Chapter 67
A few miles outside Bodmin, Holly pulled into the deserted, woodland-surrounded car park.
For a moment, she wondered if she’d come to the wrong place, then spotted the huge yurt a couple of hundred metres away on an island in the river.
Robin hadn’t been kidding about it being secluded.
It had taken nearly two hours to drive here.
The night stretched around her, silent apart from the rush of the wind and the rare screech of a gull.
It had been some time, driving over, since Holly had seen a house, let alone a town or village.
It was the perfect place for an ambush, and she’d come here to meet strangers.
On the other hand, she wasn’t sure anywhere would feel safe anymore.
Home certainly didn’t. It had taken less than five hours for the world’s media to find her, once her name had been announced on the Peter Morgan show.
She picked up her phone to check on Charlie.
After relentless pleading on his part, she’d agreed to him watching In the Heart of the Sea with Mrs Morrison the babysitter.
Holly was far from sure a film about the sinking of an American whaling ship was suitable for a ten-year-old but as a bribe it had been surprisingly effective.
Knowing he wouldn’t thank her for interrupting, she put the phone down again.
Climbing out of the car, Holly stood for a moment at the open door, letting the wind take her hair and cool her skin.
She’d been sweating, a sure sign that she was anxious, and while she understood the reasoning that had prompted Robin to suggest such a remote location, not far from Bodmin moor itself, its sheer wildness wasn’t doing much to settle her nerves.
Headlights in the lane. Another car approaching. Robin. He parked beside her and climbed out.
‘Holly. Sorry to be late. Good to see you again.’
‘What happened to you?’ she replied, before she could stop herself.
Robin looked like he’d been beaten up. His face was bruised and the bridge of his nose covered in a dressing. He’d left the car carefully too, as though in pain.
‘Let’s call it a domestic-related incident. Nothing to do with Logan Quick, I promise. Ah, who’s this?’
Another car was heading their way, this one a small hatchback, either black or dark blue. Like Holly, the driver backed into the parking space and a tall, broad-shouldered man climbed out. He gave an awkward smile. ‘Should we have agreed a password?’
It wasn’t Tug, whom Holly had spoken to via FaceTime the evening before.
Which left Craig Lewis. He was a good-looking man, albeit the same age as Robin and the others.
It was hard to tell in the dark, but his skin looked tanned and his teeth very white.
His hairline formed a widow’s peak in the centre of his forehead, but the rest was dark brown, with no visible sign of grey.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, after shaking hands with Robin and nodding at Holly. ‘Better help Cheryl.’
It took Cheryl the better part of a minute to get herself out of the passenger seat, even with Craig’s help. As the two women said hello, Robin pulled a cool box from his car boot.
‘Ladies.’ He gestured towards the bridge.
When they reached the tent, Robin activated lights and moved aside to let the women go in ahead. Holly felt her mouth fall open and her eyes widen.
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ Robin said. ‘I’ve a wedding here in a month. The owners think we’re the wedding party making last-minute plans about décor and floral tributes.’
Slender bamboo poles held up a giant, circular framework which, in turn, supported the vaulted canvas roof. Thinner strips of bamboo formed a lattice around the walls. Everywhere Holly looked fairy lights hung like diamonds in the branches of real trees. It was like being in an enormous birdcage.
‘It’s lovely,’ Cheryl said. ‘I’ve never been in a yurt before. I expect Holly will have to be the bride, if anyone comes to ask. Not sure who the groom will be, though. Maybe you, Craig, you’re handsome enough. Of course, you are too, Robin. I didn’t mean …’
Holly glanced back to see Craig give Cheryl a fond look as Robin began unloading an assortment of soft drinks from the cool box. She left them to it and walked further into the yurt.
Circular tables surrounded a central dance floor, the chairs bamboo to match the framework of the tent.
Palms and tropical plants cast green shadows everywhere and miniature birdcages holding electric candles hung over each table.
A wedding had taken place recently. Traces of streamers and shrivelled balloons could be seen on the mat flooring and Holly could smell the faintest trace of beer.
It was a magical place, and Holly felt a moment of almost unbearable sadness that she’d never be a bride presiding over such a party.
She and Charlie’s father had talked about getting married in the early days but, as Charlie had grown older, his problems more apparent, those conversations had become fewer and fewer. Eventually, Tim had simply left.
She was still young enough to meet someone else of course. But even if she found a man who could deal with Charlie and whom Charlie could accept into his life, Holly knew she would never marry a man without telling him her full history. And then no man in his right mind would marry her.
‘I’m really nervous,’ Cheryl confided to Holly, as new arrivals could be heard outside.
The younger woman started, as though she hadn’t known Cheryl was close.
‘Sorry.’ Cheryl took a step back. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you. My mum says I’m like a bull in a China shop.’
‘I’m nervous too,’ Holly said, which probably wasn’t true. She was young and pretty, and a lawyer too, according to Craig. What did she have to be nervous about? But it was sweet of her to say it.
Cheryl had had no idea how nice it was to be collected by a gentleman for an evening out.
To have car doors held open, be asked whether the car temperature was comfortable and whether she’d like some music.
Even her mother had been on her best behaviour while Craig was in the house. It had almost felt like a date.
Cheryl glanced back at Craig who was talking to Robin by the tent entrance, and wished, not for the first time that evening, that she had something nicer to wear than the old skirt, blouse and cardigan that, nevertheless, were the best things she owned.
‘I wasn’t sure whether to bring my token or not,’ Holly said. ‘Home doesn’t feel safe anymore. Not now everyone knows where I live.’
Cheryl felt a clenching in her stomach, as though her own token, making its ponderous way through her guts for the third time since Wednesday, was responding to Holly’s words.
Cheryl could think of nowhere safer than inside her body, but what if she was damaging herself?
And what if, one of these times, the token didn’t come out anymore?
‘Mind you, I have a small army of reporters camped in the front garden,’ Holly went on. ‘Practically a bodyguard.’
‘Mine’s at home,’ Cheryl lied.
‘Was your mum OK with you coming out tonight?’ Holly asked.
‘Not really,’ Cheryl admitted. ‘But Craig told her it had to be named recipients only for legal reasons, but he would call her tomorrow and explain everything we discussed.’
Both women turned then, as the yurt flap lifted, and Tara stepped inside.
She wore white jeans tucked into brown leather boots and a bold, plaid jacket in shades of bronze, orange and yellow.
She was followed by a tall man with dark hair and a short, grey beard, who walked with a cane. The two of them looked like a couple.
‘That’s Tara,’ Holly said, maybe forgetting that Cheryl and Tara had already met. ‘The man’s Trevor Winter. Calls himself Tug. I spoke to him on the phone last night.’
Cheryl hung back as Tara and Tug came forward to greet Holly. In the doorway another woman had appeared. Tall, brown-skinned and thin. Sabri Carter. Everyone was here.
Robin told himself to chill. This wasn’t a wedding, and he wasn’t in charge. He’d done his bit by finding a venue and bringing drinks but someone else had to take the lead now.
Already, he could sense alliances forming.
Tara and Tug seemed like they had history although he’d been under the impression they’d met only the previous day; Sabri had joined the two of them seconds after she’d arrived.
Cheryl meanwhile was clinging close to Holly but shooting surreptitious glances at Craig whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed; Jax had called twice during the day and both times he’d ignored it.
Meanwhile, the silence was becoming uncomfortable. ‘Who’s going to chair?’ he asked, far too loudly, but at least it was out there. ‘Craig, this was your idea. Fancy taking charge?’
‘What about Tara?’ Holly said quickly. ‘She set up the WhatsApp group. And she’s been working on a spreadsheet of us all.’
‘Very enterprising,’ Craig said. ‘And I’m sure we’d all like to hear about it, but I think there’s a more pressing question to be asked first.’
‘Which is?’ Tug asked.
Tensions were forming too. In Tug and Craig, they had two alpha males, not usually a recipe for group harmony.
Craig took a moment before replying. He had a habit, Robin had noticed, of looking intently into people’s eyes. ‘Do any of us know Logan Quick?’ he said. ‘Have we met him, corresponded with him, had any dealings with him?’
Deliberately, it seemed, Craig looked at the security guard first; his stare seemed to be trying to spot a lie.
Tug took his time. ‘Never heard of him before all this kicked off. How about you?’
Definitely tension between those two.
‘I’d heard of him,’ Craig replied, after a second, ‘the way I’d heard of Richard Branson and James Dyson, but that’s as far as it goes. Anyone else?’
Around the table, heads shook.