Pitch Black: A Romantic Thriller (Blackwood Security Book 1) (5 page)

After I’d slept on it, I decided heading to the countryside would be my best plan. I’d find somewhere to hole up for a few weeks until my mind consented to shake hands with logic again.

Old me had a well-thought plan for everything. And a spare plan. And an alternate plan for the spare plan. And a backup plan for that. New me couldn’t decide between cereal and toast for breakfast. Someone had sucked my brain out through my nose and replaced it with termites.

Without a driver’s licence in my new name, the best plan I could come up with was “get on a train.” Sure, I could have stolen a car, but in my current frame of mind, I’d probably screw it up, and I was too tired for a police chase today.

Guilt nibbled away at me as I shoved my belongings into my bag. How were the people I’d left behind feeling? Angry? Exasperated? Disappointed in me?

Probably all of the above.

I was a coward for running, so I deserved their contempt. I didn’t know how else to cope, though. At work, I was used to confrontation, but in my personal life, I shied away from uncomfortable situations.

I only hoped my friends would forgive me when I went back home.

In the meantime, there I was. Ashlyn Emily Hale. Thirty-two years old on my passport, twenty-nine in reality. I had no home, no job, no qualifications, no friends and not much money. I’d been in worse situations, but for the last decade and a half I’d had my husband to support me through them. Now I was on my own, and it brought back stark reminders of a childhood I’d spent my life trying to block out.

An hour later I sat on a train chugging out of Paddington station. I couldn’t decide whether to head north or west, so I’d flipped a grubby penny. West it was. Gone was the girl who carefully evaluated every decision, weighing up the pros and cons. I was reduced to “heads” or “tails.”

As it was a Saturday, I’d hoped the trains would be less crowded, but the one I ended up on was almost as bad as the plane. It was a stopping service, and drunken revellers returning from what appeared to have been an all-night office Christmas party filled the carriage. It was only the end of November, for crying out loud, but they’d started the festive season early. I guess they didn’t want to waste any precious drinking time.

By the time we reached Slough station, I’d been serenaded by a group of elves, had a drink spilled on me by a reindeer and had my arse groped by Father Christmas. Normally I could remain calm through anything, but my legendarily rock solid nerves were becoming well and truly frayed around the edges.

Then, just after two Christmas trees, an angel and the three wise men had started a conga line down the middle aisle, the driver announced that the train had broken down and we all had to get off. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or cross.

On the plus side, I’d get away from the Christmas calamity, but the downside was I’d have to move, and it all felt like too much effort at the moment. 

Life had been pretty good for the last ten years. Maybe I’d used up my quota of happiness, and that little bitch, Karma, was going to send things downhill from now on.

How much lower could I go?

At the moment, I was at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, so maybe she expected me to grab a spade and dig down to the fires of hell underneath.

With no other choice, I lifted my bag down from the luggage rack and made my way onto the platform, where a rail employee in a hi-vis jacket was herding passengers onto a hastily procured bus. I spotted two snowmen and a red-faced Christmas pudding heading towards it, weaving from side to side.

A sigh escaped my lips. I needed to find an alternative.

“Excuse me, is there a bus stop around here?” I asked hi-vis guy. “I’m not sure I want to take that one.”

He eyed up the Christmas pudding, who’d got stuck in the bus door and was being tugged free by a shepherd and the Virgin Mary, and gave me a look of sympathy.

“Sure, love, there’s a bus station just across the street.”

I traipsed over to the building he indicated, a space-age monstrosity that appeared to have been modelled on a giant slug, and hopped on the first bus leaving. Looked like I’d be heading north after all.

The bus wound its way through towns and villages for a couple of hours, and I lost track of where I was. I rested my head on the window, staring without seeing anything, my mind blank. The glass misted up, and I was on the verge of nodding off again when the driver came up and tapped me on the shoulder.

“You’ll have to get off now, I’m afraid. This is the last stop, and I have to take the bus back to the depot for shift change.”

Where the hell was I?

In a daze, I followed him to the door and climbed down. The bus chugged off, and as it receded into the distance I found I’d been deposited in a small village. Time warp sprang to mind, and not the Rocky Horror version.

My stomach gurgled, reminding me it was almost lunchtime. I wasn’t hungry, but as I’d given up on making the breakfast decision, I knew I should have something. I’d lost half a stone over the last couple of weeks through being too miserable to eat, and while I might end up looking like a supermodel, I’d make myself ill if I kept that diet up.

The tiny high street was terribly quaint. If not for the brand new Range Rover parked outside the post office and a teenage girl texting on her smartphone as she walked, oblivious to everything around her, I could easily believe I’d travelled back a couple of decades.

I walked past a small supermarket with old-fashioned produce displays stacked in the windows and paused outside a bakery. The delicious aromas drifting out of the door tempted me, but I couldn’t see anywhere to sit down in there. The temperature hovered in the low single figures, too cold to find a bench and eat outside.

I carried on, barely glancing at the hardware store, the hairdresser or the florist, until I arrived in the car park of a pub. A faded wooden sign creaked above my head, swaying in the breeze.

The Coach and Horses. That looked like my best option.

I had to stoop as I crossed the threshold. The inside was dim and dingy, all dark wood and low ceilings studded with blackened wood beams. A nook to my left housed a roaring fire, so I snagged a menu and curled myself into one of the leather wingback chairs set in front of it.

After I’d been there a few minutes, a kind looking woman in her fifties came over, wiping her hands on her apron.

“What do you want, love?”

The grown-up in me knew what I should pick—salad or soup, or maybe a grilled chicken breast with steamed vegetables. But the child I’d regressed to wanted comfort food.

“I’ll have the macaroni and cheese, with a side order of chips and some onion rings,” I said, feeling a little guilty but beyond caring about it.

The food came out quickly, piping hot and steaming. If Toby, my nutritionist, saw me now, he’d drag me out by my feet before I could raise the fork to my mouth. I could just imagine him. A sharp intake of breath, followed by, “Girl, that’s got so much oil on it, America’s gonna invade the plate.”

It was bloody delicious.

After eating that amount of stodge, I felt tired, so I spent the rest of the afternoon hiding out by the fire, reading the newspapers that were scattered on the coffee table next to me. By 4 p.m. I started feeling guilty. Guilty that I’d just spent four hours doing nothing. I normally spent every waking minute on the job. I never had time to just be.

My mind churned. I should be working towards catching my husband’s killer. There wasn’t much I could do without tipping him off, but I had the files I could be reviewing. Even if I wasn’t doing that, I should at the very least be finding myself a job and somewhere to live. The cash I had with me wouldn’t last long, and I didn’t know when I’d be ready to go back and face the remnants of my life.

I knew that was what I
should
be doing, but I couldn’t bring myself to actually do it. I picked up the paper and began to read again instead. The lives of Hollywood Z-listers had never been so fascinating.

Ten minutes later, the barmaid interrupted me.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No thanks, I was planning to leave soon.” Just as soon as I could drag myself away from the nice warm fire and an article about the dangers of false eyelashes.

“Visiting someone, are you?”

“Er, no.”

“It’s just I haven’t seen you around here before. I thought you must be stopping in to see someone.”

I’d only been in the countryside from time to time on assignment, and I’d forgotten how nosey its inhabitants could be. In London, everyone studiously ignored everybody else, and if you did accidentally make eye contact, people automatically assumed you’d escaped from the nearest secure hospital and gave you a wide berth.

“I’m only passing through.”

“Lower Foxford’s a funny place to pass through. It’s not really on the way to anywhere,” she said, eyeing me a bit suspiciously.

“Perhaps passing through is the wrong term. I didn’t exactly plan where I was going, and this was where I ended up.”

“Argument with the boyfriend was it?”

Well thanks, that’ll do. “Yeah, it was.”

She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, you poor love. Are you going to go home, or do you need somewhere to stay for the night?”

“I could do with a place to sleep if you know of any hotels around here?”

She chuckled. “This village is far too small for a hotel. The nearest one’s in town, but that’s a fifteen minute drive or half an hour on the bus. We’ve got a bed and breakfast, though.”

I’d been so zoned out on the journey that I didn’t even know which town she was talking about. “A bed and breakfast will do fine.”

“In that case, I’ll get you the number. It’s ever so nice, really homely. And Carol, who runs it, will cook you dinner if you like.”

I hadn’t got around to buying a phone yet. I needed to pick up a cheap, pay-as-you-go handset, but it had slipped my mind before I left London. It wasn’t like I had anyone I was planning to phone, but it would be handy for situations like this.

“Could you give me directions instead? I forgot to pick up my phone when I left.”

“Of course, it’s not far.”

Chapter 6

ARMED WITH A map the barmaid had hastily scribbled on the back of her order pad, I found Carol’s bed and breakfast within fifteen minutes. She lived in a chocolate box cottage on a quiet lane, white with wooden beams and a thatched roof. As I walked up the front path, I marvelled that even in the winter the garden still managed to look beautiful, with a manicured lawn and small statues hidden amongst the bare branches.

I’d just lifted my hand up to knock when the door swung open and a tiny lady greeted me.

“I’m Carol. Elsa from The Coach and Horses said you’d be stopping by. I’ve opened up a room for you, and the electric blanket’s already on.” 

Why wasn’t I surprised she knew I was coming? “That’s very sweet of you. I’m Ashlyn. Or just Ash. I wasn’t sure you’d have a room at such short notice.”

“Oh I’m rarely fully booked. There’s never much demand to stay in Lower Foxford. Most people who come here are visiting family or friends, so they already have somewhere to stay. I just run this place as a hobby. I get lonely on my own.” With her cheerful demeanour, she’d keep smiling through Armageddon.

“I won’t be great company I’m afraid.”

“Oh don’t you worry about that. Elsa said you’d had a tiff with your boyfriend. You just need a good night’s sleep and everything will look rosier in the morning.”

“Let’s hope so, eh?”

She must have sensed my hesitation. “It was a big argument then?”

“Er…”

“You don’t have to give me the details now. We can have a nice chat about it over dinner. I’m making toad-in-the-hole to start and chocolate brownies and ice cream for after.”

“I ate a really big lunch—I’m not sure I’ve got room for dinner as well.” Or the interrogation that would come with it.

“You need to eat.” She reached out and patted my stomach. “Look at you, you’re already fading away. I’ll show you up to your room. You’ll have time to take a bath, and I’ll knock on your door when dinner’s ready.”

Before I could get a word in edgeways, I found myself being marched up the stairs. I didn’t bother trying to argue. I had a feeling Carol could out-manoeuvre even the most hardened negotiator. Next time my company had a hostage situation, they should call her in. She’d probably win the bastards over with cookies.