Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1) (16 page)

She’d said the relationships had been instruction, but if that included the Chief of Police and the clerk of works as well, he was beginning to wonder if it was just a coincidence that her instructions had been followed by the file corruption.

Coming out of his darkest thoughts, he heard Sergeant Jenkins making pussy jokes, and without warning, suddenly picked him up and slammed him into the wall.

‘Sarge, you’re talking about a friend of mine, and you’ve got one hell of a dirty mouth.’

The sergeant buckled, ‘Oh. Sorry sir … I didn’t know.’

‘Well you do now, so shut the fuck up. And if I hear anymore dirty talk about her, I’ll bring a kind of hell to this place, you don’t even want to think about.’

Slamming him back down, Frank stormed angrily away.

They were all saying the same thing, Tara Goodwin was a slut.

And yes, it did look bad. But what none of them knew was she’d tried to kill herself, and all because she was scared to death of men.

Watching the car drive away, the sergeant wandered over, deep in thought to the guard.

‘Now then lad. You will be pleased to know that from the kindness of my heart I’m going to give you a piece of advice that can’t be bought with money.’

The officer frowned, ‘You are, sarge?’

‘Yes, and I imagine you quite enjoy the age old pleasure of fanny filling, right?’

The guard nodded, and wondered if Sergeant Jenkins had finally gone mad.

‘Then I must advise you, that not only is the lovely Miss Goodwin, totally out of bounds, but she will be treated at all times with the utmost respect and courtesy. Understood?’

‘I think so, sarge.’

‘Well don’t think too hard, lad, you might give yourself a hernia, so just trust in God and your sergeant, for as the ancient philosopher once said, it’s damned near impossible to stick your prized possession up a woman’s little twinky, if a huge angry Cardinal man has just cut it off and stuck it up your nose. Am I getting through, lad?’

‘Yes sarge.’

‘Splendid. You’ll make the quiz team yet.’

Angela sat at her desk with the day’s paperwork in front of her, the fax from Louise on top of the pile, and she still couldn’t resist reading it one more time.

Re: Frank Lewis. Pre military service information, gathered so far is as follows,

Birth Certificate details;

Registration District. Fulham, Middlesex. 1970.

22.12.1970. Frank Lewis, 3 Lodge Avenue, Fulham, London.

Frank Hale-Lewis. Boy. (We are trying to identify the reference to Hale)

No father, but there was talk of an American officer in the United States Marine Corps with the family name of Hale or Hale-Fanning who’s fore fathers sailed to America at the time of the Mayflower, and talk of a family called Hale, or Hale-Foad in the UK, but Frederick Hale died in Ottery St Mary, Devon, England.

Moira Lewis. Mother. Housemaid.

Moira Lewis, mother, died in childbirth at residential address.

(We can’t find a record of a death certificate.) (?)

Frank (Hale) Lewis - given into the care of Fulham District Council.

Considerable unsuccessful fostering placements.

Absconded from various institutions on 26 occasions.

Sent to permanent home for mal-adjusted children. (The Boy’s House).

Later caused Grievous Bodily Harm to a carer who had assaulted an orphanage girl.

(No charges were brought against F. Lewis).

Twice attempted to illegally enter the USA by stowing away on Merchant ships.

Sentenced to one year’s Youth Custody - became boxing champion and passed exams in Mathematics, English and Geography.

Joined the Parachute Regiment aged 17. Four years later passed SAS selection.

L.

Angela slipped away into thought. The Hale connection seemed to indicate an American father, but there appeared to be no death certificate for Moira Lewis. Why not?

She was sorting through the rest of her paperwork when a fax arrived from Tonabie.

Dear Angela, Re: Code 1 incident.

The latest information from the Counter Intelligence Corps is as follows,

Blond assailant: Timothy Percival, aged 29. Conscripted 1993 from Cambridge to MI5 by Sir Marcus Glenndenning, advisor to the Joint Intelligence Committee.

Uneventful career, little known except recalled from the USA after unspecified complaint from the CIA (Military Intelligence Wing) autumn 1995.

Also believed unauthorised activity, USA, summer 1996 and again in spring 1997.

Discharged spring 1997, became private consultant to industry - Industrial Espionage.

Died, Cheltenham, September 2001 at Section safe house.

PS. We also know that Timothy Percival was the driver who collected Charon from RAF Lyneham.

The Counter Intelligence Corps have now investigated and it would appear that the Pool Car Manager accepted a considerable amount of money in exchange for Percival to become the duty driver on that day.

The Pool Car Manager is now under close arrest.

Best wishes, Charles Tonabie.

Angela sighed.

Sir Marcus Glenndenning was turning up like a bad penny, so from now on she would have to be careful as Sir Marcus Glenndenning was also on the list of special protection.

Scanning over the office schedule she saw Suzanne Levi was duty officer, and after a moment’s thought, picked up the red phone.

‘Suzanne, this is Angela. Now look, come back to me with the security clearance file on Carole Sanderson, she’s now deceased but was a private secretary to the Chiefs of Staff.’

15

Tara had watched intently as Frank Lewis talked with the sergeant on the veranda, and when he heaved him back hard against the wall, she’d known instinctively that something vile had been said about her, but that was nothing new, so once again she tried to ignore the hurt as they drove out through the dazzling countryside.

Gazing at it all with fondness, she smiled as they passed through postcard villages of stone and slate, with post offices and corner shops, thatched cottages, triangles of green and village ponds, and pubs with gardens full of happy people all enjoying the evening sun as they sat at tables laden with food and drink while children ran wildly and laughing to the games in their minds, and wet dogs with sticks dashing from the stream to shake themselves in a rainbow spray to the squealing delight of scurrying children, and talk of rugby, cricket and village fetes, and the hushed and whispered gossip.

She soaked it all up like a sponge, and to her surprise, found herself wondering if one day she could be part of it all.

It was very odd, and she was still pondering through her thoughts when she suddenly sat forward and convulsed in giggles as she pointed straight ahead.

There was the laughing tree, just as the sergeant had described it, and swinging the car to the left, they rose to the brow of a hill before swishing down into a fairy-tale hollow of trees, and there, right in front of them was the sergeant’s tavern.

Parking the car, they sat quietly for a while and looked at the old twisted tavern with its stone frontage that had mellowed with the years and rose up to meet the grey slate of the roof tiles in a pleasant chaos of levels, whilst windows that sat recessed in stone surrounds now shone with the spun gold of gentle lights that lit the low interior even in daylight, and in a cavernous stone porch, a studded oak door stood open against the brass doorstop to invite today’s people to step into times long since passed.

‘Well, Tara, what do you think? Would you like to try it?’

‘Oh, yes please. It looks heavenly.’

The interior of the sergeant’s tavern was typical of its age, with timber pillars and exposed beams of rich dark wood and acres of mellowed panelling and cream plaster, the dark oak of the curved bar glowing in the subtle warmth of old miners lanterns that hung from the beams over the thickly piled carpets of red, green and gold.

The landlord glanced up as they walked inside, and checking them over, greeted them with a wide and genial smile, and his friendliness was so immediate, honest and infectious it seemed in no time at all before Tara and Frank felt happy and comfortable.

Sitting on a high bar chair, Tara sipped her deep red musky wine as Frank stood beside her and swapped rugby stories with the landlord, his pint of dark velvet Guinness standing on the fiery copper of the bar, and she was just so happy to be there she found it almost too difficult not to cry.

But as she casually gazed around, she noticed people glancing at her, and while the men had those furtive, lustful eyes she knew so well, some of the women’s eyes were different, and seemed to carry resentment, scorn and even obvious hate, and feeling uncomfortable, the inevitable worm of guilt began to wriggle through her mind.

Did they know? Did they recognise her for what she really was? Did they?

She looked down to her hands, maybe they did know.

Feeling the vision creeping closer, suddenly it was there again and she was dressed in those clothes and doing filthy things with all those horrible men.

But why did they want her to wear those clothes? It was just so ridiculously grotesque.

Clasping her hands tightly together she tried to push the hideous memories away, but it all became too much and she began to quiver with revulsion.

Frank swung round, ‘Are you alright?’

Tara looked quickly away, but Frank had seen those eyes before, he’d seen them in the carer’s house when Emily Thompson had walked into his room with blood running down her legs, and she’d just stood there, her eyes dull and vacant.

Frank had been fifteen. Emily, fourteen. And Lesley, the carer, old.

In a rage from years, he’d smashed open the bathroom door and found Lesley standing in front of the mirror with his trousers and pants down around his ankles, and he was smiling to his reflection as he held his limp penis in his hand.

He was smiling as he looked at Emily’s blood on his thin spindly legs and fat belly, but the leering smile had quickly faded away as a stare of shocked fear came to him.

Frank had lunged forward, and even as Lesley gasped in a sudden terror, it was just a second later that his nose had been flattened by a fist that sent his blood splattering in a crimson spray all over the mirror.

The punches had fallen like rain, a dark brutal rain of fists that closed Lesley’s eyes and split his flesh to the bone, a cold, uncaring, vicious rain that pounded down till they broke his teeth to let them stand out like shards of reddish white spikes through the puffed up mash of his bloodied lips, an endless rain of savage punches that knew no end, a pounding of pure hate and wild fury that scoured down over Lesley’s fat bloated body, and even as he sank to the floor the fists fell upon him until he was crushed.

As Frank remembered every moment, he knew the die was cast, and whatever happened in this mucky game of Angela’s, it was now certain that if he achieved nothing else he would get Tara out of this, and anyway he could.

So to hell with the rules. Let it begin.

Angela took the call on the red phone, it was Suzanne and she sounded flustered.

‘Hello ma’am, I’m sorry for taking so long, but it’s the Carole Sanderson file, and, well, to be honest, I’ve run into a bit of a problem.’

‘Suzanne, calm down. Now then, what kind of a problem?’

‘The file. It’s been blocked …’

Angela caught her breath, ‘Oh my god. Well, go on then, tell me the worst.’

‘Well I know it’s unbelievable, but it seems a secrecy password has been added, and no-one even knew about it. I’ve checked all the relevant departments, but …’

Angela gritted her teeth, ‘But what?’

‘But at least I’ve found the originator of the password.’

‘Well I suppose that’s something. So who the hell was it?’

There came a heavy silence.

‘Suzanne, I said, who was the bastard that did it?’

‘Well ma’am, I know it’s hard to believe, but it was Merlin.’

‘What? Merlin? So how the hell did that happen?’

Suzanne cringed, ‘I don’t know, no-one does.’

‘Don’t talk frigging rubbish, you must know something.’

‘Yes ma’am. Well she died on September the 11
th
, Thornley updated her file on the 13
th
and it was transferred from active to stored as usual, so the password can only have been added since then. But there’s another problem.’

‘Jesus Christ. Well go on then, so what is it?’

‘Merlin has added a wipe out clause.’

‘Dear god.’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’

Angela cursed, ‘Well it’s no bloody good being sorry, now is it, you stupid woman.’

‘No ma’am.’

‘So how many bites of the god-damned cherry do we get?’

‘Just two. Merlin will wipe the file after two incorrect password attempts.’

Angela gripped the phone and stared hard out of the window.

Her adversary was obviously still one clever step ahead of her and the situation was now getting very dangerous.

The list of people involved with the computer section would be considerable, and each operator on every interlocking shift would have to be checked, crosschecked and verified, and with no guarantee of finding the guilty party, and even if he or she was identified, would the bastard actually confess the correct password?

The whole fiasco could take days and she didn’t have the time for all that rubbish, and yet, somehow, she just had to get into that file, and pretty damned quick.

‘Suzanne. I want you to do two things, right this minute, immediately.

First call Ambrose Dudley at Thornley and tell him under absolutely no circumstances whatsoever should a password attempt be made to access the Sanderson file, and two, bring the final solution to immediate readiness.’

Angela prowled around the cottage, her thoughts dissecting every possibility, and realised that although her adversary might be ahead of her now, she had long since learned that even a Tarantula without its legs would soon become a victim itself.

So now was the time to start snipping away those nasty little legs, and that clever whore from MI5 would be the first to go.

Christiana had spent the last two hours just crisscrossing all through her memory as she tried to understand the puzzle of the coded diary, and it was driving her crazy because it made no damned sense, and just to make it worse, she couldn’t call for help as she wasn’t even officially in the country, let alone on a mission.

Laying back on the soft mattress, she wondered if there could be another way.

Surely there must be someone who would know how to figure out the code, but that was the whole problem, she needed someone on the outside, someone out of the game and yet still reliable.

She remembered the guy from Military Intelligence saying the problem was strictly a Brit-American affair, and although it required a high degree of covert, specialist attention, it mustn’t bring embarrassment for either government.

So did that mean she could take a chance on the international circuit?

If so, there certainly was someone who could help, if he was still around, and of course, if he’d forgiven her by now.

But it hadn’t been her fault, and surely he would realise that, wouldn’t he?

Their love affair had broken the rules and it was almost inevitable that the administration would squash it, and they did, stone dead, and she hadn’t even the chance to say goodbye.

In the middle of the night they’d called her to the Air Force base in Oxfordshire, and then she was heading back to the States to have her emotions cleaned out by her masters.

So what she was thinking was a risky idea, but it sure would be good to see him again.

And so, here she was, unofficially on a covert mission in the UK and about to go against the US administration by wakening a Russian Ex Colonel of Spetsnaz KGB.

Dmitri Kosakov.

Jesus, could it get any worse than that?

Probably not, but what choice did she have?

Area 57 was just too hot to handle, and that blond creep had got far too close for comfort.

Martha was picking herbs in the early evening sunshine when she heard the phone ring, and when the caller asked for Lucinda, sent Arthur with the mobile to look for her.

He found her with Christiana, sprawled out asleep on a rug by the summer house, and except for their panties they were naked as they soaked up the last rays of the sun.

Walking silently along the path, he stood over them and gazed down to their curves.

‘Ma’am, there’s a call for you.’

Waking dreamily, Christiana sat up and saw Lucinda lazily reach for the phone, and seeing Arthur’s erection, straining through his trousers, Lucinda smiled saucily to him.

‘Alright, Arthur, you’ve seen enough for now, so off you go.’

Watching him walk away, Lucinda turned and smirked to Christiana.

‘I think your tits are driving poor old Arthur crazy.’

‘Mine? Yours, you mean. He can’t keep his eyes off you.’

Smiling with satisfaction, she tossed back her hair and stabbed the button.

‘Hello? Lucinda Sheverill speaking.’

She listened for a while, and then, ‘Yes. Alright … So you’ll confirm?’

The light in her eyes suddenly changed as she stared far out across the gardens.

‘Problem, honey?’

Lucinda swung round, ‘Problem? No, of course not, why the fuck should there be?’

Christiana caught her breath when the sudden, angry sharpness in her voice, startled her.

‘Oh. Well, okay, I didn’t mean to pry.’

Standing up, Lucinda glared down to her, and threw the phone, hard across the garden.

‘Just because my bloody publisher commissions me to do another fucking article, it doesn’t mean there’s a frigging problem, okay, little miss, goody two shoes?’

As Lucinda stormed off, Christiana mumbled to herself as she got dressed.

'If I don't get out of this madhouse soon, I’ll be just as crazy as the rest of them.'

Walking up to the house, she knew she had to get out of this place if only for an hour.

The never ending sex and Lucinda’s mood swings were beginning to drain her sanity.

Collecting her purse from the lounge, she was making her way out of the house when she found the solid bulk of Martha standing firm to block the doorway, her piggy little eyes brooding and hooded.