Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Nineteen

  I decided to have breakfast. While sitting at my kitchen table, stirring my muesli, I reflected on Mansetree House. Maybe the sex room was an innocent playground used for private pleasure. Maybe. But my instincts told me that there was something going on at that house, something underhand. I decided that after breakfast I would return to the house and embark on a period of surveillance.

  It was a damp, misty, chilly day, so I dressed in trainers, jeans and a hooded top, with a cagoule to keep out the rain. Line one, page one of the enquiry agents’ handbook states that before you embark upon a period of surveillance there is one thing you must do – have a pee. Believe me, there is nothing more uncomfortable than sitting for five hours with your legs crossed knowing that you’re unable to leave your observation post; it’s a quick-fire route to cystitis, and we don’t want to go there, do we, ladies. So I emptied my bladder, made a flask of black coffee, gathered together my binoculars and camera –unlike yesterday’s simple, digital model, this was something more sophisticated with a telephoto lens – then I set off for Mansetree House.

  After yesterday’s reconnoitre, I’d learned that a tall, red-bricked wall ran around the perimeter of the grounds. However, there was one weak spot in the defences – an area of woodland that climbed on to a hill overlooking the house. So I parked in a country lane, tucked my flask under my arm, threw my binoculars and camera over my shoulder, and set off to yomp through the woods.

  It took half an hour of shin-bashing, thigh straining, hip-swaying manoeuvres before I arrived at a clearing with an elevated view of Mansetree House. From my vantage point, I could see the front gate, a portion of the driveway, the summerhouse and a number of outbuildings, along with the rolling acres of neatly manicured lawns.

  I was shuffling my feet, looking for a suitable vantage point, when I trod on a snail. I hate it when that happens – I feel guilty for the rest of the day. There he is, minding his own business, when Samantha comes along in her size fives and ‘crunch’ goodbye Snaily, hope you had a nice life, better luck in the next one. I sat with my back against a tree and reflected – if there is a God, he must be a relative of Satan: how else can you explain all the cruel things that happen in the world?

  I had a sip of coffee. Then I focused my binoculars on Mansetree House. I saw gardeners and workmen going about their business with no suggestion of any wrongdoing. Then my binoculars alighted on Baldy and I followed him around the grounds. He still had his shotgun thrown over his shoulder – maybe he slept with it – and he appeared to be taking an interest in one of the outbuildings. I focused on the outbuilding, but could see nothing sinister and when I picked Baldy up again he was examining an area set aside for rabbits. The rabbits were doing what rabbits tend to do; rabbit porn isn’t really my thing, so I turned away and refocused on the front gate.

  Over the next hour a number of delivery vans arrived, emblazoned with recognisable logos advertising well-established firms. These vans were unloaded and seemed to contain a selection of everyday produce and I concluded that Lady Diamond was preparing to host a party.

  I focused on one of the delivery drivers, a handsome, square-jawed hunk. I’m sure I read somewhere that women average one erotic thought a day. I adjusted my binoculars to get a better view of the hunk. Hmm. Interesting. I wonder if...okay, Samantha, that’s your thought for the day, now get back to business.

  By early afternoon, it started to rain and I pulled the hood of my cagoule over my head. I drank some more coffee and watched the raindrops as they splashed into the lid of my flask. As I sipped my coffee, I allowed my mind to wander. I thought about Dr Alan Storey and his dinner invitation. I thought about the picture of Alan and his daughter. There was a serenity about the picture, a suggestion that they had come to terms with the past. Did I have any right to interfere in their lives and shatter that serenity? I knew that I was a bundle of contradictions; at least I could admit that to myself. Deep down, what did I want out of life? I wanted to run a successful business and be in a steady, stable relationship. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to make my partner happy. And the barriers to achieving this goal? Sometimes the weight of my emotional baggage dragged me down. On good days, I could see and understand that not all men were like Dan, but on bad days, when my emotions and not logic took control, I was frightened of men, frightened of the feelings I could have for them, frightened of getting hurt, emotionally and physically, frightened of love. I didn’t trust them. But more to the point, I didn’t trust myself when it came to love.

  The afternoon was getting darker and rain was dripping off my nose. Hyperthermia was imminent, but I’d stick it out for another hour; I was nothing if not tenacious.

  And twenty minutes later I was rewarded with a possible clue. While focusing on the gate of Mansetree House I spied Drake Jolley, the DJ from Radio Rhoose. There was no reason why he shouldn’t visit the house, I suppose, but thinking back to T.P. McGill’s list of initials I recalled those of D.J.R.R. Nothing clicked at the time, but was it possible that those initials related to Drake Jolley? Hmm. I adjusted my binoculars for a closer look.

  Then the distant figure of Baldy blocked my view. He was gazing at the woods, towards my position. He was walking towards the woods. Had he seen me? Had a sliver of light reflected off my binoculars and betrayed my position? He was running towards me now, shotgun in his hands. I gathered my things, turned on my heel and scarpered into the woods. It would take me twenty minutes, at least, to get out of there. In my favour, I had mobility and agility. In his favour, he had power, strength and speed. With all things being equal, he would catch me before I made it back to my car.

  Five minutes into my run I was starting to pant, more from anxiety than from a lack of stamina. I glanced over my shoulder. I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him. I pinned my ears back and ran as fast as I could.

  After ten minutes, I sensed that he was close behind me. I was about to turn around to look when I heard the blast of the shotgun and, just above my head, saw the splintering of wood. Stumbling and gasping, I ploughed on.

  As I ran, two thoughts occurred to me: one – he was faster than me and at this rate, he would catch up with me before I left the wood. Two – the fact that he was willing to use the shotgun revealed that he was taking no prisoners; he was shooting to kill.

  I increased my pace and prayed that I’d catch sight of the country lane soon.

  Then I tripped over a branch. I went sprawling into the mulch of the forest floor. I tried to stand, but my ankle gave way. I would need five minutes recovery time but at this rate, I had less than five minutes to live. Frantically, I looked around and saw a large stone, heavy, but not quite a boulder. I limped over to the stone and tried to lift it. It was heavy, but fear gives you amazing strength and somehow I raised the stone to shoulder level and on to a knot of branches. Then I started to climb the tree. It was slow, painful going but, as a tomboy, climbing trees was my speciality and I still had the elasticity and suppleness of youth. Occasionally I’d pause to reposition the stone, then I’d move up to a higher branch. From ground level, I was out of sight, but I had a clear view through the tree to its base and roots. With my ankle aching and sweat dripping off my brow, I raised the stone and steadied myself. It seemed to take an age and my arms were hurting now, but Baldy appeared at the base of the tree, shotgun poised, his beady eyes scanning the woods.

  I had one shot at this; I knew that all too well. If I missed, Baldy would fire his shotgun and Samantha would join Snaily in that great detective agency in the sky. I took careful aim. I lined up the stone with the back of his head. Then I let it go and asked forgiveness for my – many – sins.

  My aim was true. The heavy stone struck Baldy on the back of his head and his knees buckled. He dropped his shotgun and sprawled among the leaves. I paused, to make sure that he was out cold, then I climbed down from the tree.

  A bruise the size of my fist was already forming
on the back of Baldy’s head. He was breathing, so I hadn’t killed him, though doubtless I’d rearranged a few of his brain cells. Carefully, I picked up the shotgun and, using it as a crutch, limped away from the tree. When I reached the country road, I threw the shotgun into the forest. Then I climbed into my car, switched on the ignition and left tyre tracks on the road.