed him out to the car-park.

  'Do you go by train to London every day?' she asked as he unlocked a green Morris Minor.

  'Oh, yes.' He flung his briefcase into the back seat and got in. 'I'm a barrister, you see. I don't normally arrive home till sevenish but I was lucky today, my case was postponed.' He turned away from the town and up a winding road overhung with trees.

  'Meeting someone at the airport?' he asked.

  'Yes, an old friend.' She was frightened to elaborate as she had no way of knowing where the planes flew to and from there. 'Do you know Lympne well?'

  'Not really. Mind you, there isn't much to know about.' He laughed heartily. 'Blink and you miss it! I don't live there, you see. I live in Hythe. But I'm picking my wife up from a friend's house.'

  'My mother went there once when she was a girl. She said there was a lovely old house called Port Lympne. Is it still there?'

  'Indeed it is. Though I've never seen the place myself, it's kind of buried in the woods. There's been talk of someone turning it into a wild-life park, that fellow Aspinall who owns a gambling club in London.'

  'When's this going to happen? Does anyone live there now?'

  'Oh, it's all in the planning stage, nothing definite yet.' He looked at her curiously. 'Don't think anyone's lived there for donkey's years, place must be in ruins. Why, thinking of dropping in?'

  Tara laughed nervously. 'No, of course not. But like I say, my mother went there once and she's got romantic memories of it. If it was possible I'd take a photo for her. I expect it's all boarded up, though.'

  They had turned on to a wider road which was signposted back to London, but after a couple of miles he turned off to the left.

  'This is as far as I go,' he said, pulling over just before a T-junction. 'Just walk on up there and turn right. You'll see the airport straight away, there's a windsock outside. That old house is just about opposite it, though you can't see it from the road. There's an old gate, I believe, but mind how you go, it is private property.'

  'Thank you so much for the lift.' She held out her hand to shake his. 'It was very kind of you.'

  A pub overlooked the junction, but once Tara was past that, she paused. Ahead there was just one lone cottage to her left, the airport with its windsock to her right. It was small; one Dan Air plane and around five or six small ones were out on the runway.

  Butterflies started to flutter again in her stomach. It was very open and very isolated. Since she had turned into this road only two cars had passed and it wasn't even five o'clock yet.

  If only it wasn't raining. In London you hardly noticed rain, you just wore your usual clothes and stuck up an umbrella. Here it seemed to soak so quickly. The bottoms of her jeans were wet already and the hood of her coat obscured her vision on either side.

  The cottage had a narrow lane beside it. Tara turned into it, hoping it might give her a glimpse of the house. Some springer spaniels were in the yard by the side and they opened up a barrage of barking. Tara walked on. To her right were impenetrable-looking woods. There was a barbed wire fence but in places it was broken down entirely.

  The road turned slightly and Tara stood for a moment or two looking at the view. She had a strange feeling of déjà vu again. The rain looked like a grey mist over the greeny-grey fields, the few trees growing down on the marsh looked twisted and stunted by the wind. It was a wild, lonely place but for some inexplicable reason she felt at one with it.

  The woods were thinner now and through them she could see what must be the grounds of Port Lympne – a high privet hedge, a tennis court overgrown with weeds and wild flowers. There were so many different trees, a rose garden and a wisteria-covered pergola. But she couldn't see the house. It had to be further back, against the woods. The gardens were built in a series of terraces and she was sure all she was seeing here were the lower ones.

  Looking all around to check no-one was watching, she slipped through a hole in the fence and into the woods. Rain dripped down her face, finding its way under her anorak into her jumper. Leaves slapped at her, spraying her with more water, but she carried on, stepping gingerly through the undergrowth.

  The woods gave way to a rhododendron walk; one moment she was knee-deep in ferns and weeds, the next on a shingle pathway with bushes towering over her head. But at last she could see the old house. All the way down on the train she'd had a mental picture of an ancient house tumbling into decay, but Port Lympne was neither so old nor so neglected. Its creamy stone was clean, windows intact and the sweeping gravel drive leading to the pillared porch and front door looked almost weed-free.

  Tara understood exactly why her father liked this place, she could feel herself being bewitched by it. Her eyes swept over the grounds, taking it all in. A swimming pool, empty of course, with weeds growing out the sides, a rose garden, and graceful urns and statues ornamenting the steps down on to the lower terraces. Once it must have required a whole team of gardeners to keep it in shape, and obviously one at least had been kept on to cut the hedges and trim the grass.

  There was no sign of people staying here, at least there were no cars left on that gravel drive. Until now Tara hadn't thought about being cautious. She had a vague plan in her head that if anyone stopped her she would pretend to be a hiker who'd strayed in by mistake. Reason told her that if this was indeed where Duke and his men had brought Harry, the headquarters from where they were organising crime, they could kill her, too, just for being there.

  'I need to get closer,' she whispered to herself. In front of her a four-foot hedge stretched down to the drive. She ducked down behind it, following it to the end.

  The hedge ended close to a semi-circular lawn flanked by privet and statues. Hidden between the hedge and the surrounding wall of the terrace, Tara peered at the house again.

  There was no sign of anyone, and no sound apart from the drip of rain and the occasional rustle of leaves. It was dry where she crouched. Tara took a sandwich out of her bag and ate it while she thought about what to do next.

  Maybe openness was the best idea! Just breeze up there, pee
r into windows and, if anyone came, front it out. Even if Josh was in on it and had told Duke about her, this place hadn't been mentioned. As she slipped out of her hiding place and back on to the proper path her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. The gravel drive was the worst part, the crunching noise would surely wake even the dead. She crossed it swiftly and walked closer to the house where the path was smoother.

  There was nothing in the downstairs rooms she peered into, beautiful, graceful rooms still in good decorative order. The front door looked as if it hadn't been opened in years. She went right round to the back until her way was blocked by bushes but, though there was a door there, it was locked. Despondently she walked back around the front and down the far side, feeling she'd made a mistake and it was time she found her way back to the station.

  But as she reached the bushes growing right up to the back of the house she saw broken branches, a few dog-ends on the ground and a smooth path beaten by feet. Her heart began to pound again. She looked at her watch. It was half-past six. As she moved further round it was clear that many people had come and gone this way, and the feet marks ended at the fire escape.

  'Go on,' she urged herself. 'You can't walk away now!'

  She took off her rucksack and stood for a moment staring around her, the light drizzle dripping from the hood of her coat. The air was heavy with the scent of wet soil, privet and decaying vegetation, a lone bird chirruped somewhere in the distance.

  Taking a deep breath she rummaged in her bag for the Stanley knife and slipped it into her jeans pocket. It made her feel tougher, and she folded the bag over and pushed it out of sight under a bush.

  She put her first foot on the rusting stairs, then the second, but she was so frightened she felt faint. 'Harry might be in there,' she said to herself. 'Go on, just have a quick look. If there was anyone around they'd have spotted you by now.'

  Steeling herself she walked on up the stairs. She could see a sash window open just a crack and she tried to think of nothing more. The window glided up as if it had been oiled. The room was empty and the door shut. She climbed in and closed the window behind her.