Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1)

by Richard Harrington

  Laying quite still, Lucinda came into her mind, but her Land Rover was immaculate, not like this, so she began to crawl forward, but on reaching the hedge she stopped when the engine was switched off, and then a door creaked open and someone clambered up onto the roof of the cab. So why would someone do that?

  As she listened, a strong country voice suddenly floated out to her.

  ‘Right then, me little blonde beauty, so where are you?’

  She tensed.

  ‘Oh, come on darlin’, you should be here by now.’

  Christiana heard the dark confident chuckle of a rough countryman in his later years.

  ‘Show yourself then, ‘cos Lucinda wants your ass, and she’ll pay good money for it.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Come on now, there’s a good girl, ‘cos old Zed don’t want to be waiting for you all bloody night, now does he, not when he can spend your bounty in the pub.’

  She froze, not expecting this, so just how many people were out there looking for her?

  ‘Oh, come on, me American beauty, you must be around here somewhere.’

  She listened hard.

  ‘And old Zed fancies a look at those big old jugs of yours, ‘cos Arthur reckons your tits are even bigger than the prize milker over at Motcombe Farm.’

  Grimacing, she thought it would be real good to give this disgusting old man a good hard kick in the nuts.

  ‘So where are you then, ‘cos I could spit into Malmesbury from here?’

  Christiana thought, ‘Oh really, well thanks for the information.’

  Laying perfectly still, she heard the sound of boots clambering over metal, and when the old man’s voice came back to her, he sounded angry.

  ‘Ahh, fuck it. I’ll have to drive round to Malmesbury and try to catch the bitch there.’

  The old diesel engine rattled into life and the Land Rover began to bump and lurch as it reversed at speed back up the rutted lane, and when the noise faded away, she pushed through the hedge and set off running along the lane to Malmesbury.

  Bringing the Morris to a skidding halt, Lucinda grabbed her bag, slammed the door and walked quickly along the path, but on reaching the kitchen door, found it to be locked.

  ‘Open this frigging door. It’s me, you stupid old bag.’

  Tottering across the kitchen, Martha snatched at the bolt and flung the door open.

  ‘Oh. You’re back early, ma’am.’

  ‘Well what do you expect when there’s all this bloody work to do, and only me to do it. And where’s the bitch, any sign of her?’

  ‘Not yet, ma’am, but Arthur’s got his mates looking.’

  ‘Oh, he’s managed that, has he? So where is the useless idiot?’

  ‘He’s on his way back, ma’am, the men need more money for fuel.’

  ‘More fuel? So what the hell are they doing with the stuff? Drinking it?’

  Flouncing over to the hall door, she stopped and turned.

  ‘And when he gets back, send him up to me, it’s about time he earned his pocket money.’

  Martha lowered her eyes, ‘Yes ma’am.’

  Padding through the house, Lucinda climbed the gloomy staircase, and letting herself into the priest hole, cursed the new cobwebs, and logging on, sent a request to the Minotaur.

  Priority 666. All information, re, Frank Lewis. Possibly NSA Section or Cardinal.

  Going through to her bedroom she heard the muffled sounds of a diesel engine, and after a while, steps came on the stairs and Arthur appeared, his bruised and reddened face swathed in a layer of untidy bandages.

  ‘My god. What on earth do you look like?’

  Arthur mumbled a few words, but nothing made sense.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother. And I don’t suppose you’ve found her, have you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Dear god, I’m surrounded by idiots. But at least you can earn your pocket money, you can manage that, can’t you.’

  Watching as she stripped off the hated dowdy clothes, Arthur stared in horror when she walked over, switched on the television and chose that DVD.

  Slipping it into the player, the screen became full with the happy revellers at the Last Night of the Proms, and when the conductor raised his baton, the music of Elgar’s, Pomp and Circumstance March Number One came to fill Lucinda’s bedroom.

  Kneeling up on the foot of the bed, she looked eagerly to the enormous screen.

  ‘Well come on then, it’s starting.’

  Trying to ignore the pain in his mouth, Arthur walked over and unbuckled his belt, and pushing his clothes down, held her hips and mounted her.

  Turning, she glared at him, her dark eyes fiery and demanding.

  ‘Now for your information, this happens to be patriotic stuff, so show a little decorum, and for god’s sake try to follow the rhythm this time, and if you get into any problems, watch the conductor … He isn’t up there just to swat bloody flies.’

  Later, having washed Arthur away, Lucinda forced herself to return to the priest hole, and seeing the print out from the Minotaur, sat down and scanned through Lewis’s history.

  Casting her eye over his career, she couldn’t help thinking of Robin.

  His journey through the shadows had led him along the same stepping stones of Lewis, and in much the same way he’d disappeared into those unmentionable agencies.

  The National Security Agency, then the National Security Agency - Executive Section, and though for completely different reasons, the ultimate stepping stone and into Cardinal.

  She read the list of his associates, past and present, but there were surprisingly few, although that might be explained by him being an orphan, and she wished he wasn’t.

  That word had the power to remind her of the mother and toddler group.

  Thinking of his orphan status, she flicked back through the list and re-checked, and it was strange, there was no record of a death certificate for his mother, and only dark rumours of abortions about the doctor who’d been treating her, and later, the doctor had died from a drugs overdose, but there was still no confirmation if his mother was alive or dead.

  Lucinda knew that somehow, all these strands must fit together, and looking down the list of his associates, came to an abrupt halt, when in front of her lay part of the answer.

  She blinked, and reading it through again, could hardly believe what she was seeing.

  One of Lewis’ associates was the owner of Malmesbury Garage, Mr Edward Willis, and his address was Hawthorn Cottage, The Mumbles, Malmesbury.

  With hairs rising on the back of her neck, she saw that Willis’ history was virtually the same as Lewis’, even down to having been selected for the Executive Section, and he’d spent years working as a partner with Frank Lewis.

  Lucinda sat bolt upright as all the pieces of the jigsaw began to come together.

  So, Tara Goodwin was not only a suspect in a crime, but an orphan, and she’d recently come into contact with Frank Lewis, another orphan who was investigating the same crime, and later he’d allowed her to leave Thornley and disappear.

  But she had to go somewhere, and if the intention was for Lewis to hide her, it would have to be a place he trusted.

  Remembering back to when Lewis had come to see her, Arthur said he’d arrived on foot, but he must have walked from somewhere, or maybe been given a lift by a friend, a local friend, an ex-Section man who now lived in Malmesbury, a local friend by the name of Edward Willis who might do anything for an ex-partner.

  So wouldn’t that be lucky if her target was just down the road at Hawthorn Cottage.

  Tara was full of cake, Earl Grey tea and a growing happiness, her old life already seeming to be a million miles away, and she hadn’t felt the need to worry for ages.

  While Ted washed and shaved she explored the semi-wild garden and saw it was a small piece of nature, with old wizened trees of apple, plum and pear, and wild flowers and butterflies flying in a wobbly cloud, and the old stone wishing well tha
t went plop when she dropped a stone into its mysterious depths.

  ‘Tara. I’m ready now.’

  Spinning round, she looked back to the old thatched cottage and saw Ted waiting for her, and she smiled when she saw him standing there in highly polished shoes, smartly creased trousers and a freshly ironed shirt, and while his battered face was freshly shaven, his thinning hair was neatly combed back, and she thought he looked self-conscious when he allowed himself to smile.

  ‘Shall we go then?’

  Tara felt a curious mixture of emotions as they walked together side by side up the slightly curving road, and as they entered through heavy wooden doors of the pub, her happiness swelled to see all the people laughing and jostling in the crowded bar.

  In the solitude of her life, she had often daydreamed how it might have been to go to a village pub with her father, but just for this moment she let that dream be still, and slipping her arm through Ted’s, looked up to him with a tiny smile and moist eyes.

  Feeling her slip her arm through his, he looked down and saw the beguiling innocence of her smile, his chest filling with those strange emotions of wanting to care and protect, and he wished with all his heart that Maggie could be with them, but that could never be.

  Lucinda resented having outstanding targets, she thought it rude to keep people waiting, and to delay their deaths did nothing to enhance their lives, and now there were too many.

  But how on earth could anyone blame her? This untidy list was none of her doing ... and if the blame should lay anywhere, it should lay at Angela’s door, but at least the girl could be attended to, so she should have no reason to complain.

  Martha shuddered when she saw the soft brimmed hat and horn-rimmed glasses, and backing away across the kitchen, clutched her blood stained hand to her bosom, but the soiled cloth sent spreading stains of crimson all across the new, pure white pinny.

  ‘Martha. What on earth have you done to your hand?’

  She trembled, ‘It was cut, ma’am, by the butcher’s knife.’

  ‘The butcher’s knife? For god’s sake, woman, if you can’t use the kitchen implements after all these years I might have to look for another housekeeper. I don’t know, I really don’t, you’re becoming a liability to yourself and everyone else.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘My god. Well you’d better get yourself off to the hospital with your idiot brother, and it’s a bloody miracle I’m still sane with you two cretins in the house.’

  Slipping into thought, she checked the brown bag, and satisfied, walked down the crazy paving path to the Morris Minor.

  She knew her most important priority was to familiarise herself with the Willis address, and although she knew the garage well enough, she wasn’t familiar with The Mumbles, and ignorance of terrain could spell disaster.

  Driving to Malmesbury, she allowed enough time to slip into her new character.

  Dorothy Clemson who’d just visited Thornley Manor had now been put away to sleep and Deborah Clarkson had been woken, a spinster and retired headmistress who was slightly forgetful, wrote articles on animal welfare and liked to be constantly busy.

  Christiana ran up the lane towards Malmesbury, and coming to a five-barred gate, looked across the meadow and saw another hedgerow that seemed to form a separation between the countryside and the outskirts of the sprawling country town.

  Hurrying across, she pushed through the hedge and found she was standing in a drainage ditch that ran beside a lane leading up towards the centre of Malmesbury, and with a sigh, realised she had arrived on the southern edge of town, and from memory, that’s just where Ted Willis lived.

  Stopping for a moment to think, she was just about to make her way up the lane when she remembered sending Dmitri that Valkerie note, and became excited when she realised he might already be on his way to Ted’s garage.

  The lane was deserted when she stepped out, and relaxing a little, walked up and came to a leafy junction that seemed familiar, and further up the lane saw ancient rustic cottages set back in leafy gardens, the sign in the overgrown bushes, reading, The Mumbles.

  Taking a moment to check the area, all she saw was a few old men tending their gardens and a group of children further up the lane madly chasing a football.

  So it looked safe enough.

  37

  Malmesbury garage had been closed when Lucinda arrived, but carrying on down she’d come to the lane she’d been looking for, The Mumbles.

  Looking around, she’d seen people going home after work and others wandering up to the local pub, and cruising the Morris down the curving lane, had driven past a group of children madly playing football.

  Parking opposite the pub, she’d sat and watched the scene as people came and went.

  The pensioners, the noisy teenagers all jostling each other, and the ladies darts team laughing saucily while they eyed the men, and then a father wearing his smart white shirt and carefully pressed trousers had smiled proudly as he held the door open for his pretty blonde daughter.

  Looking away down the lane, she’d realised there were no house numbers in The Mumbles and these ancient thatched cottages only had names on the gates.

  She cursed, knowing she would have to check all of them to find Hawthorn Cottage.

  Releasing the handbrake, she was about to drive on when she suddenly gripped the steering wheel and stared transfixed through the windscreen.

  She could hardly believe it, but there she was, her blonde hair tumbling to her stride, and while her tight yellow leggings filled every crease, her bulging red T shirt wobbled and bounced as she walked quickly up the lane towards her.

  Watching in amazement, she saw Christiana check all the names on the gates, but then stopped and checked one name again, and looking back down the lane, pushed open the creaking gate and hurried up the garden path.

  Lucinda stared in disbelief.

  She’d hoped to find her target, Tara Goodwin here, but instead she’d found the bitch, Christiana.

  Watching through cold eyes she saw her knock on the front door, but there was no answer and she slumped down to sit huddled in the porch.

  But why was she here, and why had the Mumbles become the centre of the universe.

  Were all these people working together? Christiana, Willis, Goodwin and Lewis?

  It was beginning to look like a conspiracy, and maybe a conspiracy organised by Angela and controlled from Hawthorn Cottage in The Mumbles.

  She remembered Angela threatening to send her back to the sanatorium if she carried on with her girlie games. So was this her way of finding out?

  Thinking back, she remembered bumping into Christiana in Cheltenham and their love affair had soon begun, and then Lewis had arrived, saying he was from the Section, but she knew now he was really a Cardinal man.

  Then Angela had insisted they meet in Bath, and that must have been arranged to give Christiana the opportunity to slip into the priest hole.

  But if she’d only wanted to find evidence of her playmates, why had she stolen her diary and copied the one-time pad?

  It was a puzzle, but never mind, it was all beginning to make sense now.

  Angela had given her the Goodwin target, and she must have known that sooner or later she would pull all the strands together and end up here.

  But why would Angela want her to come here to The Mumbles?

  Unless it was meant to be a trap.

  Well if that was her clever game she’d get rid of the whole frigging nest of them, and Angela couldn’t prove a damn thing without evidence, and when they were all gone she’d be safe again, and that bitch, Christiana, would be the first viper to go.

  Snapping her bag open, she took out the can of Mace and drove down to the cottage, and stopping, her eyes turned icy cold when she read the name on the gate. Hawthorn Cottage.

  Reaching back she unlocked the rear door, and taking the large motoring atlas, slipped the mace into her pocket and pulled herself gently up and out of the car, her sh
oulders hunched just like the withered old lady she was, and with the soft brimmed hat pulled low, tottered round to the path and looked left and right as she turned the map this way and that.

  Christiana sat slumped in the porch and watched as the old lady checked her map, and although she seemed lost, she wished she would drive on before Ted came back.

  Lucinda glanced up from under the wide brim of the hat and saw Christiana watching her intently from the porch, and playing the confused and mumbling old lady, turned the map in all directions before dropping it upside down on the pavement.

  Christiana sighed. This old lady would soon attract attention, and then everyone would see and remember the woman in red and yellow, so she walked quickly down to her.

  ‘Can I help?’

  Lucinda winced as she bent down, and holding her hip, scrabbled up the atlas, and when she replied, it was the soft endearing voice of a much loved grandmother.

  ‘Oh, thank you my dear, you see I’m looking for Easton Grey, but I simply can’t find it.’

  Peering over the map, Christiana pointed, ‘Well it isn’t far, it’s just there. See ..?’

  Lucinda turned the map the wrong way round, ‘Where did you say?’

  Taking the map, she straightened out the pages and leant towards her to point.

  ‘It’s just there, by my fingertip.’

  Lucinda adjusted the horn-rimmed glasses, and taking the mace out of her pocket, brought the can slowly around the edge of the atlas, and turning away, sprayed directly into Christiana’s face.

  The effect of the mace had been almost instantaneous, a choking, gasping, blinding, burning moment of hell, unable to move, breathe, see or think, a death without dying.

  Catching her, Lucinda pulled the rear door open and tumbled her inside, and as she fell over the seat and onto the floor, Lucinda slammed and locked the door.

  ‘Well, well, my pretty blonde bitch. Now guess where you’re going.’

  Felicity had waited all day for Dmitri to come home, and through each minute of every long hour she’d thought of that thin envelope the postman had so casually delivered.