Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1)

by Richard Harrington

  Frank had been fifteen. Emily, fourteen. And Lesley, the carer, old.

  In a rage from years, he’d smashed open the bathroom door and found Lesley standing in front of the mirror with his trousers and pants down around his ankles, and he was smiling to his reflection as he held his limp penis in his hand.

  He was smiling as he looked at Emily’s blood on his thin spindly legs and fat belly, but the leering smile had quickly faded away as a stare of shocked fear came to him.

  Frank had lunged forward, and even as Lesley gasped in a sudden terror, it was just a second later that his nose had been flattened by a fist that sent his blood splattering in a crimson spray all over the mirror.

  The punches had fallen like rain, a dark brutal rain of fists that closed Lesley’s eyes and split his flesh to the bone, a cold, uncaring, vicious rain that pounded down till they broke his teeth to let them stand out like shards of reddish white spikes through the puffed up mash of his bloodied lips, an endless rain of savage punches that knew no end, a pounding of pure hate and wild fury that scoured down over Lesley’s fat bloated body, and even as he sank to the floor the fists fell upon him until he was crushed.

  As Frank remembered every moment, he knew the die was cast, and whatever happened in this mucky game of Angela’s, it was now certain that if he achieved nothing else he would get Tara out of this, and anyway he could.

  So to hell with the rules. Let it begin.

  Angela took the call on the red phone, it was Suzanne and she sounded flustered.

  ‘Hello ma’am, I’m sorry for taking so long, but it’s the Carole Sanderson file, and, well, to be honest, I’ve run into a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Suzanne, calm down. Now then, what kind of a problem?’

  ‘The file. It’s been blocked …’

  Angela caught her breath, ‘Oh my god. Well, go on then, tell me the worst.’

  ‘Well I know it’s unbelievable, but it seems a secrecy password has been added, and no-one even knew about it. I’ve checked all the relevant departments, but …’

  Angela gritted her teeth, ‘But what?’

  ‘But at least I’ve found the originator of the password.’

  ‘Well I suppose that’s something. So who the hell was it?’

  There came a heavy silence.

  ‘Suzanne, I said, who was the bastard that did it?’

  ‘Well ma’am, I know it’s hard to believe, but it was Merlin.’

  ‘What? Merlin? So how the hell did that happen?’

  Suzanne cringed, ‘I don’t know, no-one does.’

  ‘Don’t talk frigging rubbish, you must know something.’

  ‘Yes ma’am. Well she died on September the 11th, Thornley updated her file on the 13th and it was transferred from active to stored as usual, so the password can only have been added since then. But there’s another problem.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Well go on then, so what is it?’

  ‘Merlin has added a wipe out clause.’

  ‘Dear god.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’

  Angela cursed, ‘Well it’s no bloody good being sorry, now is it, you stupid woman.’

  ‘No ma’am.’

  ‘So how many bites of the god-damned cherry do we get?’

  ‘Just two. Merlin will wipe the file after two incorrect password attempts.’

  Angela gripped the phone and stared hard out of the window.

  Her adversary was obviously still one clever step ahead of her and the situation was now getting very dangerous.

  The list of people involved with the computer section would be considerable, and each operator on every interlocking shift would have to be checked, crosschecked and verified, and with no guarantee of finding the guilty party, and even if he or she was identified, would the bastard actually confess the correct password?

  The whole fiasco could take days and she didn’t have the time for all that rubbish, and yet, somehow, she just had to get into that file, and pretty damned quick.

  ‘Suzanne. I want you to do two things, right this minute, immediately.

  First call Ambrose Dudley at Thornley and tell him under absolutely no circumstances whatsoever should a password attempt be made to access the Sanderson file, and two, bring the final solution to immediate readiness.’

  Angela prowled around the cottage, her thoughts dissecting every possibility, and realised that although her adversary might be ahead of her now, she had long since learned that even a Tarantula without its legs would soon become a victim itself.

  So now was the time to start snipping away those nasty little legs, and that clever whore from MI5 would be the first to go.

  Christiana had spent the last two hours just crisscrossing all through her memory as she tried to understand the puzzle of the coded diary, and it was driving her crazy because it made no damned sense, and just to make it worse, she couldn’t call for help as she wasn’t even officially in the country, let alone on a mission.

  Laying back on the soft mattress, she wondered if there could be another way.

  Surely there must be someone who would know how to figure out the code, but that was the whole problem, she needed someone on the outside, someone out of the game and yet still reliable.

  She remembered the guy from Military Intelligence saying the problem was strictly a Brit-American affair, and although it required a high degree of covert, specialist attention, it mustn’t bring embarrassment for either government.

  So did that mean she could take a chance on the international circuit?

  If so, there certainly was someone who could help, if he was still around, and of course, if he’d forgiven her by now.

  But it hadn’t been her fault, and surely he would realise that, wouldn’t he?

  Their love affair had broken the rules and it was almost inevitable that the administration would squash it, and they did, stone dead, and she hadn’t even the chance to say goodbye.

  In the middle of the night they’d called her to the Air Force base in Oxfordshire, and then she was heading back to the States to have her emotions cleaned out by her masters.

  So what she was thinking was a risky idea, but it sure would be good to see him again.

  And so, here she was, unofficially on a covert mission in the UK and about to go against the US administration by wakening a Russian Ex Colonel of Spetsnaz KGB.

  Dmitri Kosakov.

  Jesus, could it get any worse than that?

  Probably not, but what choice did she have?

  Area 57 was just too hot to handle, and that blond creep had got far too close for comfort.

  Martha was picking herbs in the early evening sunshine when she heard the phone ring, and when the caller asked for Lucinda, sent Arthur with the mobile to look for her.

  He found her with Christiana, sprawled out asleep on a rug by the summer house, and except for their panties they were naked as they soaked up the last rays of the sun.

  Walking silently along the path, he stood over them and gazed down to their curves.

  ‘Ma’am, there’s a call for you.’

  Waking dreamily, Christiana sat up and saw Lucinda lazily reach for the phone, and seeing Arthur’s erection, straining through his trousers, Lucinda smiled saucily to him.

  ‘Alright, Arthur, you’ve seen enough for now, so off you go.’

  Watching him walk away, Lucinda turned and smirked to Christiana.

  ‘I think your tits are driving poor old Arthur crazy.’

  ‘Mine? Yours, you mean. He can’t keep his eyes off you.’

  Smiling with satisfaction, she tossed back her hair and stabbed the button.

  ‘Hello? Lucinda Sheverill speaking.’

  She listened for a while, and then, ‘Yes. Alright … So you’ll confirm?’

  The light in her eyes suddenly changed as she stared far out across the gardens.

  ‘Problem, honey?’

  Lucinda swung round, ‘Problem? No, of course not, why the fuck should there be?’
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  Christiana caught her breath when the sudden, angry sharpness in her voice, startled her.

  ‘Oh. Well, okay, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  Standing up, Lucinda glared down to her, and threw the phone, hard across the garden.

  ‘Just because my bloody publisher commissions me to do another fucking article, it doesn’t mean there’s a frigging problem, okay, little miss, goody two shoes?’

  As Lucinda stormed off, Christiana mumbled to herself as she got dressed.

  'If I don't get out of this madhouse soon, I’ll be just as crazy as the rest of them.'

  Walking up to the house, she knew she had to get out of this place if only for an hour.

  The never ending sex and Lucinda’s mood swings were beginning to drain her sanity.

  Collecting her purse from the lounge, she was making her way out of the house when she found the solid bulk of Martha standing firm to block the doorway, her piggy little eyes brooding and hooded.

  Glancing down, saw she was holding a ten inch butcher’s knife and was swinging it to the panting of her chest.

  ‘Now then, my pretty miss, you haven’t been upsetting my lady, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t upset her, but I think the phone call may have.’

  ‘Oh? So what did she say?’

  ‘Not much. Just that her publisher wants her to start work on another article.’

  Martha stared, her expression turning to stone, and when her shoulders slumped, the knife came loose in her fingers and fell clattering and bouncing to the floor.

  Walking quickly along the path, Christiana slid behind the wheel of the Ferrari and quietly closed the door. Turning the ignition key, she sighed with relief when the engine fired immediately, and stabbing the accelerator, sent the Ferrari roaring off down the lane, and checking the rear view mirror, half expected to see the maniacal figure of Lucinda pounding along behind.

  Oh god, it was just so good to be out of there, and free, if only for a while.

  Coming up to the main road, the car twitched under the 'heel and toe' action of her racing accelerator and brake technique, and seeing the road was clear, turned right and gunned the motor crazily up through the gears, her emotions exploding as the speedometer needle flew wildly round to a hundred and twenty, her mind in a daze as the trees and meadows flashed by, the car accelerating even more to the fantastic roar of the exhausts and it was just so wonderful.

  Then she saw the tractor.

  It was chugging out through a farm gate as it laboriously pulled a high sided trailer.

  Braking hard, she went down through the gears, the tractor right across the road and swinging round in an arc, the Ferrari’s engine now screaming, smoke billowing from the screeching tyres as the huge trailer completely blocked the road, the Ferrari sliding sideways, the rear tyres dancing as they mounted the verge, dirt and grass coming up in a cloud as she steered into opposite lock, the trailer so enormous and just so incredibly slow, the nose of the Ferrari passing under.

  Straightening up, the car roared past the huge wheels, and changing down another gear, the rev counter went into the red as she hit the throttle to level up the car, the sign for Sherston flashing by in the hedgerow as the Ferrari shot through into the clear, still air.

  'Holy mother of God. Jesus Christ Almighty.'

  Parking in the village, her hands felt hot and sweaty on the wheel, and killing the motor, picked her purse off the floor and shakily lit a cigarette.

  ‘This is no good, Chrissy. This is no damned good at all.’

  Tossing the stub out of the window, she saw the huge tractor coming into view as it chugged its way slowly through the village, the driver looking over and shaking his head.

  With a sigh, she looked back to him, ‘Yeah, yeah. I know …’

  Staring vacantly at the broad, wide open expanse of the village, her mind still felt numb from the near death experience, but when a bright red phone box caught her eye, it reminded her that Dimi might be able to solve the problem of the diary, and if he could, she could escape from Sheverill’s Farm for ever.

  So what the hell, if she was going to take the chance, why not do it now.

  Checking her purse for money, she smiled as she dialled that old familiar number, but when the call was answered, it was not Dmitri.

  Listening to the foreign accent, it seemed Dimi had moved away a year ago, and a huge wave of sadness washed over her because she’d spent so many happy hours in his little bookshop and now it was all over, but the new owner remembered a line of his forwarding address in Glastonbury, but no phone number.

  Calling enquires, she gave his name and the single line of the address, but the operator said no-one of that name was listed in Glastonbury, and she wondered what was going on.

  But never mind, Glastonbury wasn’t that far away, so she could drive down tomorrow and look for him, and it might be better that way, meeting him face to face would be so much better than just hearing his voice, and who knows, if it worked out, they might even start over again.

  Oh well. It was a nice thought.

  Walking back to the car she began to feel a little better, and calling into a general store, bought cigarettes, wine and an expensive box of chocolates, because whether she liked it or not, she now had to go back to Sheverill’s Farm.

  Parking in the courtyard, she thought how gaunt and sombre the old farmhouse looked in twilight, its morbid appearance eerie and forbidding as it nestled within the dark old trees.

  Wondering how things were inside, she walked quietly along the winding path, and looking through the kitchen window, saw Lucinda was alone, but she was smoking joints and gulping wine straight from the bottle.

  She was talking to herself and looked half drunk. Taking a deep breath, Christiana calmed herself and walked in, holding the shopping high, ‘Presents!’

  Lucinda jerked round as if electrified, and staring open mouthed, the bottle slipped from her fingers and exploded in bursting fragments of coloured glass, and with tears streaming, she flew in a dash across the kitchen, her arms stretched out wide.

  ‘Oh Chrissy, I thought you’d left me. Oh, I’m so sorry.’

  16

  It was past midnight when Frank walked up the starlit path to the kitchen door, but the silence was suddenly broken as his foot clattered into hard slippery fragments, and looking down, saw a plate smashed on the path and food all around, and stepping over the mess, pushed the door open and stepped into the dim light.

  ‘And what fucking time do you call this?’

  He closed the door, and looking across to the kitchen table, saw a red candle burning in a rose bowl lantern, and Angela sitting there with the shadows flickering across her face as she clutched a half empty bottle of brandy.

  ‘Well?’

  He shrugged his shoulders, ‘So what’s the problem?’

  Nails scratched on the kitchen table, her face contorting in the dim candlelight.

  ‘What’s the problem? You leave me all alone for hours, and you have the nerve to say, what’s the problem? What’s the bloody problem when I’ve spent hours cooking for you and all the time you were out with her, and don’t deny it, I checked with the gatehouse.’

  Standing up, the chair scraped back and clattered over as she stalked around the table.

  Frank watched as she came towards him in the shadowy light, her alcohol breath drifting up to him, and he saw just the faintest blur of movement as her hand suddenly flew out of the darkness to smack his face across his shoulder.

  ‘You bastard. Was the little whore so good you didn’t want to come back?’

  He felt the stinging marks of her fingers burning deep into his flesh.

  ‘How could you do this to me? I know I told you to screw her, but you didn’t have to, I thought we had an understanding … You made me feel special, I put out your things, made you breakfast, we ate by the stream, and for the first time in years I didn’t feel alone, and I was so happy … But you met that whore, and when she’d
snared you with her filth, you chose that disgusting little bitch instead of me, and I hate her!’

  As Frank listened, he realised the perverse contradiction of this beautiful woman had a much deeper and darker side, and because of him, it was now focused on Tara.

  ‘Angela, listen. Nothing happened. Do you hear me? Nothing happened.’

  ‘Don’t lie. Don’t lie to me. You were with her all day, wasn’t that enough? You didn’t have to take the bitch out … Take her out in your smart car, for god’s sake, with the filthy little whore all dressed up like a frigging tart on a Christmas tree.’

  It soon became obvious that Sergeant Jenkins had only one master.

  ‘So why did you leave Thornley? I told you I must always be in control, but I wasn’t tonight, was I? And if you couldn’t resist the frigging bitch, why didn’t you fuck her in her apartment like all the others? Tell me that.’

  ‘Look, I told you before, nothing happened, but if you don’t believe me, hard luck.’

  She stared at him, her eyes glassy while her breath came heavy through flared nostrils.

  ‘Then what the god-damned, frigging hell have you been doing with her all this time, you’ve been with the little cow all day, and all bloody evening.’

  ‘So what do you think I’ve been doing? Rewriting the Karma Sutra with an MI5 agent? Oh for god’s sake! And do you think it was easy, with old Monty half dying on me, and having to listen to that girl’s endless stories when all I wanted was to get back here?’

  Angela stood shaking with anger, but then blinked, and as she stood there quivering, doubt and confusion formed in her eyes, ‘Did you? Did you really?’

  He looked away, ‘Well I wasn’t going to say it, but course I did. Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well maybe you didn’t, but you didn’t bother asking either, did you?’

  Angela’s eyes suddenly became moist, and without warning, she moved into his arms.

  It hadn’t been Frank’s intention to sleep with the boss, but with the way things were, it now seemed the most sensible way forward, and especially if it bought Tara some time.

  Laying together in bed, Angela snuggled up to him and ran her fingers over his hard stomach, and kissing him, cuddled down on his chest.