Guy’s landlady made a conspicuous effort with the dinner. Sarah Welsby might not specialise in exotic cuisine, but the roast chicken was wonderfully tender, the potatoes and carrots cooked to perfection. He’d invested in a decent bottle of Soave and she poured them each a generous measure of Harvey’s Bristol Cream before they sat down to eat by candlelight. Cosy, verging on intimate. Too bad his mind kept wandering. Ever since speaking to Tony Di Venuto, he hadn’t been able to concentrate on the here and now.
Sarah did most of the talking. Probably she wasn’t accustomed to having anyone listen to her. Even Clooney the cat took no notice, endlessly washing his paws. There had been a husband called Don, a building society manager. On their fifteenth wedding anniversary, a jealous colleague tipped her off that Don and his secretary were having an affair. Five years after the divorce was finalised, Sarah was still raw at his betrayal.
‘You never had children?’
She lifted her coffee cup with a trembling hand. ‘His decision. I accepted it, in my book it’s wrong to bring a baby into the world if you aren’t both keen. But by the time they tied the knot, she was six months pregnant. What did she do for him that changed his mind, I wonder?’
Just as well they’d drained the bottle. Any more wine would make her maudlin and Guy found that unattractive in a woman. But he had a talent for sympathy.
‘He hoodwinked you. A respectable professional man. Disgraceful.’
A timid smile. ‘Sorry. Listen to me, pouring out my woes. You must be bored stiff.’
He leaned across the table. Not quite invading her personal space. ‘On the contrary. This whole evening has been — so delightful.’
A little giggle. ‘You know, the German couple are always late for breakfast. I think I might leave the washing-up until tomorrow morning.’
‘Splendid idea.’
The silence lasted half a minute before she stretched and said, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be going up.’
She ventured another smile, bolder this time, and he smiled back. But he didn’t move closer. Timing is everything.
‘You know something, Rob? I’m afraid I’m a bit tipsy. Hopeless, aren’t I? Normally I don’t have more than a single glass with my meal.’
‘You’ll sleep all the sounder tonight.’
‘Yes.’ She rose clumsily to her feet. The pale blue eyes weren’t focusing. ‘Well, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Sarah.’
He ambled back downstairs. This was one of his Garbo moments; he could do sociable, but he did love being on his own. Flinging himself on to the bed, he couldn’t help congratulating himself. Moving into Coniston Glimpse might seem counter-intuitive, given his taste for the dolce vita, but he could make a virtue out of a necessity. Sarah was sure to refuse to take his money when he offered it. Already they were becoming friends, they could do each other a good turn.
He buried his face in the pillow, to shut out the noise from the pipes. He wanted to replay in his head that conversation with the journalist. The moment he’d put the phone down, his stomach lurched — with excitement, not fear. Over the past ten years, he’d travelled far and wide and spent a great deal of money, some of it his own. Yet it was as if he’d been sleepwalking, all that time. It had become an article of faith, that he must forget Emma Bestwick, scrub the memories out of his mind. Guilt was a passing phase, like the quarters of the moon, he should have learned that at Haverigg.
But the truth was, you couldn’t undo the past.
CHAPTER THREE
Guy was stretched out in a coffin, but he wasn’t dead. Prising his eyes open, he saw nothing but darkness. He was cold and naked save for a coverlet of coarse cloth. The air was foetid and he found himself fighting for breath. His mouth tasted of wet earth and he knew he’d been buried six feet under. He banged on the lid until his knuckles bled, but there was no way out. He screamed for help, but nobody heard. When he prayed for rescue, nothing happened.
He awoke drenched in sweat. Relief at the sight of the white walls of his room and the rumble of the basement plumbing was soured by dismay. So many years had passed since he’d last had the nightmare of being buried alive. He’d persuaded himself that it had gone forever. On his first night back in the Lakes, memories swarmed like mosquitoes to torment him.
Forcing himself to quit the warmth of the bed, he padded across the corridor to the bathroom. The shower was temperamental. When he jiggled the switch, it did not respond. He tried again and, all of a sudden, was half-drowned by a hot gush. It reminded him of Megan.
He wasn’t sorry Megan never wanted to see him again. She’d saved him the trouble of ending their relationship. He hated causing sadness and upset, hated it. Far better to steal away in the night without a word. That was more romantic; she could read into his departure whatever she wished. He never hurt people with malice aforethought. Nobody seemed to appreciate it, but he had his own moral code.
Towelling himself dry, he heard the ceiling bumping under Sarah Welsby’s footsteps. For a moment he became Michael Caine in Get Carter, ringing Britt Ekland for a lurid chat while his eavesdropping landlady rocked in her chair. Guy could do with a Britt in his life, but for the time being Sarah would have to do.
When he arrived at the breakfast table, she was frying bread in the kitchen while Clooney scratched at a post in the corner of the room. The cat threw Guy a derisive glance and then carried on. Guy was an equable soul, but nobody likes to be patronised. He was scowling at Clooney’s hindquarters when Sarah walked in, bearing a plate of hot toast.
‘You do like cats?’
Guy nodded with vigour and attributed his grimace to a spasm of indigestion. No reason to miss out on his full English, though. They agreed that cats were wise and sophisticated creatures and Sarah confided that she’d spent a small fortune installing a state of the art infrared cat flap in the back door. Guy wished she’d invested in better plumbing. The love and money she lavished on the animal was out of all proportion, in his opinion. She needed a man in her life.
Pity that even the meekest women were as unpredictable as weather. He’d blundered with Megan, telling her how his grandma believed a woman could ensure her partner’s undying devotion. Be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom. This was a quote from a celebrity that he’d read in a newspaper — the bit about his grandma was just for colour, for he’d never known a grandma — but it made good sense. Unfortunately, Megan kept reading magazine articles about assertiveness and being your own person. Guy had no time for that stuff; he loved being other people. Their quarrel marked the beginning of the end.
As Sarah chattered nineteen to the dozen, he contented himself with an occasional murmur of assent while concentrating on his food. The first mouthful of fat, succulent, pork and leek sausage, smeared with runny egg, made him sigh with pleasure and when he complimented her on the quality of her home-made marmalade her round face glowed.
‘The Germans aren’t up yet.’ She put on a half-shocked look.
‘Young love, eh?’
She fiddled with strands of her disorganised hair. ‘A distant memory for me, Rob, I’ll be honest.’
He put down his knife and fork and bestowed on her his undivided attention. ‘A woman like you must have — um, admirers, I’m sure.’
‘Admirers?’ She gave her habitual, self-deprecating, tinkly laugh. ‘Joking, aren’t you?’
He shook his head and neither of them said anything for a while. He felt an urge to resume eating before the bacon rashers cooled, but at last she said in a tone of contrived brightness, ‘So what will you be up to today?’