CHAPTER 45
Harriet
Dorset
The shopping bags were bumping around in the cab of the pick-up, an orange spilling out here, a grapefruit there, as Harriet negotiated the narrow lane leading into the village of Warren Down.
She had just dropped the latest package of typed pages off at Bridport post office to be sent to her employer at the PO box address he’d given her, and now she was on her way home.
Joanna wasn’t back yet – she had called yesterday to tell Harriet that she’d be staying in London for a few days when she returned from Prague; there were things she had to sort out, people she had to see.
Which no doubt included Martin. Harriet pulled a face.
She was pretty confident her sister wouldn’t have a change of heart and go back to him, but who could tell for sure?
As for Harriet, since Scott, she felt she was getting her life into some sort of order.
On the surface, nothing had changed, but she felt more content somehow.
She didn’t even mind all the typing she was doing; she was quite enjoying deciphering all the strange squiggles on the page, translating her employer’s untidy script into something neat and legible.
It gave her a sense of achievement and she was earning good money too.
The pick-up bumped over a rut in the lane and a bag of grapes went flying.
One eye still on the road, Harriet managed to reach over and shove it back in the bag.
Perhaps her life wasn’t in perfect order, but .
. . She slowed as she approached the blind bend, slammed the bridge of her hand to blast the horn, her usual ritual.
Her hand froze. Ahead of her, in the distance, a man was walking down the lane away from her. He wasn’t very tall, he was quite thin and there was a distinctive nervous bounce to his step that she remembered.
Hellfire. Instinctively, she braked. It was him. The prowler. So, he was still around after all. Although he was heading, for once, not towards the cottage – to spy on them or whatever he did to get his kicks – but in the opposite direction, walking down towards the village and the sea.
Harriet’s turning was coming up on the right. To the left was a gate that led to one of Owen’s fields. Without really considering what she was doing, she veered left instead of right, tight in, hard, so that the truck shuddered, before nestling close into the brambles by the gatepost.
What now?
Jumping down from the cab, Harriet edged towards the road and peered down the lane.
She could still see him in the distance.
There was no sign of his pushbike today – perhaps he had fallen off it once too often?
She smiled grimly. If he were to turn around .
. . She glanced behind her to check – he wouldn’t be able to see the truck. So. This was her chance.
Swiftly, she pulled the key out of the ignition and locked the door.
She could leave the pick-up here for ten minutes or so – Owen wouldn’t mind.
She wouldn’t get too close to the man – just in case he turned out to be dangerous after all.
She would follow at a distance, see where he went, try to find out a bit more about him.
Harriet set off down the narrow country lane, her legs a little shaky and her heart thumping.
She was scared, but excited too. This was different, this was a change.
Joanna and Mother wouldn’t approve; her sister would certainly tell her she should back off and inform the police.
But Harriet was doing no such thing. For once, she was living life in the fast lane.
It had been raining, and the undergrowth by the roadside was sappy and damp; there was a path for walkers, but it was muddy, so she stuck to the lane for now.
There was still a light mist of drizzle in the air and the sky was a pale grey, the sun hidden behind the clouds.
Harriet kept up her pace. She felt as though she was on the verge of a significant discovery.
Did he live around here? He must do, she supposed, since he was walking down the lane with no transport in sight.
When she seemed to be getting a bit close, Harriet slowed slightly. She didn’t want to catch up with him – at least not yet, perhaps not ever. But for now, the roles were reversed. She had him in her sights and it gave her a sense of power, of control. The boot was definitely on the other foot.
Abruptly, as if sensing her scrutiny, he turned around to peer behind him.
Harriet leapt instinctively into the dense undergrowth on the side of the road.
She waited, unmoving, listening to the pulse of her heartbeat, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck bristle to attention.
Something damp fell softly onto her head.
Yuck. She brushed it away. This element of detective work wasn’t quite so much fun.
Silence. Then the sounds crept in. The drip of rainwater from leaves, the caw of rooks in the woods nearby, a distant tractor engine.
Harriet stepped out into the lane again, dusted bits of damp plant and cobweb from her jeans and hair. There was – damn it – no sign of him now. He had disappeared. She almost stamped her foot in frustration. After all that, she had lost him.
She set off down the lane again, at a half-jog this time.
She had always assumed that the prowler was a stranger from some neighbouring village; she’d never dreamt he would live here in Warren Down.
It was much too close for comfort. She paused for breath.
But how could he live here? She always heard – usually through Linda from the pub – when a new resident moved into the village; it was inevitably a matter for speculation and interest. Who were they?
Where had they come from? What would they bring to the village?
How would they fit in? It was a tight community, and it didn’t matter how little you socialised, you would always find out the latest gossip from Linda, or Stace, who ran the village store, whether you were interested or not.
The houses in this section of the lane were set back from the road, fairly large and spaced out, and Harriet knew who lived in every one of them.
Still, she looked from right to left as she walked on, half convinced that the prowler would suddenly leap out in front of her brandishing a deadly weapon.
She would go past the pub and the village shop, she decided, down to the beach and then give up.
But where had he gone? How could he have vanished into thin air?
She was just passing one of the holiday lets, glanced automatically into the window and . . .
There he was. Ye Gods. She’d assumed they wouldn’t be occupied at this time of year. She ducked, so that her head was on the same level as the low wall. Bugger and hellfire. She stooped still further – she couldn’t risk him spotting her now.
‘Afternoon, Harriet.’
It was Linda. ‘Linda, hi.’ Harriet made a pretence of staring down at her shoe while simultaneously shuffling to the end of the wall.
‘Is something wrong? Are you OK?’ Linda was all concern. ‘Have you hurt your back?’
She was safe now, Harriet reckoned, he wouldn’t be able to see her from here. ‘Oh, I’m fine, thanks.’ She straightened. ‘Had something in my shoe.’ She nodded back at the holiday bungalow. ‘Unusual for these to be let out in the winter,’ she said.
‘Hmm, yes, it’s a long let.’
Harriet waited for her to elaborate – Linda always elaborated. Who was he? Did he go into the pub? Did he get many visitors? Why was he here?
But nothing.
‘Funny place for anyone to want to come to in November,’ Harriet persevered. She shivered dramatically. If anyone knew, Linda would know.
But Linda only winked. ‘It takes all sorts, Harriet,’ she said.
She could say that again. ‘Yes, I suppose.’ She cast an appraising look back at the house in question. ‘Here on his own, is he?’
‘Well, now.’ Linda put a hand on her hip in that way she had. ‘Some special reason you want to know about him, is there, Harriet?’ She winked. ‘He’s not a bad-looking chap, I’ll say that. Bit serious for me, but—’
‘No, no. Of course not. No.’ Harriet was horrified.
‘Right you are.’ Linda grinned. ‘I’ll be seeing you then, love.’
‘Yes, see you . . .’ What should she do now, Harriet wondered?
Write a note to him and tell him he’d been rumbled?
Knock on the door and ask to borrow some sugar?
She shivered. She wasn’t that brave. She now knew what it felt like to watch someone.
But she still didn’t know the important thing. She didn’t know why.
Harriet trudged back up the lane. At least she’d remained undetected – he had no idea that she was on to him.
And now she knew where he lived, although that was a mixed blessing.
But how could she find out more about him?
Stace and her husband Mark owned the holiday lets, but since even Linda didn’t seem to know much about the prowler, Harriet doubted that she could succeed where Linda had obviously failed.
She unlocked the truck door and climbed back inside the cab.
She couldn’t leave it. The man hadn’t actually done anything, he hadn’t threatened her.
But he had invaded their privacy. He had scared her and, in a way, she had felt violated.
She knew she’d have to try and find out more – whatever Joanna might say.
Absent-mindedly, she helped herself to a grape before starting up the engine.
She could still contact the police, give his address, say, This man is bothering me .
. . Would they follow it up? Maybe not. But she didn’t want to.
He was just a nuisance and perhaps . . .
Well, perhaps he’d simply taken a fancy to her and taken things a bit far. She smiled. It was possible.
She turned down the lane that led to Mulberry Farm Cottage – or Warren Down Farm Cottage as it used to be known, she thought to herself with a slight shake of the head. Who would have thought?
But she wasn’t done with the prowler, not yet. Whatever his motives, he needed to know that he couldn’t sneak around spying on people, and sooner or later, Harriet was going to tell him exactly that.