Chapter 61
The man outside was not the man called Robin; Tara had found photographs of Robin Knight on his wedding planning website. This wasn’t him. He didn’t look like Craig Lewis, either, if the Craig she’d found online had been the right one.
Seconds went by, with neither of them moving. He seemed to be waiting for her to do something.
Tara took a step forward and leaned closer to the glass.
The token looked real. She watched him tuck it back in his pocket and pull out a phone with a Post-it note stuck to the leather cover.
On it were eleven digits. His phone number.
He cocked his head to one side before pointing to his phone and raising his hands in a question.
He wanted her to call him. It couldn’t hurt, could it?
Could it? Reaching back, Tara picked up her own phone from the worktop.
She misdialled on her first attempt and then he answered on the first ring.
‘I’m Trevor,’ he told her, before she had the chance to speak. ‘Trevor Winter. Also known as Tug.’ He had a West Country accent, a man born and bred in this part of the world.
‘You were on the beach at the weekend,’ she said.
He let his head fall and rise in acknowledgement. ‘I hope I haven’t scared you.’
Seriously? He thought a huge male approaching the home of a lone female at night could be anything other than scary?
‘Sorry,’ he added, correctly interpreting the look on her face. ‘Wasn’t sure what else to do.’
‘How do you know where I live?’
With his free hand he wiped rainwater from his eyes. ‘I followed you home on Saturday.’
And again, he didn’t think that could be construed as threatening?
She said, ‘I’d have noticed. There were no cars behind me.’
He gave a small, silent laugh. ‘I was on a bike. I left before you, waited at the end of the road. I kept up until you turned into your lane, which was obviously a dead end.’
There were more than a dozen houses along the lane.
‘I’d seen your place on TV.’ He answered her unspoken question. ‘I figured I could work it out from that. The reporters outside made it easy.’
‘They’re still out there?’
He nodded. ‘Half an hour ago they were. It took me that long to skirt round the edge of your property and make my way up through the garden.’
‘Why are you here?’
He didn’t reply immediately. Then, ‘I needed to talk to someone. To be honest, it’s been doing my head in.’
Well, she knew that feeling.
‘My token isn’t in the house. It’s in a safety deposit box a long way from here.’
She was lying. The token was in the garden, buried beneath the feet of the diving girl statue. Tara had waited until nighttime to bury it, had gone out in black clothes, worked entirely in the dark. No one could have seen her do it.
It took him seconds to work out what she meant.
‘One’s more than enough for me, love.’
So, now what? Tell him to get lost? Call the police? Continue talking through the glass as he got wetter and wetter? Tara had the strangest feeling then. She’d been alarmed by his sudden appearance in her garden, even scared. But not surprised. It was almost as though she’d been expecting him.
She said, ‘Do you want to come in?’
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. ‘If you’re OK with that.’
Was she? Honestly, she didn’t know. But the whole business had been doing her head in too. Pointing left, she directed him to one of the back doors of the house and left the room. Out of sight, she quickly tapped out a message to the WhatsApp group.
Man claiming to be Trevor Winter has arrived at my house. Has what appears to be a token. I’m letting him in. Wish me luck.
It was the only safeguard she had time to put in place.
Winter brought the cold air inside when he stepped through the door. He bent to take off boots that were caked in mud before pulling off his jacket and scarf. He smelled of rain, damp earth and, oddly, coconuts. Inside the house, he was bigger even than he’d seemed through the glass.
‘Can I hang this?’ He held his jacket up as he unwound the scarf from his neck.
Tara took the sodden clothes and told him to wait where he was while she dealt with them.
In the laundry room, she hung both jacket and scarf over the sink.
Then, indicating the way to the kitchen, and staying several paces behind, she followed him through the house.
His socks left damp footprints on the polished oak floor.
He’d left his cane behind, seemed to have no need of it.
‘Nice place,’ he said, as he took in the enormous living area. ‘Been here long?’
‘Ten years or so,’ she replied. ‘Can you show me some ID? I realise I should have asked before I let you in. And people know you’re here, by the way. I texted some friends just now, with your name and everything.’
He smiled at her, showing even teeth that were surprisingly white for a man of his age. Pulling a wallet from his pocket, he opened it to show a driving licence. Yep, the headshot on the card was definitely the man standing in front of her. For good or bad, he was Trevor Winter.
Who, even without the boots, jacket and scarf, was dripping water onto her floors. She pulled a couple of towels from a drawer and handed them over. He took them with thanks, wrapping one around his neck and standing on the other.
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she offered. ‘Or I’ve some Scotch somewhere.’
He looked like a man who drank Scotch.
She saw him brace and his jaw tense. ‘I’m a recovering alcoholic,’ he told her. ‘Is coffee possible? Stronger the better.’
Tara was suddenly conscious of a half-finished glass of red on the kitchen counter. She had a rule about not drinking when she was raking. What had she been thinking?
‘How many days sober?’ she asked, as she reached into the cupboard for the coffee and the filter jug.
‘Two.’ He was keeping a decent distance between the two of them, she realised, hovering at the edge of the kitchen area. ‘I’ve some way to go.’
‘Are you here because of the public outing?’ She released boiling water from the tap at the sink.
‘The what?’ He looked genuinely puzzled, but if he’d been on his way here while the show had been broadcast, he might not know.
‘We were all named on the Peter Morgan show this evening. All seven of us. Social media’s going batshit. I thought that’s why you’d come to find me.’
He was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head. ‘No, I found your details on Facebook. Yours and Sabri Carter’s. And I know about Cheryl Young from the TV. Of the three, you seemed most able to handle a strange bloke showing up on your doorstep.’
Wondering what that said about her, Tara heard her phone ping. A WhatsApp message – from Holly, of course. What the hell! Tara, be careful!!!
Bit late for that, Holly.
‘Five of us have a WhatsApp group.’ She held out her phone so he could read the message. ‘I can add you, if you like?’
He nodded his permission, and she added him to the group while the coffee brewed.
‘I wasn’t sure you were home,’ he said, when she’d finished. ‘No cars in the driveway.’
‘I’ve started leaving mine on a neighbour’s drive,’ she told him. ‘Trying to fool the media.’
‘I guess that’s something I have to look forward to now.’
At that moment, Tara’s phone rang. ‘Holly,’ she said, after glancing down. ‘Video call. Shall I get it? She might want to check you out.’
Trevor nodded his agreement, and Holly’s face, her long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, appeared on the screen. She was on the move, wandering around a small, modern kitchen. Fridge magnets suggested a child lived in the house. Tara beckoned Tug closer so they could both see and be seen.
‘Well, now we’re seven,’ Holly announced after she and Tug had exchanged greetings. ‘Craig has shown up too. Maybe you should rename the group the Magnificent Seven.’
‘Cue stirring music,’ Tug muttered.
‘How?’ Tara asked. ‘How did Craig find you?’
Holly pulled open the fridge door and reached for something inside. ‘He saw the Peter Morgan show and found Sabri’s number. Sabri gave him mine. She’s in a bit of a state, by all accounts. Her family home was broken into earlier this evening.’
‘Are they OK?’ Tug asked, before Tara had the chance.
‘They’re fine, they weren’t in. And the token is safe. She told me to tell you, Tara, that she’s still keeping it in the same place.’
Tara let herself smile.
‘They’re pretty shaken up, though.’ Holly glanced away, towards the kitchen door. ‘Me too, to be honest.’
‘You can move in here,’ Tara offered. ‘I’ve got more security than Fort Knox. Hell, Sabri and her family can too. God knows there’s enough room.’
And it would piss Justin off big time.
Holly stopped moving and gave the camera a hard stare. ‘Yeah, state-of-the-art security only works when you don’t admit strange men in the middle of the night.’
‘I like you already, Holly,’ Tug said.
Holly glanced back over her shoulder to the kitchen door.
‘Thanks, Tara, but I don’t think my son could cope with living in a strange place.
And this could go on for another year, if that press conference was telling us the truth.
Anyway, I’m calling to tell you that Craig wants us to meet up. All seven of us, as soon as possible.’
‘Can’t hurt,’ Tug said.
Behind Holly, the door opened and a boy of around ten appeared. He had dark curly hair and big dark eyes like his mother.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Holly said. ‘Keep your eye on WhatsApp.’
As the call disconnected, an alarm went off on Tara’s phone.
‘Somewhere you need to be?’ Tug had already finished his coffee.
‘Yeah, the studio. I have a piece that will ruin if I don’t attend to it now. For my son’s birthday next week. Is that OK?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s your house. Can I watch?’
Tara led the way back to the studio. It felt good, she realised, not being alone in the house for a change. She was actually glad this odd and slightly disturbing bloke was here.
‘You an artist?’ he asked, looking round at the pieces, in varying stages of completion, in the room.
‘Strictly amateur. Now, sit down and don’t come anywhere near me while I’m working. If it all goes to pot, call an ambulance. Possibly Fire and Rescue too.’
He settled himself on the stool. ‘I’m excited for what’s coming.’
Kitted up again, Tara set her phone alarm for forty-five seconds, opened the kiln and began raking the sky.
Horizonal lines across the top of the piece created a gleaming mass of indigo, purple, black, grey and orange.
She moved carefully around the outline of the giant sun. In no time at all her alarm went off.
‘That was amazing,’ Tug said, when she’d closed the kiln and pulled off her headpiece. ‘And slightly terrifying. Do you ever get burned?’
Tara pulled off one glove, then the other. ‘I have been. I’ve learned to be careful. Would you like some dinner? I have an hour before I can finish this off.’
He took a moment, as though not used to, or expectant of, kindness.
‘That would be amazing too. Thank you.’