Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1)

by Richard Harrington

  ‘Yes please. I’d like that.’

  Walking barefoot to the lounge, her figure shimmered in the Chinese dress, and kneeling down at the old fashioned record player, she switched it on.

  ‘This record is my very best friend in the whole world.’

  The arm of the record player swung over, the stylus hovered, and when it dropped, the powerful quavering voice of Elkie Brooks filled the apartment.

  As Frank listened to the words, he wondered if Emily could be the answer to the puzzle.

  ‘We don’t cry out loud, keep it inside, learn how to hide your feelings, fly high and proud, and if you should fall, remember, we almost had it all.’

  As Frank listened till the song was over, he knew the innocence of this young woman placed her in great danger and she could so easily become just another of Angela’s casualties.

  With the song at an end, the apartment fell into a brooding silence, but she seemed calm now and he wondered if it might be worth trying a few questions.

  ‘Tara.’

  She looked up, her eyes soft and woozy, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Look, I hate doing this, but it’s important we talk.’

  She stared blankly into his eyes, ‘Alright, but is it about work?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, but if we’re going to help each other, we haven’t got much choice.’

  She nodded, but looked up fearfully around the room.

  He followed her gaze, ‘What’s wrong?’

  She shuddered, ‘They’ll watch and listen with their cameras.’

  ‘But I thought the apartments were surveillance free zones.’

  ‘Well they can’t be, because you knew about the games.’

  ‘Games? What games?’

  Her childlike eyes stared at him intently.

  She’d seen so many men whose eyes held deceit, but there was nothing in his, so maybe it was only Mr Montague who knew of the games.

  ‘Mr Lewis, if we talked, just as friends, could it be somewhere else?’

  He watched her looking nervously around the room, her body language tense.

  ‘Sure, we could go out for a meal if you like, and by the way, the name’s Frank.’

  While Tara got ready, he did some hard thinking, and knew he was just about to go against Angela’s instructions, but there again, she wanted the job done.

  Calling the main gate, Sergeant Jenkins answered, and he didn’t sound too happy.

  ‘Hello. Main gate. So what’s your problem?’

  ‘Hi sarge, this is Frank Lewis, it sounds like you’re having a bad day.’

  ‘Ah. Yes sir. Sorry about that.’

  ‘You’re still working then, that’s a long time.’

  He sighed, ‘Yeah. I’m doing a double shift, Sergeant Lock is off sick.’

  ‘Hard luck. But never mind that, I need a favour.’

  ‘And what might that be, sir.’

  ‘I need a car, unmarked and something decent, can you help?’

  The sergeant was a natural survivor, ‘Well we do have quite a nice Jag, sir.’

  ‘Good, that’ll do. So fuel it up and have it brought to the house.’

  As he waited for Tara, he flicked through a glossy magazine.

  ‘I’m ready now.’

  He looked up.

  ‘Am I alright? It is my own dress, really. It isn’t a present.’

  Although she had looked totally stunning in the Chinese gown, the way she looked now in that tiny black dress was a statement of simplistic beauty.

  She was almost unreal, a beautiful figurine, an exquisite statuette of loveliness, and everything about her was perfection, from her golden hair of tight little curls that fell as a tumbling cascade of gold around her elfin face, so tiny, so bright, and so alive.

  Her emerald eyes and pert little nose so beautifully formed, her soft pink lips that parted in a smile to reveal dazzling teeth of the purist white, and crucifix earrings shimmering below the curls and dancing as reflected light with every cautious smile.

  The satin skin of her soft bosom, and a tiny waist above seductively curving hips, and her legs made all the more voluptuous in shiny silky stockings and tall stiletto heeled shoes.

  Tara Goodwin was nothing less than a goddess in miniature.

  ‘Will I do?’

  As they emerged from the big old house, Frank saw a royal blue Jaguar waiting for them at the foot of the steps, and cruising up to the main gate, saw just one bored looking officer at the barrier who seemed to be killing time by kicking imaginary footballs across the road, and seeing the Jaguar, swaggered over to the red and white barrier and stabbed the button.

  Frank was surprised he was allowed to drive on through unchallenged, and when the guard merely nodded to him, it confirmed this whole establishment was long overdue for a good kick up the arse, and although X Stations were usually pretty much on the ball, this place had a serious problem with its own self-importance.

  Driving on through, he parked the car opposite the security lodge.

  ‘I need a word with the sergeant, but I’ll only be a minute. Okay?’

  Tara smiled, but when Sergeant Jenkins wandered out onto the veranda, she cringed when he looked over to her with a knowing smile.

  As Frank walked up the steps, the sergeant’s expression turned crafty as his gaze flicked to Miss Goodwin, sitting in the Jag and all dressed up for the kill.

  ‘It looks like you’ve got your evening’s entertainment all sorted out, sir.’

  Frank noticed his sly grin and the locker room tone of his voice.

  ‘That’s right. So what of it?’

  ‘Oh nothing, except Mrs A was quite particular that the official car was to take you back to the cottage, sir.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but that’ll have to wait. Something important has come up.’

  The sergeant smiled and looked over to the car, ‘Yes sir, I do understand.’

  Walking him up the veranda, Frank took him away from the ears of the guard.

  ‘Sarge, if you can take your eyes of Miss Goodwin, I need your local knowledge.’

  He grinned, ‘Well I’ll do my best, sir. So how can I help?’

  ‘I need an eating house, somewhere quiet and discrete, and just upmarket enough to keep out the arseholes of this world.’

  The sergeant looked at him, a world weary, cynical smile on his face.

  ‘And would that be, mobile phone, pinstriped arseholes, as well, sir?'

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right.’ He flashed a knowing smile to Miss Goodwin, all dolled up in the Jaguar.

  ‘Well in that case, I think the best place for your needs would be a nice little hotel cum restaurant that me and my wife found over by Bourton-on-the-water. It’s not too far and the people are decent folk, and of course, they have rooms, if you think you’ll need one.’

  Frank noticed the innuendo again, and while the sergeant gave easy to follow directions, he smirked and glanced to the car as if he knew a piece of local gossip to be laughed about and it soon became obvious that something rotten was going on beneath the peaceful tranquillity of Thornley Manor.

  Frank remembered Tara being quite adamant that her relationships had been instruction, and now he was beginning to wonder just how far those instructions had gone.

  ‘Sarge, you’re an old hand, so I don’t suppose much gets by you at this station.’

  The sergeant puffed out his chest, ‘Well I like to keep my finger on the pulse, sir.’

  ‘Right. So I’d like to know something, strictly off the record, you understand.’

  The sergeant wondered what was coming as Frank looked back over to the Jaguar.

  ‘So what do you know about Miss Goodwin’s private life that I wouldn’t necessarily find from checking the official records.’

  The sergeant gave him a sideways look, ‘Well don’t quote me, but there are rumours that our Head of Security has been blessed with rather loose, panty elastic, sir.’

  Frank felt his worst fears coming true, ‘Go on
.’

  ‘Well since she arrived here about a year ago, it appears that Miss Goodwin has been, how shall we say, giving her all to both the Chief, that is, Chief Inspector Hillsdown, and also to the clerk of works, Mr Anderton.’

  He froze. Those weren’t the names he was expecting to hear.

  ‘And to be perfectly honest, Miss Goodwin seems quite an obliging young lady, so if you need to stab the pussy tonight, I don’t think you’ll have too much of a problem, sir.’

  Frank had been prepared for almost anything, but not this.

  She’d said the relationships had been instruction, but if that included the Chief of Police and the clerk of works as well, he was beginning to wonder if it was just a coincidence that her instructions had been followed by the file corruption.

  Coming out of his darkest thoughts, he heard Sergeant Jenkins making pussy jokes, and without warning, suddenly picked him up and slammed him into the wall.

  ‘Sarge, you’re talking about a friend of mine, and you’ve got one hell of a dirty mouth.’

  The sergeant buckled, ‘Oh. Sorry sir … I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well you do now, so shut the fuck up. And if I hear anymore dirty talk about her, I’ll bring a kind of hell to this place, you don’t even want to think about.’

  Slamming him back down, Frank stormed angrily away.

  They were all saying the same thing, Tara Goodwin was a slut.

  And yes, it did look bad. But what none of them knew was she’d tried to kill herself, and all because she was scared to death of men.

  Watching the car drive away, the sergeant wandered over, deep in thought to the guard.

  ‘Now then lad. You will be pleased to know that from the kindness of my heart I’m going to give you a piece of advice that can’t be bought with money.’

  The officer frowned, ‘You are, sarge?’

  ‘Yes, and I imagine you quite enjoy the age old pleasure of fanny filling, right?’

  The guard nodded, and wondered if Sergeant Jenkins had finally gone mad.

  ‘Then I must advise you, that not only is the lovely Miss Goodwin, totally out of bounds, but she will be treated at all times with the utmost respect and courtesy. Understood?’

  ‘I think so, sarge.’

  ‘Well don’t think too hard, lad, you might give yourself a hernia, so just trust in God and your sergeant, for as the ancient philosopher once said, it’s damned near impossible to stick your prized possession up a woman’s little twinky, if a huge angry Cardinal man has just cut it off and stuck it up your nose. Am I getting through, lad?’

  ‘Yes sarge.’

  ‘Splendid. You’ll make the quiz team yet.’

  Angela sat at her desk with the day’s paperwork in front of her, the fax from Louise on top of the pile, and she still couldn’t resist reading it one more time.

  Re: Frank Lewis. Pre military service information, gathered so far is as follows,

  Birth Certificate details;

  Registration District. Fulham, Middlesex. 1970.

  22.12.1970. Frank Lewis, 3 Lodge Avenue, Fulham, London.

  Frank Hale-Lewis. Boy. (We are trying to identify the reference to Hale)

  No father, but there was talk of an American officer in the United States Marine Corps with the family name of Hale or Hale-Fanning who’s fore fathers sailed to America at the time of the Mayflower, and talk of a family called Hale, or Hale-Foad in the UK, but Frederick Hale died in Ottery St Mary, Devon, England.

  Moira Lewis. Mother. Housemaid.

  Moira Lewis, mother, died in childbirth at residential address.

  (We can’t find a record of a death certificate.) (?)

  Frank (Hale) Lewis - given into the care of Fulham District Council.

  Considerable unsuccessful fostering placements.

  Absconded from various institutions on 26 occasions.

  Sent to permanent home for mal-adjusted children. (The Boy’s House).

  Later caused Grievous Bodily Harm to a carer who had assaulted an orphanage girl.

  (No charges were brought against F. Lewis).

  Twice attempted to illegally enter the USA by stowing away on Merchant ships.

  Sentenced to one year’s Youth Custody - became boxing champion and passed exams in Mathematics, English and Geography.

  Joined the Parachute Regiment aged 17. Four years later passed SAS selection.

  L.

  Angela slipped away into thought. The Hale connection seemed to indicate an American father, but there appeared to be no death certificate for Moira Lewis. Why not?

  She was sorting through the rest of her paperwork when a fax arrived from Tonabie.

  Dear Angela, Re: Code 1 incident.

  The latest information from the Counter Intelligence Corps is as follows,

  Blond assailant: Timothy Percival, aged 29. Conscripted 1993 from Cambridge to MI5 by Sir Marcus Glenndenning, advisor to the Joint Intelligence Committee.

  Uneventful career, little known except recalled from the USA after unspecified complaint from the CIA (Military Intelligence Wing) autumn 1995.

  Also believed unauthorised activity, USA, summer 1996 and again in spring 1997.

  Discharged spring 1997, became private consultant to industry - Industrial Espionage.

  Died, Cheltenham, September 2001 at Section safe house.

  PS. We also know that Timothy Percival was the driver who collected Charon from RAF Lyneham.

  The Counter Intelligence Corps have now investigated and it would appear that the Pool Car Manager accepted a considerable amount of money in exchange for Percival to become the duty driver on that day.

  The Pool Car Manager is now under close arrest.

  Best wishes, Charles Tonabie.

  Angela sighed.

  Sir Marcus Glenndenning was turning up like a bad penny, so from now on she would have to be careful as Sir Marcus Glenndenning was also on the list of special protection.

  Scanning over the office schedule she saw Suzanne Levi was duty officer, and after a moment’s thought, picked up the red phone.

  ‘Suzanne, this is Angela. Now look, come back to me with the security clearance file on Carole Sanderson, she’s now deceased but was a private secretary to the Chiefs of Staff.’

  15

  Tara had watched intently as Frank Lewis talked with the sergeant on the veranda, and when he heaved him back hard against the wall, she’d known instinctively that something vile had been said about her, but that was nothing new, so once again she tried to ignore the hurt as they drove out through the dazzling countryside.

  Gazing at it all with fondness, she smiled as they passed through postcard villages of stone and slate, with post offices and corner shops, thatched cottages, triangles of green and village ponds, and pubs with gardens full of happy people all enjoying the evening sun as they sat at tables laden with food and drink while children ran wildly and laughing to the games in their minds, and wet dogs with sticks dashing from the stream to shake themselves in a rainbow spray to the squealing delight of scurrying children, and talk of rugby, cricket and village fetes, and the hushed and whispered gossip.

  She soaked it all up like a sponge, and to her surprise, found herself wondering if one day she could be part of it all.

  It was very odd, and she was still pondering through her thoughts when she suddenly sat forward and convulsed in giggles as she pointed straight ahead.

  There was the laughing tree, just as the sergeant had described it, and swinging the car to the left, they rose to the brow of a hill before swishing down into a fairy-tale hollow of trees, and there, right in front of them was the sergeant’s tavern.

  Parking the car, they sat quietly for a while and looked at the old twisted tavern with its stone frontage that had mellowed with the years and rose up to meet the grey slate of the roof tiles in a pleasant chaos of levels, whilst windows that sat recessed in stone surrounds now shone with the spun gold of gentle lights that lit the low interior even in daylight, and in a
cavernous stone porch, a studded oak door stood open against the brass doorstop to invite today’s people to step into times long since passed.

  ‘Well, Tara, what do you think? Would you like to try it?’

  ‘Oh, yes please. It looks heavenly.’

  The interior of the sergeant’s tavern was typical of its age, with timber pillars and exposed beams of rich dark wood and acres of mellowed panelling and cream plaster, the dark oak of the curved bar glowing in the subtle warmth of old miners lanterns that hung from the beams over the thickly piled carpets of red, green and gold.

  The landlord glanced up as they walked inside, and checking them over, greeted them with a wide and genial smile, and his friendliness was so immediate, honest and infectious it seemed in no time at all before Tara and Frank felt happy and comfortable.

  Sitting on a high bar chair, Tara sipped her deep red musky wine as Frank stood beside her and swapped rugby stories with the landlord, his pint of dark velvet Guinness standing on the fiery copper of the bar, and she was just so happy to be there she found it almost too difficult not to cry.

  But as she casually gazed around, she noticed people glancing at her, and while the men had those furtive, lustful eyes she knew so well, some of the women’s eyes were different, and seemed to carry resentment, scorn and even obvious hate, and feeling uncomfortable, the inevitable worm of guilt began to wriggle through her mind.

  Did they know? Did they recognise her for what she really was? Did they?

  She looked down to her hands, maybe they did know.

  Feeling the vision creeping closer, suddenly it was there again and she was dressed in those clothes and doing filthy things with all those horrible men.

  But why did they want her to wear those clothes? It was just so ridiculously grotesque.

  Clasping her hands tightly together she tried to push the hideous memories away, but it all became too much and she began to quiver with revulsion.

  Frank swung round, ‘Are you alright?’

  Tara looked quickly away, but Frank had seen those eyes before, he’d seen them in the carer’s house when Emily Thompson had walked into his room with blood running down her legs, and she’d just stood there, her eyes dull and vacant.