The Rain-Soaked Bride Page 3

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ the pilot said. ‘I’m paid to fly you, not keep you safe from bears.’

  The passenger shrugged. ‘I don’t think it’s the bears I’ll be worrying about.’

  He began to descend the mountain, tucking the data tablet back into his coat to keep his hands free.

  As he worked his way down through the rocks towards the tree-line a few feet below, he cursed his clients’ frequent desire to arrange meetings in inhospitable places. What was wrong with a civilised restaurant or pleasant bar? He suspected they chose these places as a test of his character, something he found insulting and childish. He didn’t have to prove himself, his work spoke for itself.

  It took him half an hour to reach the forest, by which time he was sweating despite the low temperature.

  He took a moment to check the coordinates again before setting off towards the compound his tablet assured him was located a short distance to the east.

  He wasn’t in the least surprised when, shortly after, he found himself surrounded by troops, emerging from the trees, their automatic rifles trained on him.

  ‘I am expected,’ he said, speaking English. To hell with them, he decided; if they didn’t understand him that was their lookout. ‘And if I was going to have an escort it would have been nice to have it earlier.’

  The commanding officer grunted at him, checking his face against a photo he pulled from the pocket of his jacket. It didn’t match, obviously – the passenger made a point of never wearing his real face to a rendezvous. To do so would risk blowing years of cover.

  ‘If you want me to prove who I am,’ the passenger suggested, ‘I’m only too happy to do so. Considering my mood, though, you might want to take it as read. If I were to offer an example of my credentials, I can’t guarantee you would all survive it.’

  ‘Let him through,’ called a voice from further into the trees.

  An older officer appeared, his uniform marking him out as several ranks above the rest of the men.

  He walked unsteadily towards the passenger. The stiffness of his limbs suggested arthritis and the Englishman noted one of his eyes was quite blind, a white, useless thing that appeared to have been boiled.

  ‘We are cautious,’ the old solider said, in heavily accented English. ‘This is not how we do things.’

  ‘Outside help?’ the passenger asked. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. My skills are rare. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I don’t know of another contractor in my line of work.’

  ‘This is true. And yet it is … uncomfortable.’

  ‘So is standing out here. Can we maybe carry on our conversation somewhere a little warmer?’

  The old soldier nodded and the party retreated back into the woods, the passenger held at their centre, quite aware of the suspicious eyes and itchy trigger fingers that surrounded him.

  The compound was only five minutes away. A rough collection of shacks that had clearly seen better days. The old soldier noticed the look of distaste on the passenger’s face.

  ‘We abandoned this place years ago,’ he explained. ‘But it serves our purpose today.’

  Walking past the barbed-wire fences and along the overgrown mud track, the passenger was led to a central hut. The old soldier waved at the rest of the soldiers, commanding them to stay outside.

  Inside there was no more furniture than a table, two chairs and a small log burner that was already alight. On the table there was a wooden crate and, beckoning for the passenger to take a seat, the old soldier reached into it. He pulled out a thin, card folder which he dropped onto the desk, then a half-bottle of Cheongju, a Korean rice wine that the passenger detested. He chose not to mention the fact as the old soldier placed two glasses on the table and poured him a measure. ‘It warms the bones quicker than the fire,’ the old soldier said, draining his own glass in one and then replenishing it. This was a man who liked to maintain a distinct level of liquid warmth, the passenger decided.

  ‘Is that for me?’ he asked, pointing at the folder.

  ‘It is,’ the old soldier agreed, ‘but first I have been asked to witness proof of your abilities.’

  The passenger frowned at that. ‘I don’t think you want to do that.’

  The old soldier shrugged. ‘It is my orders.’

  The passenger sighed and got to his feet. ‘My reputation is well earned. I am not used to performing auditions.’

  ‘I understand. I am sure the high fee we are offering for your services will more than compensate for any personal insult.’

  The passenger looked at him and, for one pleasing moment, he noted that the old soldier looked afraid. ‘It is not about personal insult. What I do is dangerous, and not just to me. I cannot be held responsible for your safety.’

  The old soldier nodded sadly and drained his rice wine. ‘Why do you think they sent me? I am old. My usefulness is done. I have nothing left but medals. If my family could eat them, then perhaps they would be worth the efforts it took to earn them.’

  ‘You are looking death in the face, old man,’ the passenger explained.

  ‘I’ve been doing that for years,’ the old soldier conceded, pouring himself more Cheongju. ‘You are to demonstrate your abilities. The test is simple. If you are able to take this,’ he tapped the folder, ‘and walk out of here alive, my masters will consider the contract accepted.’

  The passenger looked out of the window. The troops outside had encircled the hut, their rifles raised.

  ‘Stupid,’ the passenger said, closing his eyes and beginning to mutter under his breath. He spoke for no more than thirty seconds, then sat down at the table and took a sip of his drink. It made him wince.

  ‘You find it distasteful?’ the old soldier asked.

  ‘The drink,’ the passenger replied. ‘The rest is just business as usual.’

  Outside, the screaming began.

  CHAPTER TWO: THE RAIN

  a) The Laurels, Kempton, Bedfordshire

  Sir James Lassiter lay awake, staring into shadows.

  His sleep had been uneasy for days. This wasn’t unusual. The heavier his workload, the harder he found it to turn his mind off at the end of each day. It had been his custom to self-medicate with a decent brandy and hope for the best. Tonight, even the alcohol hadn’t settled his mental chatter and he lay there in the dark wondering if there was really any point to him staying in bed.

  He felt his wife stir next to him and turned to look at her sleeping face. She wore a blindfold, used to his sitting up in bed reading past the time she wished to sleep. With her mouth open and her arms splayed out on the covers, he decided she looked like someone who had been executed by a rifle squad. The thought was enough for him to finally give up on sleep. He got out of bed, doing his best not to disturb her. He stuck his feet into his slippers, pulled on his dressing gown and shuffled out onto the landing.

  He moved towards the stairs, pulling the belt of his dressing gown tight and wondering if another brandy might be the ticket. He decided not. He checked his watch: it was half past three in the morning. He would only end up waking with a heavy head in a couple of hours. He had an early start and the last thing he needed was to make his brain even more sluggish. Perhaps some cocoa, or even a snack. At least his wife, being asleep, could hardly add her bitter seasoning to a round of sandwiches. She was always complaining about his damned waistline, as if he wasn’t old enough to do whatever he liked.

  He switched on the kitchen light, wincing slightly in the brightness. Damn place was like a hospital operating room, all white tile and chrome. His wife would insist on the shiniest things.

  His mobile phone was sat charging on the sideboard and he glanced at it, as was his habit. Things were better when they couldn’t get you at every hour of the day and night, he thought, but the habit was well ingrained by now, he was always to be found dangling at the end of a 3G signal.

  He’d received a text message. The number wasn’t one he recognised. He swiped a finger at the touchscreen so he could
read it. The entire message was a string of bizarre graphics, no letters he recognised. Some kind of stupid error in the software he imagined, staring at it.

  As if to prove him right the phone screen suddenly cracked. In surprise he dropped it to the floor where it clattered on the tiles.

  ‘Bloody thing,’ he muttered, shaking his hand. It felt burned, as if the phone had suddenly heated up while he had been holding it. Maybe it was some kind of fault with the battery?

  Outside it began to rain.

  He stooped down to pick up the phone, tapping at it carefully in case it was still hot. It wasn’t.

  He’d have to submit a claim for a new one. An irritating faff. Maybe he could call Sonia in the morning and see if she could bring him one to use in the meantime. As much as he hated the thing, he could barely function without it.

  The screen was blank now, no doubt irreparably broken by the fall or the sudden heat.

  He put it back on the sideboard and moved to the window, trying to decide what to eat.

  He looked out on the garden he had paid a fortune to have landscaped. A prim collection of box hedging and ornate borders. He considered it sterile but his wife liked its austere lines.

  The moon was three-quarters full, its light turning the garden into a black and white picture, or a gothic engraving. He looked at the shadows beneath the ash tree that bordered the lawn, absurdly convinced that he could see someone standing there, staring at the house. Ridiculous. What would someone be doing stood out there on a night like this? Even burglars would stay at home in their beds when the rain was as heavy as this.

  The rain.

  Even though the noise of it filled his ears he realised there was no sign of it beyond the glass. Which was ludicrous.

  He pressed his face to the window. It must be a trick of the light, he decided. Of course it was raining, it was lashing down, the noise was echoing around the house.

  Outside the garden was still and impossibly dry.

  Ludicrous.

  He moved out of the kitchen into the darkness of the hallway and drew to a halt at the sight of a woman stood utterly still by the front door. The sound of rain was loud now and, as the woman walked towards him, he felt his toes grow wet.

  ‘Ellen?’ he asked, shocked at the sight of her. But it wasn’t his wife. She was still sleeping soundly in the bedroom above. She would remain so, right through until morning when she would come downstairs to find the body of her husband lying on the kitchen floor, soaked to the skin.

  b) Skirmett Road, Cadmoor Wood, Buckinghamshire

  As her husband forced the only thing he truly cared for along the country road, Rachel Holley leaned back in the passenger seat and wondered what the hell had attracted her to him in the first place. She considered herself fair and easy-going by nature, the sort of person who generally sought to find the best in people, but, try as she might she could find nothing in Leonard Holley that wasn’t loathsome. There must have been a point, she assured herself, all those years ago, when he had been a different man. She couldn’t have been so blind, could she?

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t bloody sulk,’ he said, dropping the car into second in order to traverse a tight bend.

  She stared out on the open fields around them, pale shadows in the moonlight, and imagined running across them, free from this boor of a man.

  ‘I’m not sulking,’ she said. ‘I’m exhausted. I thought we were going to stay in a hotel.’

  ‘Why waste the money?’ he said. ‘It’s only an hour or so’s drive and I’m still on New York time.’

  ‘I wish I were.’ For that matter, she wished she were still in New York. On her own.

  ‘Can’t win with you,’ he said. ‘Usually I’m frittering away taxpayer’s money; now, when I try and save a few quid, I’m being unreasonable.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, I just said I was tired.’

  ‘You always bloody are these days.’

  And why might that be? She wondered. Did you ever think about that?

  Living with Leonard was a constant game of bickering. Of turning a blind eye to affairs, financial misdealing and any one of a number of things for which she kept expecting to see her face shoved on the front of a tabloid. Some men went into politics out of a sense of power, some actually hoped to do some good, others, like Leonard, were just always keeping an eye out for the easy con. She was a prisoner in a Fleet Street hack job waiting to happen and she was sick to death of it. Whenever the subject came up, at those times when her patience ran dry and she determined to leave, he would always beg her to reconsider, to think of his career, a career – he would never fail to remind her – that kept her in the lifestyle she enjoyed. In the end she would stay, not through selfish greed but rather because she was too weak to make the move. He would beat her down with his arguments and she never had been any good at confrontation. She would back down and, for a week or two, he would be especially nice to her. Then, once enough time had gone by, he would return to normal and she would be left hating herself even more than him, disgusted at her own inability to stand by her convictions and walk out on their marriage. Then she would think of the disapproval of her parents, the inevitable loss of the few friends she had gathered through Leonard’s social circle, and the threat of public attention as the papers scrutinised their divorce. No doubt one of them would find a willing mistress to make famous for a day.

  It all just felt impossible and she hated it.

  ‘I haven’t slept for nearly a whole day,’ she said. ‘I can’t help being tired, can I?’

  ‘Should have napped on the plane like I said. But then you never listen to common sense.’

  ‘I can’t sleep on planes …’ She let her reply peter out. Why was she bothering to argue? She was exhausted, the last thing she needed was to get into an argument. She went back to her silence.

  In his pocket, his mobile phone beeped a text alert. ‘God’s sake,’ he said. ‘Who’s that at this hour?’

  ‘Want me to check?’ she asked, happy to have something to distract them from their cross words.

  ‘No.’ He looked panicked. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘You’re driving.’

  ‘Barely.’

  He fished the phone out of his pocket, casting her a nervous glance. He thinks it’s one of his lovers, she realised. At that moment she could have punched him, the pathetic little man.

  Keeping one eye on the road, the car barely moving, he looked down at the phone and grunted.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, unable to resist making the situation more awkward for him if it was another woman.

  ‘A jumble,’ he replied. ‘Something’s wrong with it. Not even words. Fuck it!’

  He dropped the phone, shaking his hand as if stung. He shuffled in his seat, writhing as if he had just dropped something dangerous into his lap.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Get it!’ he shouted. ‘The phone, bloody thing burned me.’

  The windscreen of the car suddenly filled with rain and Leonard swore. ‘Brilliant, just what I need on top of everything else.’

  He turned on the windscreen wipers of his beloved Mercedes and slowed to a crawl. ‘I can barely see a thing,’ he said. ‘Where did this come from?’

  She had a light sweater folded across her lap and she used it like a glove to pick up the discarded phone, holding it carefully. Then, as she realised it wasn’t even hot, took it in her other hand.

  ‘It’s stone cold,’ she said.

  ‘I tell you it burned me!’

  ‘The screen’s cracked.’

  ‘There, I told you there was something wrong with it. Bloody thing.’ He blew on his fingers and then stamped on the brake.

  ‘What now?’ she asked, staring through the windscreen.

  It was lucky they had barely been moving, she realised. The road ahead dropped into a steep hill and below them, distorted by the rain, she could see a woman stood at the very edge of their headlights.

  ‘Silly co
w,’ said Leonard, pulling on the handbrake. ‘I could have run right into her. What’s she doing wandering up the road at this hour?’

  Rachel peered through the wet glass, trying to look at the woman in the road. She was dressed entirely in white, black hair clinging to her pale face as the rain beat down on her.

  Leonard beat the horn, making Rachel jump.

  ‘For God’s sake, Leonard, I think she knows we’re here.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t she shift out of the bloody way?’

  With a frustrated roar, he disengaged his seat belt and opened the door. ‘She’ll soon bloody move if I have anything to do with it.’

  ‘Leonard, she probably needs help.’

  ‘She soon will do.’

  He got out, slamming the door behind him, slipping on the wet tarmac as he headed down the hill towards the woman.

  ‘Leonard!’ Rachel shouted. The man was impossible. She undid her own seat belt. Rain or no rain she was determined that whoever that was down there shouldn’t have to feel the full force of her husband’s temper.

  She was opening the door when the handbrake clicked off and the car began rolling down the hill.

  She grabbed at it, in panic, the passenger door swinging open as the gradient pulled it forward. The rain poured in on her, as she fought to lift the handbrake. It wouldn’t move.

  ‘Leonard!’ she shouted, her voice sounding absurdly weak against the roar of the rain. ‘Leonard!’

  She looked up just in time to see the surprised look on his face as he turned, slipped on the wet road and then vanished beneath the wheels of his beloved car.

  Of the woman in the road there was no sign.

  c) South Wimbledon Tube Station, Merton High Street, London

  Five o’clock in the morning and Sonia Finnegan wished she was anything but awake as she trudged along. The road offered sluggish commercial traffic, most of the shops were closed except for the cab company where a bored-looking Sikh sat in front of his radio and dreamed of his bed. A van dumped bundles of today’s papers outside the newsagents, the driver lost within the sounds of his iPod, tinny drum rhythms seeped out from the earbuds like water from a leaking pipe.