She didn’t dare ask anyone if they knew where Harry had gone, but she so wanted to know what had happened to him. She’d been keeping her ears open for any mention of his name, but so far, she’d been disappointed.
It was good to observe Tom’s summer playing sport and his constant contact with Louise. He lived on cloud nine. If he wasn’t on his mobile talking to the love of his life, they were stuck together on her settee, or else, she presumed, at Louise’s house in a similar position. Tom in love was a new person: mellow, funny, friendly and happy.
Louise was an easy person to have in the house. She was quiet and always made sure she helped with meal preparation and washing up.
The gallery attracted noticeably more visitors as the tourist season ramped up. Ellie was excited that there were more actual sales, rather than people who spent ages looking, admiring her work, promising to come back and buy, but then never returned.
She was on a particular high one lunchtime, having sold three canvasses to a couple who were renovating a barn. They had wanted splashes of colour in their vaulted lounge and bought some of the pictures she had painted after her confrontation with Harry on the night of the barbecue. Ellie was elated about the sale and secretly relieved that the canvasses, which constantly reminded her of that evening, would soon be gone. A familiar face popped his head around the door – John Williams.
‘Ellie. How are you? You’re certainly looking well,’ said the retired headmaster.
‘Mr Williams, I haven’t seen you around for a while.’
‘John, please. You won’t have done, my wife and I took a long cruise as a treat when I retired from Borteen High. We returned at the weekend.’
He walked further into the gallery, looking at the canvasses and cautiously picking up one of the finished orchard pots. He moved it around in his hands. ‘I love this. It might be just the thing for my wife’s birthday present.’
‘Inspired by my visit to some of the local fruit farms, along with several million pies and jars of jam. When’s your wife’s birthday?’
‘On Friday. I’ll take it. Now, before I get too distracted, I’d also like to talk with you sometime about my mentoring scheme idea. I’ve got more concrete guidelines, now that I’ve spoken to Harry Dixon.’
Before she had thought it through, Ellie blurted out, ‘Is Harry Dixon back in Borteen?’ She watched a puzzled look pass over John’s features.
‘Yes, of course. I spoke to him yesterday about my proposals. I do hope you’ll consider taking part as a mentor.’
Ellie felt cautious about committing to anything, but then the gallery became much quieter once the summer holidays were over and the tourists returned to their home towns. It might be healthier to have other things going on in her life too. She had also found marketing for her business worked in subtle ways. Often, it was activities she was involved in totally unrelated to the gallery that brought people, especially locals, through the shop door. Even so, she was reluctant to sign up to something that might bring her into even closer contact with Harry. At least, not until she had gauged the nature of their ongoing relationship, given what had happened between them at that party.
On impulse, she decided to humour John. ‘Have you time for a coffee right now? I’ve had a brilliant morning sales-wise, so I can indulge myself with a break.’
A smile lit up his face. He put the wrapped orchard pot on the table. ‘Can I collect this afterwards?’
Ellie locked the till, put the closed sign on the door and they walked round to the seafront chatting about the school, Tom and a new shop in the High Street. She marvelled at how her steps felt lighter and the colours of the town brighter, because she was encouraged by her morning’s success.
They sat on one of the beachside tables of the seafront café and sipped coffee. John Williams stretched his long legs out towards the sea wall. Ellie sniffed the sea air appreciatively.
‘I loved being on the cruise ship, but it is nice to be home. We’re so lucky to live here next to the beach.’
‘I agree. I never get tired of the seafront. Where did you travel to on your cruise?’
‘We cruised the Spanish and Portuguese coast, nice and slowly. Called into Gibraltar and then toured the Canary Islands.’
Ellie thought it remarkable how relaxed John seemed, compared to when he was the high school headmaster. Had she imagined the furrows that used to line his forehead? His brow was now smooth and tanned, as he described the highlights of the cruise. In fact, she decided that he looked at least ten years younger.
‘Thank you for letting me talk to you about my retirement project, Ellie. Can I say right at the beginning that I’ve never run a mentoring scheme before, but I’ve been doing lots of research into how other schools manage them. I visited a few schools running similar schemes last year and I gave an outline of how one at Borteen High might work to Harry Dixon. His approval was, of course, crucial.’
‘I haven’t seen anything of Harry for weeks, I wondered if he was still in town.’
‘He’s been away on holiday, but I managed to catch up with him yesterday morning.’
As if on cue, a familiar figure came into view, running across the sand at the waterline, in a replay of Ellie’s painting. It was high tide, so Harry wasn’t running far from where they were sitting. To her horror, John saw him too, stood up and yelled, ‘Harry!’
The running man turned, recognition slid over his features and he jogged over the sand towards them.
‘John.’ Harry shook the older man’s hand. He nodded to her. ‘Ellie.’
Nothing in the way he greeted her gave any suggestion of what had occurred between them the last time they’d met.
‘I’ll get you a coffee, Harry. That’s, if you can spare a moment? I’m trying to persuade Ellie to be one of our school mentors.’ John’s voice had acquired a more cautious tone.
‘A black coffee, please. Just a small one.’ Harry wasn’t even out of breath after his run, but Ellie watched fascinated as a bead of sweat traced down the side of his face.
John Williams disappeared inside the café and Harry did a couple of leg stretches before sitting on the bench seat opposite her. They avoided eye contact and the silence stretched on.
Ellie could see that John was waiting in a queue to be served and, eventually, she couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
‘Harry, I’m sorry if I upset you.’
He surprised her by smiling. ‘At least you’re speaking to me. Let’s forget that evening ever happened, shall we? I think we need to start again. Hello, I’m Harry Dixon.’ He emphasised his name and held out his hand.
Ellie sighed and raised her own hand to meet his. ‘Ellie Golden.’ The sparks flying between their palms were difficult to ignore.
‘What’s this? Have you two agreed to something without me?’ John Williams returned to the table with three mugs. ‘I got you another too, Ellie.’ He unloaded the tray.
‘No, John, nothing about the mentoring scheme, but Ellie has agreed to continue her work with the art groups at school and to run another art competition next summer.’ Harry winked at her.
She glowered back. He’d cornered her nicely, but she was going to do those things anyway, so it wasn’t much of a victory. She was glad John was too caught up in his ideas for mentoring the talented and disaffected youth of the seaside town to pick up on the energy swirling between the two of them.
‘Tell me more about the mentoring scheme, John.’ She needed to focus on something other than Harry and the sensations his nearness was causing in her body. Even if she avoided looking at him, his familiar aftershave distracted her and she was ultra-aware of his presence.
John described passionately how he felt mentoring would benefit the school and a provisional outline for how the scheme would work. Ellie found it fascinating that he could talk so seriously without being aware of her inner turmoil.
‘So, what makes you think that I’d make a good mentor?’ she asked, after listening quietly to
his suggestions and plans.
To her surprise, it was Harry and not John who answered her question.
‘One, you have a teenage son yourself, so you understand the trials of puberty. Two, you can use the processes of art to reach and relax your mentees. Three, you’re quietly spoken, calm and approachable. Four, you’re known by the pupils and parents at the school and, as a bonus, you already have the necessary clearances and checks to work with young people.’
She was impressed with Harry’s quick, spontaneous response and stunned that he appeared to be able to see her in such a positive light. ‘Oh,’ was all she could think to say in response.
John nodded his agreement. ‘That about sums it up. I agree with Harry’s points, but I do also understand that you have a business to run. We can’t assume that you are willing to take part and we definitely can’t overload you.’
‘It sounds a very worthwhile scheme. As long as my time commitment can be kept to a manageable level, I’d be happy to be involved.’
John jumped up and hugged her. It took her by surprise, so the embrace was rather awkward. Harry was laughing when she was finally released from the older man’s arms.
‘If that’s settled, I’ll get back to my run. We can arrange a meeting for the mentors at the beginning of term, John. I look forward to seeing you there, Ellie.’
With those words, he was gone, back down to the water’s edge.
Ellie watched him go and had to tear her eyes away from him so she could concentrate on John’s continued conversation. Regardless of Harry Dixon’s actual identity, she was attracted to him in a way she had never known since her infatuation with Ben Rivers and it both excited and unsettled her. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about this morning’s encounter, but at least they were speaking again, if only in a professional capacity and very much on Harry’s terms. She got the impression he had forbidden her to mention Ben Rivers ever again. Wouldn’t life be so much simpler if she didn’t?
Harry ran down the beach in a lighter hearted mood than he’d felt for a long time. It had seemed ironic to go on a holiday when he’d just moved to a seaside resort, but he’d recognised the need to clear his head and think things through without the distractions of the new life he was building and the close proximity of Ellie.
He’d booked the tiniest holiday cottage he could find on the west coast of Scotland. There was a white sandy beach, rugged rocks and he rarely saw anyone, just the occasional dog walker. The weather hadn’t been brilliant, so he hadn’t done much running and there wasn’t even internet or mobile coverage, but it didn’t matter as this was a time to regroup and think.
He couldn’t decide if Ellie’s confrontation or his nightmare had unnerved him most. Another thought was worrying him: if Ellie had been in Cornwall at the same time as he was working there had she been embroiled in the drugs racket he’d been working to expose?
Who was Tom’s father? This seemed important, especially as the boy looked so familiar. She’d mentioned a divorce. Had he known her ex-husband?
He lay on the bed in the tiny bedroom, watching the rain pour down the window and tried to piece together what he actually remembered about Cornwall, rather than what he’d been told after the event.
When he’d been asked if he was interested in an undercover role, it had been because he was good on a surfboard. The reason he’d signed up and trained for the job, leaving his regular police role in Devon, was personal. His younger step-brother, Simon, had died after taking dodgy pills he’d bought from a guy in a nightclub. Simon had been experimenting with drugs ever since the sudden death of his father, Harry’s step-dad. As a result of the loss of her youngest son, Harry had watched his widowed mother sink into depression, neglecting herself and her declining health. She’d died barely a year after Simon, leaving Harry all alone in the world. There had been no one to miss him when he disappeared from Devon to take up his undercover role.
There were strict rules and regulations around an undercover job that were often difficult to maintain: no sexual relationships, no drugs. The latter was nigh on impossible when you were working alongside those peddling drugs, especially when you needed to infiltrate a group and seem legitimate. He’d tried as much as possible to limit his drug use to smoking an occasional cannabis joint.
It had all seemed surprisingly easy to begin with, almost like a long holiday, surfing by day and drinking in the main suspect’s bar by night. Norrie came to trust him after he’d helped on many occasions to throw out rowdy drink and drug-fuelled customers when the bar closed. Before he knew it, he was being paid in beer to act as a bouncer and was allowed to park his camper van at the back of the pub overnight.
The undercover role didn’t sit easily with his conscience. He’d loved his previous work at a small local police station. His main focus there had been to help people. The role in Cornwall involved living a lie, being deceitful every day and helping, at least for a time, to perpetuate the sales of his hated drugs. He knew it was a means to an end, but still it made him uncomfortable.
He’d witnessed numerous drug deals without batting an eyelid and Norrie had eventually asked if he’d act as an occasional driver to fetch supplies for him. He’d been given the destination of a crossroads on the moors. That first time it had just been a case of slowing down and accepting a package thrust out of the window of a car coming in the other direction.
The main target wasn’t this small drug-selling band, but a drug factory and supply team for the whole South-West. After a couple of drive-by collections, he’d been asked to accompany Norrie and his mate Rushton, he guessed as extra back-up, when they went to negotiate a deal with their suppliers.
The remote moorland farm was conveniently located near to an old wartime airstrip. A small plane had been leaving as they pulled up. Harry had to try and memorise the letters and numbers on the fuselage to report to his contact later, along with the vehicle number plates at the farm.
It was a major feat to act relaxed and nonchalant, when he was trying to memorise details, conversations and faces. As far as he’d been aware, this was the closest any of the undercover officers had got to the supply chain. It was vital that he related the information to his contact as quickly as possible, in case the suppliers got spooked and moved on before they could be arrested, or indeed, in case his own identity was discovered.
He remembered calling in the information and being advised to pack up and leave right away, as the police would be closing in on the moorland farm immediately. His surfboard was on the rack at the beach and he had walked down to fetch it. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything after that.
Stretching, Harry went to make a cup of tea. A memory played at the edge of his brain, but he couldn’t bring it forward. It was like having an itch he couldn’t scratch.
He guessed he must have stayed just that little bit too long and information about the raid and his part in it had got back to Norrie and Rushton, but he didn’t actually know that. He turned his mind to what he’d been told when he was recovering in hospital.
They’d found him on the beach with his surfboard. Someone had tried to make it look as if he’d had an accident in the sea and been washed up with the board still attached to him by its tether. He guessed this information was the seed for his recurrent nightmare. He’d been treated for injuries that suggested he’d had a prolonged beating: broken ribs, internal bleeding, cuts and bruises all over him and a nasty bash on the head. An analysis of his blood had shown signs of a cocktail of drugs, including one often used in date rape cases. He’d been told the drug was usually administered in a drink and that eventually when the stimulants he tested for had worn off, he would have been rendered immobile, almost paralysed and at this stage he must have been beaten senseless. He had no memory of having a drink, but they’d found he’d drunk beer. He would have been focused on just getting away from the area so it made no sense at all. Why would he have stopped to drink a beer in those circumstances? He’d never touched alcoh
ol since that time.
The plane had been traced, the drug warehouse and cannabis growing farm on the moors raided and shut down. There had been many arrests. Norrie and several other dealers had been charged and sent to prison. He’d been praised for his role in the operation, but all he’d felt was ill, bewildered and, for a few months, incapable of much at all. His body had healed, but his mind was a different matter. One thing he’d been very clear about was that he no longer wanted a career with the police, undercover or otherwise. He’d left to train as a teacher with a brand new identity.
After a week of mulling over the details of the things he remembered and the aftermath of his attack, the weather cleared and he began to run again. He had to move on. He refused to let that small period of his life dictate the rest of his existence. The second week of his holiday was relaxing and if his thoughts strayed back to Cornwall, he reminded himself of his resolution. Life was for living and not for dwelling on a past he couldn’t change.
When he arrived back in Borteen, Harry had made his dreaded phone call to his contact about Ellie and related the strength of her conviction that she had known him before. He’d been told to brazen things out for now. Ellie Golden couldn’t prove anything. She was more likely to damage her own reputation and business by making outlandish accusations about Harry. His contact, Sam, promised to look into Ellie’s past in Cornwall and let him know if she had any known link to the drug ring. Harry sincerely hoped that she wasn’t involved.
As he ran across the beach with renewed energy after the meeting with John and Ellie, he chuckled to himself as he remembered the expression on her face when he had ensured her continued art connection to the school. His contact had told him to be nice to Ellie and to get her back on his side. His mission was to smooth over any possible past link and to get her to trust him as Harry Dixon. He wasn’t sure how it was going to work, but, on reflection, it might be fun trying. After all, he didn’t have to pretend to like Ellie, he did like her. He was fascinated by the suspicious artist and mesmerised by her hair.
The Girl on the Beach Page 8