Tara (83 page)

'I still remember clearly how evil my dad was to Mum and Paul,' Tara blurted out from behind him. 'The years didn't dim that for me. I was glad when the police came here and told us he was dead, really glad.'

Harry turned from the old mare. Tara's eyes were flashing with fire, her hair turning red in the sunset.

'That's understandable,' he said soothingly, worried by her intense expression. 'Let's go in and make some tea.'

She broke away from him, marching quickly to the back door, lifting out the loose brick where the key was kept and pulling it out.

'Mum didn't share my delight,' she said in a low voice. 'I could never understand it, Harry. She cried when the police said he was dead. She knew he'd killed a priest, he'd hurt her and Paul countless times, made all of us suffer, but she still cried for him.'

'Well, she loved him once. Maybe love doesn't die entirely, not even after all that he did.'

'She made me feel bad about being pleased.' Tara turned the key in the lock and the door opened.

'Pleased isn't the right word to use.' Harry followed her in. 'Relieved, maybe.'

'Same thing,' Tara retorted, lifting the lid of the Aga through force of habit and shutting it again once she remembered it hadn't been alight for months.

Harry shook his head, picking up the electric kettle and filling it from the sink. Tara didn't speak again for some time. She busied herself looking into cupboards and drawers, taking out cups and putting them on the table, running her fingers over ledges, checking for dirt.

Harry sat down at the table. It was almost dark outside now, the sun as red as a blood orange behind the church tower. He could feel Mabel's presence in the room so clearly he could swear she was sitting opposite him.

'I didn't think Mum would like to come in here.' Tara's voice had a slight edge to it. 'Don't you find it odd that she keeps it so nice?'

'Not odd. Nice!' Harry looked round from the table, concerned more with Tara being odd than with Amy. 'It means she doesn't feel threatened, she isn't scared. That's good, isn't it?'

Tara didn't answer, just reached up to the shelf above the Aga and took down the tea caddy.

He knew it was the familiar movement, the memory of all those times he'd seen Mabel go through the same routine, but for a split-second the girl in front of him was wearing a dark Victorian dress, and her hair was braided in fat, shiny coils on each side of her head.

'Harry!' Tara's voice cut through the vision. Once again the girl was Tara, looking at him strangely.

'What's up? You went all weird!'

Harry smiled. 'Thinking about your gran,' he said. 'It feels as if she's still here.'

'She told me once that she often felt her own mother's presence here.' Tara put the teapot on the table. 'She said it was comforting, but she never felt it again after Mum, Paul and I moved in.'

They drank their tea in companionable silence, the room becoming darker as the sun slipped out of sight.

When Tara stood up Harry expected her to switch on the light, but instead she lifted an old candleholder down from the dresser, took a new candle out of the drawer, pushed it in, then lit it.

'Hold me, Harry,' she whispered, putting the candle down on the table.

Harry held out his arms and pulled her on to his lap.

'What is it?' he asked gently, his lips moving down to her throat.

'I don't know,' she whispered back. 'I've got the feeling this house has some answers, something has to happen here. I can't explain.'

Harry knew, though he couldn't have put it into words.

Tara looked ethereal in the candlelight, her hair gleaming, eyes sparkling, lips plump and moist.

'I want you,' Harry said, sliding her blouse off one shoulder and leaning forward to kiss her gleaming skin. She smelled of lilac and he could hear her heart beating faster as he began to open the buttons on the front of her blouse. She bent down to him, drawing his head up between her hands, her lips reaching out for his, tasting faintly of lemon.

'I love you,' she panted, turning round on his lap till her legs straddled his, pushing herself hard up against him.

Her blouse fell to the floor. Harry pulled the skirt apart, her knickers to one side and pushed his fingers hard into her.

'That's so nice.' She sighed, arching her back and leaning back, undulating on his fingers. 'More!'

His lips were on her nipples, one hand caressing her and the other holding her on to his lap. His cock was so hard it hurt and for a moment he considered laying her down on the kitchen floor and screwing her there.

But the lilac smell of her skin, her silky hair on his face and her lemon-tasting lips reminded him of all the other beautiful women who'd lived, loved and lost in this house. Instead he stood up, holding her tightly, her legs round his waist.

'Upstairs,' he said hoarsely, his lips still on her breast. 'Hold the candle!'

It was Mabel's old room he went to, without knowing why, and as he opened the latch the scent of the orange and clove pomanders she hung in her cupboards filled his nostrils.

'Why this room?' Tara murmured, her lips on his neck, thighs gripping him tighter still.

'To lay ghosts!' Harry whispered back and pushed the door open wide.

The old carved bed, covered in a colourful patchwork quilt, seemed to beckon them. Harry put Tara down and by the time she'd placed the candle on the bedside table, he'd shed his clothes.

She looked like a goddess as she stood to untie her skirt at the waist – full, firm breasts partially covered by her hair, her skin glowing in the candlelight. She smiled as her skirt fell to the floor. Harry lay back against the pillow and watched as she put her thumbs into the elastic of her white knickers and slowly pushed them down.

'Come here!' he whispered. 'I'm going to love you till you cry for mercy!'

They had experienced so much memorable lovemak-ing, but this eclipsed everything. Harry held back his desire to enter her, using his tongue and fingers to bring her to the brink of orgasm again and again. He kissed and stroked every inch of skin, breathed deeply the smell and taste of her, knowing that no other woman would ever make him feel this way.

'Fuck me now,' Tara called out as his tongue probed deep inside her. Her fingers dug into his hair, dragging him up over her stomach, breath coming in hard, hot bursts.

'Say it again.' Harry knelt between her legs. She was tossing from side to side, her tongue flickering across her swollen lips, her hands reaching out desperately for him.

'Fuck me now,' she repeated, her lovely amber eyes glowing in the dim light.

She was so hot and wet inside. Her legs folded round his back, pulling him closer, nails digging into his back, and he felt her come almost immediately.

'I love you,' he said as he drove himself harder and deeper into her. 'I'll love you forever.'

It was very late when a cold chill crept into the room and made them shiver as they lay in each other's arms.

'We should go home,' Harry whispered.

'This is our home,' Tara whispered back. 'I can feel it welcoming me, wanting me here.'

Harry pulled the patchwork quilt over them and drew Tara back into his arms.

'All the answers lie here,' he said softly. He didn't know what prompted him to say that, or even what exactly it meant.

'I know.' Tara burrowed into his shoulder. 'I even understand why Dad put Gran into bed.'

Harry felt as if he had to suspend even breathing until she'd explained that strange statement.

'She reminded him of me once he'd strangled her, and he couldn't leave her tied to that chair. He carried her up here just as tenderly as you carried me, and tucked her into this bed.'

The candle was spluttering as it reached its end, leaving just enough light for Harry to see Tara's face glowing with a mysterious knowledge.

'He didn't come here to hurt anyone, he thought he could creep in, find out how we were, where we were, then go. But Gran heard him, recognised his voice just as I did.'

'I don't understand,' Harry said, just as the candle finally died.

'Joe Spikes was my father, Harry. That's why we got free and why he shot Duke.'

The sun was coming up, weak pink light catching the top right-hand corner of the window as if it was trying to peep in.

Tara had spilled out the true story and then fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep. Harry had dozed intermittently, but his mind was whirring with such conflicting emotions he was unable to let go entirely.

He was astounded that she'd kept such a secret to herself, he felt a little foolish that the truth hadn't dawned on him before, and hurt she hadn't trusted him enough to share it. But honesty was the only way to heal Tara completely. Later today he would take her to the police and let them decide how to handle it.

MacDonald was cunning, twisted and ruthless, and there was no doubt in Harry's mind that if Tara hadn't turned up when she did, he would be dead now. Yet there was this one thread of decency that redeemed him. He'd died in preference to hurting his daughter.

A slight breeze made Harry turn towards the door and he felt a presence. It was coming closer, a warmth, a sweetness. Even though he could see nothing he felt a hand on his brow, as light as a dandelion clock, as tender as the remembered touch of his mother's hand when he was a small child.

A warmth ran through him, strength and joy. He knew all the women of this house were at peace now. He could marry Tara, live here happily with their children, nothing bad would ever happen again. Tara knew this too, that's why she slept so deeply.

He smiled, then he slept, as soundly as Tara.

*

Tara paused before crossing Church Street and smiled. The dark green paintwork, the sparkling windows and the gold letters reading 'Tara Manning' made her want to whoop with joy.

It was the first of November, and already the shops had Christmas displays. They had reopened in a blaze of publicity just two weeks ago and now it was clear they had the formula for success. As she had so often insisted to Josh, people didn't mind paying for quality; her own special evening-wear designs were selling brilliantly.

But she and Harry weren't going to stay in London and play shops. In three weeks they would be married and living on the farm. Harry, for all his flair at organisation, didn't want to spend his life in ladies' fashions. Solly Bergman had put them in touch with a small factory ideally suited to making up her designs, and the staff she'd inherited from Josh were all good people. She could design at home and perhaps twice a month make lightning trips to London to check things out.

Their children would be brought up with grass under their feet, with trees to climb, animals to love and space to grow, along with the child Amy and Greg were so joyfully expecting.

She had done what she set out to do, proved herself, tamped her name on a portion of London. But her life and heart belonged to Harry, and the farm.

She held the box of cream cakes carefully as she dodged across the street through the traffic. The girls had worked so hard since they opened and buying a few cakes on a Friday afternoon seemed little enough to show her appreciation.

'There's a gentleman to see you,' Annabel, a leggy Knightsbridge debutante whom Tara had taken on as manageress, came bustling forward as Tara came in. 'I showed him into the office. I hope that's OK?'

Tara had offered this job to Angie, but she'd giggled and insisted she found someone classy. Miranda had at last broken into modelling; now they were all new faces.

'A rep?' Tara enquired.

'I don't think so.' Annabel's smooth, rather large forehead furrowed in a frown. 'I think he's a policeman.'

Tara glanced round the shop. It was beautiful with its smooth pine fittings and dark green carpet, mirrors and subdued lighting. Sometimes she got a wave of nostalgia for those early days with Josh, the soul music blasting out, girls in mini skirts clamouring to get in the communal changing room. But those days were gone, wiped out like the smell of joss-sticks and patchouli oil from the old shop. It was glam rock now, sequins and satin.

Josh would've liked that. He'd have paraded around in his platforms and a sequinned jacket, playing his air guitar and singing his favourite line from The Who, 'Hope I die before I get old'.

'Well, he got his wish,' she said to herself as she walked towards the stairs. 'Age wouldn't have suited him.'

'I hope this isn't bad news?' Tara was slightly out
of
breath from running up the stairs. It was some weeks now since she and Harry made a clean breast of everything to Inspector Morris at Bow Street police station, but she had guessed from Annabel's words that it had to be him.

He looked like a policeman, even though his rank had removed him from the beat many years ago. He was tall and thick-set, with a determined jaw, eyes like gimlets and a shock of white hair.

'Sorry to call in working hours,' he said pleasantly. 'But I though it might be less intimidating than ringing you and making an appointment.'

'You haven't come to arrest me, then?' Tara tried to smile, but she was nervous.

'Of course not.' He smiled encouragingly. 'Any chance of a cuppa? We can talk easier then.'

It took ten minutes to make tea for the girls downstairs, deliver the tray with the cakes and then sit down with him.

'Well, what have you decided?' she asked, having a sip of tea for courage.

'To leave well alone.' In all his years of service Ron Morris had seen and heard so much that virtually nothing surprised him. But Tara Manning had knocked him for six.

He'd known MacDonald, as just about every other officer on the force did, and to be told by this beautiful, softly spoken girl that she was his daughter was incredible. It got wilder as she unfolded the hidden story about Joe Spikes. But as she blurted it all out with such emotion, he could see the burden slowly lifting from those slender shoulders, and he knew then he wasn't going to give her any more trauma.

'Well, Tara, look at this from the police's angle. It was us who claimed the crash victim was MacDonald. We've poked around again and we think we've discovered the real identity of that body and, believe you me, there isn't anyone out there grieving for him.'