by Liz Fielding
Menacing thunder, lightning to illuminate the scene as a desperate man burdened by a small child crossed rain-soaked fields in search of shelter. Then his arrival at a cottage where a young woman, alone and defenceless, lay sleeping.
It wasn’t just melodramatic, it was pure Gothic. All it lacked was a corny score and Hammer Horror titles rolling over the opening action.
Except the whole thing was quite ridiculous. Gannon couldn’t possibly have stolen a plane. She picked up a copy of the newspaper. Why would he?
She glanced at the phrasebook in her hand and the answer stared right back at her. She’d been to the refugee camps, met and spoken to children just like Sophie. She wasn’t his daughter. She was a refugee. But why would a man steal a plane to smuggle a child out of a refugee camp?
The answer was plain enough. She had been there, she had held the children and cried for them, even for a few desperate days pleaded with the aid agency to let her adopt one of them. But what good would that do? How could you choose which child to help? The aid workers had seen it all before, and they had very gently talked her out of it, reassuring her that what she was doing would help all the children.
But Gannon hadn’t allowed himself to be diverted. He had acted. But to steal a plane...
She continued to stare at the paper, hoping against hope that she was wrong. Gannon genuinely cared for Sophie. She had seen it in the way he looked at the child, heard it in his voice when he spoke to her so very gently. But if the police caught up with him they would surely send Sophie back. They wouldn’t have a choice.
‘Next,’ the woman behind the till said pointedly, and Dora started out of her reverie.
‘Sorry, I was dreaming,’ she apologised.
‘Do you want the paper?’
Did she? Ignorance is bliss, she reminded herself. Except it wasn’t. For the last few hours she had been operating on the foolish notion that helping Gannon was the right thing to do. Deep down, where the unexplained certainties had taken hold, she was quite sure that it was. But it wouldn’t hurt to make quite, quite sure that he wasn’t some dangerous criminal on the run from every police force this side of the Urals.
‘Yes. Thank you.’ She paid, and then settled herself in a nearby café, ordered coffee she didn’t want and with a miserable, sinking feeling, spread out the paper and began to read.
Despite the banner headline, and the harshly lit photograph of a small, single-engined plane that seemed to be listing slightly to one side, the report contained just the barest facts.
Police are hunting for the pilot of a single-engine Cessna who made an emergency landing at Marsh Farm last night. The aircraft, which is believed to have been stolen from a private field outside Paris, was slightly damaged during the landing. By the time the emergency services arrived the pilot had disappeared, and is thought to have escaped on foot. Local police are appealing to anyone who picked up a hitchhiker late last night in the vicinity of Marsh Farm to get in touch.
The rest was simply speculation about the identity of the pilot. She didn’t read it because she knew his identity.
A plane. He’d stolen a plane, for heaven’s sake. What kind of man was capable of stealing a plane? The answer was inescapable. A desperate man. A desperate man on the run with a little girl.
Sophie. Dora didn’t bother to drink the coffee. She threw down some coins, grabbed her bags and ran.
Gannon watched the police circling the cottage, poking about the outbuildings, the woodstore. He could hear them banging on the back door, and he could see the two officers who had taken up position by the front door in case he made a break for it. Another minute and he would have been trapped.
Across the field, he heard the splintering crack as the door was broken in. Sophie whimpered and shivered against him, and he tightened his hold, murmured soft, reassuring words, telling her that she was safe, that he wouldn’t leave her. That he would never leave her. But in his head he cursed his own folly for having trusted Dora. How could he have been so stupid?
Because she had looked at him with limpid grey eyes and told him that she wanted to help. And like an idiot he had believed her.
Dora sped back to the cottage, skidding to a halt just inches from a police car parked across the yard. The cottage door, splintered and broken where the lock had been smashed, stood wide open.
Her stomach turned over. Gannon had been arrested; Sophie had been taken away. Were they going to arrest her as an accomplice? She groaned. If Fergus had to bail her out of this mess she would never hear the last of it.
Maybe she didn’t deserve to, a small but insistent inner voice prompted. About to be arrested for harbouring a wanted man, she was scarcely in a position to expect anything but scorn from her brother. She could scarcely plead ignorance—the newspaper, with its banner headline, lay on the back seat of the Mini. But had she rushed to the nearest police station with her information? Oh, no. She’d gone to the bank and cashed a cheque, bought clothes for Sophie...
For heaven’s sake! What happened to her didn’t matter. It was Sophie’s plight that was fuelling her. And if Gannon had been locked up, who was there left to look after her? Fight for her?
Dora gripped the steering wheel. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t let that child be taken back. Not if she had to take on the whole British establishment, the entire bureaucracy of Europe single-handed to keep her safe. But she wouldn’t be able to help anyone if she was locked up.
She was shaking, but it had nothing to do with the close call with the patrol car. It was pure determination. She braced herself for the fight as the policemen headed towards her, not waiting for them but clambering out of the Mini and rushing across to the shattered door. There was no sign of a struggle; everything was just as she left it. She spun around.
‘What’s happened?’ she demanded indignantly. What? These were policemen, for heaven’s sake. Was she going to lie to them? She thought of the horrors of the refugee camp, thought of Sophie. Of course she was going to lie. ‘Who did this?’ Her voice was shaking, but shaking was fine. Shaking was a natural reaction.
‘I’m sorry, miss. We had information that a fugitive might be taking shelter here.’
‘A fugitive?’ she repeated, then frowned. It wasn’t difficult. ‘Are you telling me that you did this?’
The older officer spoke. ‘I’m Sergeant Willis, miss. This is Constable Martin.’
‘We met last night.’
‘Yes, well, perhaps we could all go inside? We have one or two questions to ask you; it won’t take long. Pete, bring the young lady’s shopping, will you? I expect she’d like a cup of tea, too.’
‘That isn’t necessary,’ Dora snapped. ‘Who’s going to pay for all this damage?’ The sergeant was not intimidated, but indicated the back door, and having made her point, Dora walked stiffly into the living room, all outraged innocence, before turning to face him. ‘I’d like some kind of explanation,’ she said.
‘The thing is, miss, that as part of our investigation into another incident we’ve been following up all last night’s unexplained alarms.’
‘So?’
‘We’ve discovered from Mr Marriott’s security company that he and Mrs Marriott are in the United States. And the lady who cleans the cottage for Mrs Marriott was told that it would be empty for six weeks. So, although last night when Constable Martin called you allowed him to think you were Mrs Marriott, that is clearly not the case.’ He was being incredibly polite, but Dora did not doubt that he wanted some answers. ‘So perhaps, miss, you could begin by explaining who you are and how you happen to have keys to this cottage?’
CHAPTER SIX
DORA stared at the man.
‘You mean all this...’ she waved imperiously in the direction of the smashed door ‘...is because last night I didn’t waste Constable Martin’s time correcting his mistaken impression that I was my sister?’
‘Your sister?’
She turned to Pete Martin. The young man had done his job well,
and she didn’t want to get him into trouble, but if it came to him or Sophie there was no contest. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be apologetic. Very apologetic. ‘Perhaps I should have explained,’ she conceded, ‘but it was so late...and you were so busy...’ she added, conveniently forgetting his offer to come in and look around. ‘I’m Poppy’s sister. Dora Kavanagh.’ She extended her hand to the younger man, and after a moment’s hesitation he took it. ‘I’m so glad to have the chance to thank you for checking up on me last night. It’s really very reassuring to know how vigilant you are.’ She gestured towards the door. ‘I suppose I might have been part of some gang using my sister’s cottage as a hide-out—’
‘Or possibly being held against your will by a desperate man. You’ve seen the paper,’ he said, nodding to the local newspaper. ‘When we couldn’t get through on the telephone, and then saw that it had been_disconnected—’
‘Oh, no! You didn’t think...’ Her fingers flew to her mouth. ‘How embarrassing.’ The policeman waited. ‘It’s been playing up,’ she said, improvising like mad. ‘I took the cover off to see if it was a loose connection...’ She gave an embarrassed little shrug. ‘I’d better give BT a ring and get a professional to sort it out.’
‘That would be a good idea. You’re house-sitting, Miss Kavanagh?’ the sergeant enquired.
‘Not house-sitting exactly. I’m just staying for a few days. London was getting to be a bit of a strain, and Poppy gave me a set of keys before she left for the States, in case I wanted a bolthole.’
She’d breezed in on a cloud of Joy on her way to the airport. ‘I can’t stop, Richard is downstairs with a stopwatch, but I’ve had Fergus on the phone, worried to death about you.’
‘Worried to death that I missed Henley, Ascot and Wimbledon, all in the same summer. What that man needs is a wife; that would give him something to really worry him.’
‘I know. Still...’ The phone had begun to ring, interrupting her flow, and Poppy had looked at it with more than a touch of irritation. ‘Ignore it, it’ll be Richard telling me to get a move on.’ But, evidently deciding that her husband wouldn’t be ignored for long, she’d produced a set of keys. ‘Why don’t you go down to the cottage for a week or two while Richard and I are in the States? Not a soul will know you’re there, and you’ll have time to think about what you’re going to do next in perfect peace.’ She’d grinned. ‘Did I mention that Fergus is coming to London, determined to carry you back to Marlowe Court so that he can keep an eye on you?’
Melanie looked at the two policeman as she recalled her sister’s words. Peace! She’d have had more peace on the hard shoulder of the M25. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you gentlemen. I imagine you’re keen to get on with more important things.’
They didn’t move. ‘I suppose you can prove that you’re Mrs Marriott’s sister?’
She stared at the sergeant. ‘I suppose I can, if it’s quite necessary.’ He did not respond, and she gave a little gasp. ‘You don’t still think I might be hiding this man?’
‘No, no...’ Pete began. The older man didn’t look so certain.
‘It doesn’t say much about him in the local paper. Is he dangerous?’ She put on a good show of nervousness. It wasn’t difficult. She wasn’t acting.
‘We don’t know who he is, Miss Kavanagh. But it’s possible he’s a smuggler.’ He took the bright bags off the sofa and glanced inside them. ‘You’ve been busy yourself. You look as if you’ve been buying up the store. Who’s the lucky child?’ he asked.
‘My niece,’ she said, saying the first thing that came into her head.
‘Your niece? I didn’t think Mr and Mrs Marriott had any children.’
He’d been doing his homework. Or someone had. ‘They haven’t. Actually, it’s my sister’s niece, Laurie. She lives on the other side of the village. Her mother is Sarah Shelton. Her husband owns a number of companies...’
‘I know who you are,’ the constable broke in excitedly. ‘You’re that woman that’s been in all the newspapers. The society lady who’s been helping the refugees.’
And suddenly the older policeman’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘Of course. I thought I’d seen you somewhere before.’
She pulled a face. ‘Don’t tell me. You thought it was on your “most wanted” list. No wonder you were so suspicious.’
He laughed, but with a slight awkwardness that suggested she wasn’t that far from the truth. ‘My wife was in tears when you were on the television...I don’t suppose you’d sign something for her?’
‘I’d be happy to.’ She cast around, looking for something suitable, anxious for the men to be gone. A few moments later she turned to hand the officer a sheet of her sister’s notepaper with her signature on it, and realised that Pete was staring at something. For a moment her heart stopped beating. What? What had he seen?
But it was just the phrasebook she had bought. She’d put it in with the clothes, rather than take another bag, and it had slipped out when the constable had put them down on the sofa.
‘You’re even learning the language,’ he said, in awe.
She managed a laugh. She actually managed a laugh. ‘Not exactly. I just thought that it would be useful to learn a few helpful phrases for my next trip.’
Dora closed the back door behind the two policemen and leaned weakly against it. She had begun to think they would never go.
It was Pete’s radio which finally, thankfully, had interrupted the flow. ‘We’re wanted back at base, Sarge,’ he’d said, heading for the door.
‘I’ll be right out.’ The sergeant had immediately become businesslike. ‘You’ll need to get someone to fix the door, Miss Kavanagh.’
‘Don’t worry, I have someone I can call.’
‘Yes, well, if your sister wants to make a claim, she can pick up a form from the station.’
‘I shouldn’t think so. You were just doing your job.’
‘To be honest, we were concerned about your safety. We thought he must have stolen your car. You might have been lying in here hurt, or worse.’
‘Well, as you see, I’m perfectly safe.’ But where were Gannon and Sophie?
‘If you do see anything suspicious you will give us a call, Miss Kavanagh, won’t you?’
‘Surely your man will be miles away by now?’
‘Possibly. But it wouldn’t be wise to take any risks.’
‘I won’t.’ Her subconscious had responded with a hoot of hollow laughter. ‘If I do see anything, I’ll call 999 without delay.’
‘If it’s a real emergency don’t hesitate, but this is the number of the local police station.’ He’d produced a card and written his name on the back. ‘And call BT and get the phone fixed. Or I’ll call them if you like.’ He’d nodded at the mobile phone, lying on the sofa. ‘Those things can let you down at the vital moment.’
Tell me about it. She’d snatched the phone up and switched it on. There’d been a satisfactory beep. ‘It’s fine,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll do it straight away.’
‘Good. Any other queries, just ring me at the station. I’ll come straight over.’ He’d handed her the card.
‘That’s kind of you.’
She’d seen them to the car and, although a few heavy drops of rain had been beginning to fall, watched while Pete reversed and drove with pointed care around the Mini. She’d watched until the car had manoeuvred the drive and was out in the lane, gathering speed towards the village. Only then had she gone back inside the cottage, her legs like weak jelly as she closed the door.
Finally she gathered the strength to move. ‘Gannon!’ she shouted. ‘They’ve gone.’ Her voice seemed to echo through the empty house. She ran up the stairs. ‘Gannon!’ She flung. open doors. ‘I don’t know where the devil you’re hiding, but you can come out now.’ Nothing. Silence.
She walked through the rooms that had been so recently searched by two very thorough policemen, yet she still somehow expected him to pop out from under the bed. ‘Gannon!’
; She went into the bathroom he had used and spotted the razor lying on the shelf. That wasn’t very clever. But then she hadn’t been prepared for a police search.
She looked down at the mobile phone she was still carrying about with her. She’d taken it from the policeman without thinking. He’d picked it up off the sofa and handed it to her, and she suddenly realised what that meant.
Gannon wasn’t answering because he wasn’t in the cottage. He’d found the telephone and thought she had betrayed him. No wonder the police hadn’t caught him.
‘Oh, John!’ she cried despairingly. And then, as the rain began to spatter more insistently at the window, she raced down the stairs. She had to find him. Find little Sophie. Gannon was undoubtedly capable of looking after himself, but Sophie shouldn’t be out in this weather with a cough. She’d get pneumonia. Maybe die. And it would be her fault. She grabbed Poppy’s jacket from the back of the door and stepped out into the rain. Which way would they have gone?
If he’d thought the police were coming he’d stay off the lane, keep clear of the road nearest to the cottage. She skirted the barn and stared about her. The copse was the first shelter across the field, and there was a stile set into the fence further along, where an ancient footpath led to the village.
He’d have to go that way if he was going to get transport. And for a man who was capable of stealing a plane, taking a car was unlikely to prove very difficult. But he was in enough trouble already. Not that she cared about what happened to him, she told herself. All she was concerned about was Sophie.
She doubled back to the cottage, grabbed her handbag and the clothes she’d bought for Sophie, and threw them onto the back seat of the Mini. Then she executed a tight circle and headed down the lane.
Gannon, his collar turned up against the sudden squall, Sophie tucked beneath his jacket, was taking his time. Not that he had much choice. The run across the field had taken its toll of his strength. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was blunder into some woman walking her dog in the woods and scare her half to death.