Chapter 59
Tara’s heart was thumping. The man outside was too tall, too broad, to be either her husband or one of her sons, who would have no reason to be in the garden on a night like this in any case.
Was he a journalist, braving the weather, not to mention committing trespass, to get some footage of her at home?
He was coming towards her, looking straight at her. He carried no camera or sound equipment that she could see, and he seemed to be alone. Somehow, she didn’t think this man was part of a TV crew.
He was carrying something, though. In his right hand. Something that gleamed in the moonlight.
Telling herself he couldn’t get in, that the glass was triple glazed and unbreakable, that all the doors and windows were locked and the burglar alarm, connected to the local police station, was activated, Tara nevertheless moved away from the outside window.
She saw him reach the end of the path and step into the shadow of the house, vanishing from view.
Then his head reappeared, followed by his torso. He was climbing the front wall of the one-storey guest wing and was about to scale the surrounding railing to reach the patio and outdoor kitchen. From there he could walk right up to the studio window.
Tara watched him swing first one leg then the other over the wooden rail and land on the decking. He paused, maybe to get his breath. Maybe to give her time. Either way, he still appeared to be looking right at her and with the studio lights on full she couldn’t be anything but totally visible.
Tara’s phone was feet away and the signal was good in the house. The police could be here in minutes and calling them was the only sensible thing to do right now. But something held her back.
The man started walking again, slowly this time, as the deck lights were activated, illuminating the scene.
He looked to be in his mid- to late fifties and was around six foot two, solidly built.
His hair was dark, swept back from his forehead, but his close-cropped beard was grey.
He wore jeans, walking boots and a woollen scarf tucked into the neck of his black leather jacket. He was not dressed for the weather.
And there was definitely something shining in his right hand. Not a knife, though, which had been her first thought, but the silver tip of a walking cane. He carried it tucked against his body, and there was no hint of a limp in the way he walked.
When he was only a few metres from the house, she realised she’d seen him before. He’d been on the beach the previous weekend, had run into the waves ahead of the regular swimmers. All the girls had noticed him; he’d been the subject of considerable conversation, not all of it ladylike.
This was bonkers, the way he was coming right at her, as though he had every right in the world.
Practically at the window now, he reached one hand into his jacket pocket. Thinking gun, Tara braced herself to duck. The hand withdrew. He was holding something, too small to make out. He stopped a foot from the glass and maintained eye contact as he held a small coin up for her to see.
Not a coin. A token.