Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1)

by Richard Harrington

  ‘Lucy? Honey, where are you …? Oh ... come back to bed.’

  Mrs Sheverill jumped as the warm American accent suddenly shattered the angry spell, and looking back across to the open hall door, threw up her hands in exasperation.

  ‘Jesus Christ. What the hell is happening now?’

  Storming across the kitchen, she slammed the hall door shut behind her, but it bounced open again and the voices of the two women came floating through to the kitchen.

  ‘Chrissy, I have a visitor. So please go back to bed, I’ll not be long.’

  ‘But Lucy, that isn’t fair, I’ve waited so long to see you.’

  ‘I know, but I’ll only be a minute. Now give me a kiss, and if you go back to bed, I’ll get rid of him. Okay?’

  ‘Oh, I guess so, but then it’s just you and me. You promise?’

  ‘Of course I do, my sweet Christiana, just you and me, for ever and ever.’

  A silence fell that seemed to last forever, and as Frank stood there, he realised that Robin Sheverill’s world was unlike anything he could have imagined.

  Shutting his mind to the silence, he stared down to the flagstones, and although it was time to leave, he could at least try to make his peace with her, then say goodbye and forget about it - but the movement of a white pinny caught his eye, and looking up, saw the starchy woman staring directly at him. She was stood with her feet balanced, wide apart, her arms hanging loose like a boxer, her cold vicious eyes challenging him while brimming over with a dull yellow light, her manner so quiet and deadly, like a timber wolf who’d cornered her prey.

  As he watched the mad-eyed woman, Mrs Sheverill came flouncing back to the kitchen, but now there was a sheen to her face while points of fire shone out from her dark eyes, and where her bathrobe had been pulled wide apart, he saw her large heavy breasts rising and falling to the panting of her chest - and then she saw him in the doorway.

  ‘My god. You’re still here …’

  ‘Yeah, but don’t worry, I’m leaving now. I just wanted to say …’

  ‘Well if you’re going, then for god’s sake go. I have no intention of spending the rest of my life, discussing my husband’s overdue demise. I have my own life to live, and not to put too fine a point on it, you, like my husband before you, are fucking it up.’

  Frank felt his heart begin to pound, and then the tiredness let his anger boil over.

  ‘Yeah. Right. So I’ll forget the flowers for the grief stricken widow. Shall I ..? Unless you’d like them, pussy shaped.’

  Staring at him, she slowly turned to stone, his ugly words sinking deep into her mind.

  ‘How dare you, you foul mouthed bastard. It’s the bloody Regimental super glue, isn’t it, you just can’t stop defending each other. First it’s the SAS, then the NSA, and now it’s the fucking Section, it just goes on, the conveyor belt of the macho-men, an endless progression where nothing or nobody is ever allowed to get in the way.’

  She laughed bitterly, her mouth twisting as flames caught fire in her dark eyes.

  ‘They call you people, The Ghosts, don’t they, when you flit out from the shadows of the Section and into all those unmentionables. The Force Research Unit, The Detachment, or the Det as you bastards choose to call it, and then the Cumberland First Directive and god knows what other sneaky little organisations there are floating around out there, but let me tell you something, if you slip too far into your clever little, never-never world, you’ll end up with Alice in bloody Wonderland, just like my shadow junkie of a husband, totally mad and nowhere to go, because there’s no way back from insanity.’

  Leaning towards him, her nostrils flared to the hatred churning so deep within her.

  ‘And let me tell you something else, Mr Action Man, it’s the poor bloody wives that pay the price of it all, every god damned time.’

  Holding up her clenched fists, bright tears brimmed over to slide down her cheeks.

  ‘So why don’t you go, Mr Lewis. Just go to frigging hell.’

  Looking at her, he stood accused and defeated. And she was right.

  Sobbing, she turned away and flung herself into the waiting arms of Martha.

  ‘There now, my lady, you let it all come out, Martha will look after you.’

  Turning his back to the kitchen door, he gazed mournfully out over the gardens and wondered how all the good he’d wished for, had gone so bad.

  Standing there, Martha’s voice floated out as she began to sing in the soft Irish lilt.

  ‘Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree tops, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock, when the wind blows, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all.’

  He sighed, and was about to walk away when Mrs Sheverill’s voice floated out.

  ‘Thank you, Martha, I’m better now, so would you be an angel and bring tea for two?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am, and will Miss Levett be staying for dinner?’

  Walking through to the drawing room, Mrs Sheverill stood within the folds of the curtains and gazed out through dispassionate eyes to the lonely figure of Lewis as he crossed over the courtyard to disappear up the lane.

  Shrugging her shoulders, she turned and walked thoughtfully back through the rambling depths of the old house. After all, what was done, was done, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. But at least his visit had been private, so there should be no reason for him to file a report, and anyway, she had already managed to convince the Intelligence people of her sad story. So maybe it was best, not to worry.

  Standing alone in the silent kitchen, Martha felt herself becoming nervous and edgy, knowing only too well that bringing back those hideous memories of Mister Robin would surely have hurt her mistress’ mind, so she could be unpredictable and dangerous now.

  Taking a deep breath, she moved quickly and cleared away every knife and sharp blade, and glancing across, jumped in fright when she saw her standing there, ghostly and quiet, but she wasn’t looking at her, she was staring across to the now empty doorway where that man Lewis had been standing.

  Martha watched as she walked over and picked up Miss Christiana’s silver tobacco tin, but she faltered as furrowing lines of concentration came to spoil her smooth brow.

  ‘I thought it went quite well really, after the initial shock of course.’

  Martha chose her words carefully, the nervous tick returning to play in her eye.

  ‘Yes ma’am, a bit scary so it was, finding a Section man just standing there like that, and Arthur was no use, letting him wander up to the house when we might have been busy with a new guest.’

  Lucinda opened the silver tin, took out a cannabis cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Indeed, and that was a very silly mistake. I shall have to teach him a hard lesson.’

  Martha nodded, ‘And Miss Chrissy didn’t help either, coming down like that.’

  Lucinda swung round sharply, her face now hard and taut, her dark eyes angry.

  ‘How dare you blame my Chrissy, you ugly old bitch, it wasn’t her bloody fault.’

  ‘No ma’am, of course not. I just meant it was bad luck, that’s all, honest.’

  ‘Well that’s alright then, but you just mind your dirty mouth in future.’

  Martha sighed as Lucinda’s furious anger disappeared just as fast as it had arrived.

  ‘And considering everything, I thought it went rather well actually, and especially as we had to make it up as we went along. So with any luck, we shouldn’t be bothered again, by the honourable Mr Lewis.’

  The young blond checked his watch and saw it was already past three o’clock and the Malmesbury pubs were closing for the afternoon.

  Sucking through his teeth, he walked away from the bustling market square and stepped into a gently slopping side road.

  He’d checked just about every nearby hotel, café and pub but no-one had seen the big man and he was beginning to run out of ideas, but walking down to an old fashioned garage, he saw an old man stumbling out
of a pub.

  He was dressed in well worn country clothes and there was a gentle sway to his gait as he tottered towards him, his bald head bobbing to the unsteady pattering of his feet.

  ‘Excuse me, old chap, but I wonder if you could help me?’

  The old man looked up and saw an arrogant face of thin savage lips and cold eyes, and when the public school accent grated on him, he thought, huntin’, shootin’ and fartin’.

  ‘I might. So what is it?’

  ‘Well actually, I’m looking for a friend of mine. He’s a rather big chap with brown hair, he was wearing jeans, a donkey jacket and carrying quite a large, army style pack, so would you happen to have seen him by any chance?’

  The old man carefully turned it over in his mind, but couldn’t see how the big fella could possibly be a friend of this ponce, ‘So do you play darts, then?’

  Surprised at the question, the blond smiled condescendingly to the country bumpkin.

  ‘I can’t say I do, old chap, never quite felt the urge, so to speak.’

  The old man felt his hackles rising, and looking into the sneering smile, thought.

  'No, you bastard - and you've never been a friend of the big fella either.'

  ‘Well I can’t help you, ‘cos I ain’t seen your friend, or anyone that even looks like him since lambing time, and that’s a fair while ago.’

  ‘Oh well, thanks anyway. And be sure to enjoy your darts, old chap.’

  A toothy smile came back to him, ‘I intend to, in a week or so.’

  Tottering across the road, he watched and saw the slimy blond walk down to speak to the landlord as he swept the pub step, and after a minute, money changed hands and the blond walked back up to the forecourt of the garage.

  Frank walked on to the village of Sherston, and resting on a low wall, lit a cigarette and let the bad vibes of Sheverill’s Farm slip away, and as he sat there, a shop door to his left suddenly burst open and a glamorous looking woman stepped out and called to a tall man taking aim with an enormous camera.

  ‘Honey, you must come and see this. Oh, it’s so cute.’

  Her warm American accent started that 'buzzing' in his head again, and he knew there was a memory there that seemed important, but just when he thought he had it, it slipped away again. He was just too tired to think.

  Finishing the cigarette, he stubbed it out, and as he watched the firefly embers die away his thoughts turned to Sally, that beautiful woman who always seemed to understand, and he knew, that right now, he would love to see her again.

  He wondered if she might be at home, but even if she was, would she be alone, and anyway, was it fair to unload his problems onto her?

  Disjointed thoughts tumbled in his head as he wandered off, but seeing a phone box, couldn’t help wondering if he might take the chance. She could only say no, and taking a breath, walked up, pulled open the door and dialled the number he knew without thinking.

  Sally, for her own reasons, was mother, sister and lover to the Section operatives, and whether married or single was always their first call after a masquerade, and no-one ever called her a prostitute, that word was far too ugly, even if true.

  As Frank waited, a click came on the line, and once again he felt that nervous tension.

  ‘Hello? Is that Sally. Sally Guthridge.’

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  He fell silent, feeling too awkward to ask the question, or fear of hearing the answer.

  Sally frowned, ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Frank. Frank Lewis. Look, I’m sorry, but I need to come in, so is it okay?’

  Listening to the tone of his voice, she recognised yet another washed out man.

  ‘Alright. Where are you?’

  ‘Not far. I could be in Cheltenham in about an hour, if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. Come in then, I’ll be here. Oh, and Frank, take care.’

  Replacing the receiver, she looked deep into the mirror and stood for a while.

  She could still see him standing there, that fresh faced boy, so full of wild fun, and again she wished with all her heart, that on that bitter winters night in East Germany, there had been someone to say, ‘Come in, Jack, I’ll be here, take care.’

  Checking the taxi cards, Frank chose a local number, and picking up the phone, gave the destination address in Charlton Kings, and was soon relaxing in the taxi.

  Settling back in the seat, he imagined being with Sally, listening to her soft voice and being dazzled by her smile, but then, and from out of nowhere, came the lost memory.

  Of course. Beirut. Robin Sheverill. Christiana Levett.

  He sat up straight. So what the hell was going on at Sheverill’s Farm.

  4

  It was rush-hour when Frank’s taxi got caught up in the chaos of Cheltenham’s traffic, and gazing away across the rooftops, he thought of the sprawling complex of GCHQ and it reminded him that Tonabie was waiting.

  He shrugged, and driving past Montpellier, saw gardeners tidying the flowers beds.

  ‘Driver, look out for a florists, would you.’

  The taxi swung towards the theatre, ‘Hang on, I know just the place,’ and coming to a halt, nodded to an old shop of red brick and green arched windows, ‘That’s a good one.’

  Walking over, Frank pushed open the door, and as he gazed at the riot of colour, the girl behind the counter looked up and saw tangled brown hair, a craggy face, broad shoulders, a muscular body, flat stomach, a tight bottom and long athletic legs.

  Glancing into the mirror, she flicked at her hair and walked over, ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Oh yes please … You see, I’m looking for something special.’

  ‘For a young lady?’

  He nodded.

  Choosing twelve red roses, she wrapped them in white paper, but Frank seemed unsure.

  ‘It doesn’t look very much.’

  She smiled into his soft, deep brown Labrador eyes, ‘She’ll love them. Trust me.’

  He smiled back, ‘Okay, I will.’

  ‘But if by some miracle, she doesn’t. I finish at six.’

  Out on the Cirencester road the driver stopped at a large old house, ‘Is this the one?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  Paying the fare, he got out, but watched until the taxi had driven away, and turning, walked back down the road.

  The taxi drove on but straight into a gridlock, so swinging the car round he drove back and saw the big man with his pack over his shoulder and still gently carrying the flowers, but he was walking quickly and turning into an avenue of trees and old majestic houses.

  So what game was he playing?

  Finally arriving back at the garage, Ted glanced to the huge old clock over the forecourt and saw it was well past six o’clock, and walking up through the silent workshop, smiled and rubbed his hands together.

  He’d knocked £500 off the price of the breakdown truck and she was a beauty, an old, ex-army Scammell, built to last, and if asked, could easily pull a house down.

  Whistling happily, he switched off the compressor, machinery and the lights, and through the window saw Len cashing up the days takings, and smiling, breezed into the office.

  ‘Hi Len. Everything okay?’

  Len smiled. Since retiring, working with Ted meant everything to him.

  ‘Just fine, I took £420 on the pumps today, and how did you get on?’

  ‘Brilliant. I bought the Scammell and she’s bloody marvellous.’

  Len grinned. Ted seemed to love machinery almost as much as people.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, did that bloke catch up with your friend?’

  Ted looked puzzled, ‘What bloke?’

  ‘A tall, blond young fella with a posh voice, and to be honest, I didn’t really like him, but as he had an urgent message for your friend, I said you’d taken him to Sherston.’

  As Ted listened, hairs began to stand up on the back of his neck.

  ‘Len, are you saying this bloke just walk
ed in off the street and started asking questions?’

  Len saw the worried, cold expression on Ted’s face, and suddenly felt unsure.

  ‘Well yes, but you weren’t here, so I thought I’d better tell him. I was right, wasn’t I?’

  Ted patted him on the shoulder, but his thoughts were racing and going into overdrive.

  ‘Of course you were. Now get yourself off home, it’s late.’

  Locking the garage he walked down to the pub.

  He’d intended having a pint to celebrate buying the Scammell, but all thoughts of that were gone now, because thanks to an innocent old man, and an unknown blond asking questions, he now needed a pint for a far more serious reason.

  The pub was already busy with the early evening crowd, the traders and shopkeepers jostling and mingling together to swap stories of the day, and though he made the effort of waving back to the good natured jibes and greetings, their idle chatter on this occasion meant very little to him.

  Pushing through to the bar, the landlord tried small talk as he served his pint, but Ted was in a void, the raucous bedlam around him now silent in his ears, because of all the Section operatives he’d worked with, Frank Lewis was probably the most professional, diligent and careful of all, but now, for some unknown reason it was beginning to look as if he had a shadow, and that was seriously bad news.

  His thoughts drifted back to when he’d taken early retirement from the Section, and not wanting to let go completely, decided to keep in contact with the men by running a safe house for them, and it seemed just like another game then, a laugh, a perfect way of staying in contact, and he’d never really expected a cold hand to come knocking, but now it seemed the safe house was blown, but how?

  Rapping his fingers thoughtfully on the bar, he tried to ignore the conversations around him, but suddenly came wide awake when he realised the crowd were talking about a blond, a posh young man who’d been asking questions all over town.

  Everyone seemed to have their own idea of who the blond might be, a plain clothes police officer was favourite, but no-one had seen the big man he’d been looking for, until, in a moment of quiet, the landlord seized his opportunity and proudly announced to the crowd that the big man had been in his pub today, at lunchtime.