The other man from the Range Rover, a tall, diffident-looking fellow who Max guessed to be in his early fifties, had been hanging back but now moved forward and introduced himself. “Ben McIntyre. I’m the foreman here, so I’ll be overseeing the construction.” His handshake was dry and firm. He seemed honest. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And you,” said Max. He didn’t know why, but he found himself instantly warming to Ben. He hoped that a decent foreman might help make the nightmare of construction slightly more bearable for poor Henry.
“No point talkin’ to ’im,” interrupted Gary rudely, waving a hand dismissively in Max’s direction. “’E’s just the monkey. ’Is bruvver’s the organ grinder, isn’t that right, love?” He winked at Muffy. “So where is the man of the ’ahse, anyway?”
Gary had been looking forward to his moment of triumph over Henry and was put out that he hadn’t been there to witness his grand entrance. Over the years he had nursed his resentment at what he perceived to be Henry’s snobbery and standoffishness into a constantly simmering hatred. Lord Snooty was so far up his own arse, he’d even turned down the very decent offer Gary had made him last year to buy the place outright. That had annoyed Gary at the time—given the colossal size of his debts, he’d assumed that Henry would have caved in and sold straightaway—but now he was pleased that things had worked out the way they had.
He knew when he offered it that the option of a lease would look like a lifeline to Henry, so desperate was he not to be forced to sell his ancestral home to a stranger. The stupid, sentimental sod. Gary had no time for whimsical aristocratic notions of heritage when it came to property, and he thought Henry an out-and-out fool for agreeing to the deal.
Because the reality was that a lease meant that the Arkells would be shackled to him for the rest of their lives. He could come and go as he pleased, running roughshod through their precious bloody estate whenever, and however, he wanted to.
Just the thought of that made him smile.
He’d have paid twice the value of the lease simply for the pleasure of seeing that stuck-up cunt Henry Arkell cut down to size. And in the meantime, as well as building himself a nice little earner of a golf course, he could amuse himself by making a play for Henry’s still very tasty missus.
“He’s out,” said Max frostily, moving back to Muffy’s side and putting a protective, possessive arm around her shoulder. “I can show you and Mr. McIntyre to the farm office. You’ll find everything you need in there.”
By four o’clock it was starting to get dark, and Max decided to take a stroll up to the village. He needed to get out of the house. Ellis had been strutting arrogantly around the farm all afternoon, barking instructions at his foreman and arguing loudly with the two terrified-looking local architects who had turned up at lunchtime to go through plans for the new clubhouse.
Muffy had spent the day wandering around the house like an automaton, mindlessly putting in load after load of laundry to avoid having to go outside. She was so distracted that she accidentally put one of Maddie’s red socks in a white wash and dyed all of Max’s white boxer shorts a none too subtle shade of pink. She burst into tears when she pulled them out of the machine, despite his protestations that he really quite liked them like that.
Not that he could blame her for being highly strung. The two younger children were in a sulk, having been banned from pestering any of the workmen by their mother and forced to stay indoors till Henry got home. Charlie, the only child old enough to grasp the seriousness of what was happening, had taken up a sentry post by the window on the landing from which he scowled furiously at everyone who came and went, refusing to be lured downstairs even by Freddie’s tempting offer of a slice of Mr. Kipling’s chocolate fudge cake at tea.
Max wanted to help, but as no one wanted to talk about what was happening, it was hard to know where to begin. Besides, he was ashamed to admit that even with the nightmare of Ellis’s goons moving in, his mind kept wandering back to Siena. Whether it was the earlier news of Pete McMahon’s heart attack that had made it worse, he didn’t know, but he found himself continually replaying her image in his head, like picking at a mental scab, until it was driving him absolutely insane. Not knowing how she was, or where she was, was killing him.
After a couple of abortive hours of attempted work, he decided a breath of fresh air might help, and set out for the village with Titus and Boris yapping excitedly at his heels. They’d barely reached the bottom of the drive when the familiar silhouette of Henry’s ancient four-wheel drive came hurtling around the corner. He pulled over and put down the window when he saw Max.
“Is that what I think it is?” he said, gesturing to the faint shadows of the trucks in the farmyard. Max nodded. “How long have they been here? And why the fuck didn’t anyone call me?”
“I offered,” said Max, wishing he could take away even an ounce of the pain that was written all over his brother’s face. “But Muffy didn’t want to ruin your day’s shooting.”
“Jesus Christ.” Henry ran his hands through his hair. “There’s so many of them. It looks like the M1 up there.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” lied Max. Titus and Boris began jumping up and scrabbling at the side of the car. There were three dead rabbits lying on the passenger seat, and their scent was driving both the dogs crazy. Max grabbed each of them by the collar and pulled them back onto the verge.
“I’d better get up there,” said Henry, grinding the car back into first.
“Oh, Henry!” shouted Max. He’d been going to warn his brother that Ellis had shown up in person, but his voice was drowned out by the spinning screech of wheels as Henry lurched forward, desperate to get home and see the full extent of the damage.
Oh well. He would find out for himself soon enough.
Henry pulled up in front of the house, and for a few moments he sat in stunned silence. He had known the construction would be beginning sometime this week. Logically, he knew that would mean months of industrial-sized vehicles and scores of manual workers scurrying all over the farm. But somehow the physical sight of the diggers and skips and cranes, and the strangers hurrying back and forth across his farmyard and in and out of his office, was still a shock. Feeling winded and numb, he eventually managed to open the door, gathering up his gun in one hand and the rabbits in the other, and walked around to the kitchen door; he was too muddy to use the front entrance.
Moving along the path into the kitchen garden, he thought he heard a cry. The next thing he knew, he was outside the door just in time to see Muffy pushing the heavy, insistent form of the loathsome Gary Ellis away from her, sending him stumbling back against the kitchen counter.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” she shouted, her face flushed with the exertion of extricating herself from his unwanted embrace. “Are you mad?”
Before Ellis had a moment to answer, Henry was through the door like a shot, dropping both gun and rabbits with a clatter as he flew at Ellis, fists flying. “You fucker.”
“Henry, don’t!” pleaded Muffy as the fat man hit the ground, his head grinding against the corner of the counter with a sickening crunch as he fell. “It’s all right. It was nothing, please.”
Gary whimpered in pain and brought his arms up to his head as he lay on the floor, trying to shield himself from further blows. Henry dropped to his knees and, grabbing the developer by his collar, pulled back his arm for one final punch before apparently thinking better of it and letting his head drop back on the flagstone floor.
“You’re not fucking worth it,” he spat, standing up and turning to Muffy, who was shaking with shock by the sink. “You okay?”
She nodded mutely. She’d been peeling the potatoes and crying when Gary had wandered in and surprised her. At first he’d seemed to be genuinely offering comfort, saying how it must have been a huge shock for her, them all arriving like this and having to deal with it all on her own. But then, almost before she knew what was happening, he had starte
d pressing himself against her till she could feel his hot, excited breath on her neck and his fat, rubbery hands reaching for her bottom. Eeeugh. Thinking about it again now made her shudder.
“That wasn’t a very smart fing to do.” Gary had staggered to his feet and was wiping away a small trickle of blood from his lip with a handkerchief. You could already see the swelling beginning to form around his mouth and chin where Henry’s punch had hit home. He was going to look terrible in the morning. “I could sue you for assault.”
“Not before I sue you for indecent assault, you little toe rag.” Henry’s eyes had narrowed to small, murderous slits. Instinctively, Gary took a step backward. But he was still smiling that smug confident smile—the smile of a man who knows he holds all the cards.
“It’s only assault if she didn’t like it. Isn’t that right, darlin’?” he leered at Muffy.
Very slowly, Henry bent down and picked up his gun, which he proceeded to point at Gary. For one brief but glorious moment, the smile withered on the fat man’s lips.
“Get out of my house.”
“Now now, ’Enry,” said Gary, still eyeing the gun warily. He didn’t think Henry would have the balls to actually use it, but you could never be 100 percent sure. “Is that any way to talk to your new landlord?”
“GET OUT!” Henry roared.
This time Gary didn’t hang around but bolted straight out the door, leaving his jacket and cell phone on the table in his ignominious haste. Henry put down the gun and shut and bolted the door behind him. He was surprised to find that his own hands were shaking.
“Oh, Henry,” said Muffy, giving way to tears at last. “What if he does sue? We haven’t got a bean to fight him with.”
Henry walked over and hugged her tightly to his chest. “He won’t,” he said. “He wouldn’t dare, not after trying it on with you like that.”
She held on to him for a moment or two, allowing herself to be comforted, pleased that he was home, that they were in this together. Then she dried her tears and, pulling away from him, said what they had both been thinking. “This is it, though, isn’t it? This is what life’s going to be like. You can punch him as much as you like. But he is our landlord. And nothing we say or do can ever change that.”
Henry frowned but didn’t contradict her.
“We’re stuck with him, aren’t we?” she said. “We’re stuck with him forever.”
By the time Max got back home it was almost midnight, and Henry and Muffy had long since gone to bed. His walk to the village had led him, inevitably, to the Kings Arms, where he’d been persuaded to stay for a great many more pints than was probably advisable. By closing time he was rather unsteady on his feet, and if it hadn’t been for his trusty canine companions Boris and Titus, he doubted he would have found his way home at all.
After two minutes of abortive and increasingly noisy fumbling at the front door with his keys, Freddie had finally let him in with a face like fury.
Oh fuck. The memory dawned on him through his alcoholic haze. He had promised yesterday that he would take her out to dinner in Stroud this evening. He’d just stood the poor girl up.
“Where the ’ell ’ave you been?” she demanded. “We were supposed to go out hours ago.”
Instead of apologizing, as he should have, he flew completely off the handle, his anger fueled by guilt about his own behavior as well as almost half a bottle of Scotch. “Mind your own damn business,” he bellowed at her.
Freddie, however, was not about to be bullied into silence. “Well, I’m sorry, but I theenk it ees my business, when you stand me up and you can’t even be bozzeured to call.”
Max stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him. Only her concern not to wake the entire household after their harrowing day prevented her from slamming it violently.
“It wasn’t a question of not being bothered,” he snapped back unsympathetically. “I forgot, okay?”
“Oh really?” she scoffed. “And that’s supposed to make eet okay, ees it?”
She was looking particularly foxy tonight in a tight black cashmere sweater that must have cost her a whole month’s wages, teamed with her favorite red suede miniskirt and boots. She had obviously made an effort to look her best for the date.
The red of the skirt clashed adorably with her auburn hair and with her cheeks, now flushed and rosy with anger. But Max was too guilt-blinded to be distracted by her beauty.
“I had more important things on my mind,” he said savagely, staggering into the hallway and collapsing against the wall. He noticed his name on a bright pink Post-it on the message pad by the phone and bent down to read the note. His agent in L.A. had called three more times, and could Max please call him back as soon as possible. It was urgent.
Not to me it isn’t, thought Max bitterly, crumpling up the note and dropping it in the bin.
He knew why the agent was calling. Miramax had apparently shown some interest in buying the film rights to Dark Hearts. Max had been in the game long enough to realize that “shown some interest” almost never translated into “paid good money for,” and he wasn’t about to get his hopes up this time. He’d ridden the hope-and-despair roller coaster for three painful years in L.A. as studios sniffed agonizingly around one after another of his projects but never came through in the end. Hollywood was an all-or-nothing town, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that meant you longed for it all but got nothing.
For all his cynicism, though, he knew that six months ago he would have been excited about the big-studio interest and rushed to return his agent’s call. But now? He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Nothing seemed urgent, or even important anymore.
He knew he was behaving appallingly toward Freddie. He had not, in fact, completely forgotten about their plans. The truth was that, subconsciously, he had known he couldn’t face sitting through an overtly romantic evening with her and had been glad of the chance to run away to the pub and escape.
“You ’ad more important things on your mind, did you? Like what?” she challenged him. Max could hear the despair and bitterness in her voice. He didn’t look up at her. “Just what were zose ozzer things, Max? ’Enry’s troubles? All zees people at the farm? Or Siena McMahon?”
Max winced.
“You can’t forget ’er, can you?” Her fear was making her spiteful. “Which is funny. Because she seems to ’ave no trouble forgetting about you.”
Max felt his heart fall into his stomach like a medicine ball and his head began to throb. He swayed unsteadily as he tried to move away from the wall. It was as if all the suppressed grief and longing of the past year were about to burst physically free from his body. The hall had started to spin.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he shouted at Freddie. Pushing past her, he pulled open the front door again and fled into the garden, clutching his head and running for all he was worth.
“Max!” she called after him. “Max! I’m sorry. Come back!”
But he had already disappeared into the gloom.
He ran through the darkness, across the dew-wet lawn until he reached the cold concrete ground of the old farmyard. There, he sank to his knees and, pressing his palms down hard on the ground for support, began throwing up, retching and retching until it felt like not just his stomach but his soul was empty.
Then he started to cry.
Oh God.
What was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do?
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Melissa didn’t think she had ever seen anyone so angry.
When Randall arrived in Nantucket to discover that Siena had packed her things and left, he turned on the nurse in a blind fury, face flushed, eyes bulging, and demanded to know what had happened.
“Please, Mr. Stein, there’s no need for that sort of language,” she muttered, blushing as one obscenity after another tumbled from his thin lips. “Annie took her back to Los Angeles on Wednesday, just as you instructed.”
“Ins
tructed?” He was apoplectic, and his cheeks had gone such an intense shade of puce that Melissa started to worry that he might be about to have a heart attack. “I never instructed anything! And who the fuck is Annie?”
It took almost twenty minutes for him to rein in his temper sufficiently to allow a gibbering Melissa to fill him in on what had actually happened. Frankly, it defied belief, how easily the stupid woman had been duped, allowing a complete stranger into the house after everything he’d told her about security, on the strength of a few forged papers.
Glancing through the false résumé and the letter of employment a few minutes later though, he was impressed by how much this mystery woman had managed to find out about him: She had not just known about the Nantucket house but also had access to all sorts of other information about his employees in L.A., his business trip to Asia, and, most worryingly of all, his relationship with Dr. Daniel Sanford. His initial assumption—that Annie was an undercover journalist—had been wide of the mark. This was not the work of some amateurish, snoopy hack. It was a meticulously planned sting, presumably orchestrated by someone close to Siena.
A woman.
He thought for a moment of Ines but dismissed the idea almost immediately. She wouldn’t have had the time or the money for such a thing, and as she hadn’t heard a word from Siena in months, he doubted she would have had the inclination either. Besides, Melissa had told him that Annie was blond and older. No amount of disguising could make Ines look fifty.
That was when it came to him.
“Would you recognize her?” he asked Melissa. “Annie, I mean. If I showed you a picture?”
The nurse nodded furiously, relieved to be able to give him at least one of the answers he wanted. She scurried after him into the study and watched him boot up his computer, tapping impatiently on the desk with his fat fingers until he could bring up the Google home page, then finally clicking on “image search” and typing in just two words.
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