Love Walked In

A Romantic Suspense: Headline News – MI6 Officer Assassinated.

Witness to the tragic death of her husband, traumatised and terrified, Cassie’s world has collapsed, and nine months after the incident she’s still struggling to gain sense of normality. Meanwhile her son makes use of his late father’s computer without permission, and discovers what he thinks is a cool computer game. Whilst playing said game Dominic is unaware it is sending coded messages across the ether. 

Naturally, when a best friend of her late husband arrives on her doorstep, Cassie is drawn to McKinley in a way she never imagined possible. In the meantime a web of lies and deceit soon turn her life into a living nightmare. Come a final showdown she’s the one holding the gun, but can she squeeze the trigger?

Love Walked In

by

Francine Howarth  2011

Republished Edition.

Copyright © 1992 Francine Howarth

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior consent of the author.

Chapter One

September 1992: London.

Clutching a large vase laden with gorgeous blooms Cassie rushed from the kitchen to hallway. Scent from the flowers mingled in heady aroma and she felt as though transported to a glorious cottage garden.

  A quick glance at the grandfather clock in passing declared almost eleven of morning. Oh hell, her immediate thought. It was almost coffee-time, lunch next. Then afternoon tea followed by dinner. All too soon it would be hello bedtime and goodbye Saturday. Time just fled when having fun.

  She paused by the hallstand, placed the vase down and fussed with a flower, which had propensity to trail rather than stand upright. Delighted the whole family were at home for the duration of the weekend, she mused at how the house had taken on a lazy air. Even so, inner sense of trepidation prevailed, because nothing, absolutely nothing was going according to her overall plan. As for tomorrow, well, best not think that far.

  If only she had had more time to think through Jamie’s unexpected proposal . . .

  Damn it all his working environment was vague at best, and a change in lifestyle had seemed improbable. That is, until last Thursday when she had decided she and the children were no longer going to live on the periphery of his other life.

  For the moment he was unaware of any plan to uproot the family: her present dilemma that of how best to broach the subject of their moving from the city to again set up home in the countryside. After years of living through long periods of his absence from the family abode and dangerous missions his forte, the time had come to say she wanted more than just a part-time marriage.

  Then there was the fact he’d hardly featured in the children’s every day lives. Nevertheless, albeit teenagers now, they had to be taken into account if changes were to be initiated. She was betting on momentary resistance from party loving daughter, whilst fairly sure her son would leap at the chance to spend more time with his grandfather.

  Hence today was to have been one of laying the ground for major change in living arrangements. Unfortunately, on the previous evening Jamie had unknowingly countered with a declaration that had stunned her, and caused her to falter on announcement of future plans. Now she felt as though her dream as good as shredded before it had gained a hearing, and here she was frantically rethinking her next move: head at odds with heart.

  With vase again to hand, sudden cacophony of telephones ringing throughout the entire house was annoying to say the least. Wasn’t that life’s cruel streak, just when you had your mind on hopes and dreams the real world stepped in to blot the moment. What now . . .

  The din unnervingly turned to that of spine-tingling ilk, and bizarre as it seemed a raven atop a tombstone leapt to mind. Oh no . . . not again, not another raven.  Palpitation of the heart followed in rapid procession amidst near calamity of the vase slipping her grasp. Only once before in her life had a similar spiritual visitation of a raven occurred. The last time it happened it preceded news of her mother-in-law’s unexpected and tragic death.

  She prayed her husband might answer the phone in his study. ‘Please Jamie,’ she implored, a whisper, ‘please, pick up.’

  Nonetheless, the crescendo continued: the man of the house last seen striding to private domain with newspapers tucked under arm and a Do Not Disturb sign metaphorically etched on the back of his head. In the meantime, a loud mechanical click within the grandfather clock charged the first chime of eleventh hour. Had something happened at Raven Court . . . Charles ill?

  Damn it all. Why could Jamie not see that his father living alone in a rambling old mansion house was simply not on? With the old devil unwilling to engage in leisure activities best suited to his age, he was nothing less than a disaster in waiting. And yet, at his last medical check up the doctor had declared him fit for his years, though a tad mad for riding a horse as prime means of daily exercise. The latter comment was hardly surprising as Charles had long since quashed any suggestion either he or his favourite horse were too old to pop a fence or two.

  Oh hell. She had to go think on that scenario didn’t she, and what if he’s had a nasty tumble?

  She again deposited the bloom-laden vase on the hallstand, inner dread taking hold. She simply felt unable to respond. Her hand hovered aimlessly above the still ringing telephone. Pick it up it could be a life or death situation.

  Maternal logic dictated the pesky phone as eminently appealing to fourteen-year-old Dominic, who’d reluctantly returned to his bedroom in order to catch up on Friday night homework, his Saturday homework postponed until Sunday no doubt.

  Answer it Jamie . . . answer the damn thing.

  As for seventeen-year-old Fiona, who’d surfaced momentarily for early morning sustenance and hastily retreated to her boudoir for further beauty sleep, there was always the possibility of a new admirer having entered the centre of her social stage.

  Come on, Cassie . . . do it. She snatched the telephone receiver from its cradle: the house silent bar for the slow rhythmic ticking of the cased clock. The caller sounded uncertain as to whether he had the right contact number, and the soft inflection of his foreign accent caused secondary icy shivers to ripple down her spine: as had the vision of the raven.

  To err cautionary stance seemed infinitely sensible, and to that aim she asked who was calling and whom did they want. The caller evaded her question and waffled on about unusual sunny weather and then asked if there was a restaurant or hotel nearby that she might care to recommend. It was an utterly bizarre question and from a complete stranger. In all her years of married life she’d never encountered a caller such as this. She held her line and evaded unnecessary interaction and once again asked in the nicest possible way for the caller to state his name and business. He then apparently needed to confer with a third-party, and uttered profuse apology for any inconvenience caused.

  Whilst awaiting response she leaned forward to inhale the sweet scent of purple stocks nestling between towering pink and ivory-coloured lilies. The beribboned bouquet delivered that very morning with attached message still in place: Love you, honest, I do.   x x

  Her attention further drifted to sparkling diamonds set into a white-gold eternity ring, and one way or the other she had a designated deadline to answer a specific question. The deadline, unfortunately, the very same time she had set aside as the moment to make her announcement in respect of the household moving back to the country. It wouldn’t hurt Jamie to agonize on her reply for a few hours. At least until after dinner when he would surely be hanging on her every word and, perhaps more easily swayed in favour of country living.

  Mischievous thoughts lingered but a moment for she sensed a presence from behind: a kiss placed on her neck overtly sensual and utterly disarming. ‘Behave yourself,’ she chastised, a hushed whisper, ‘and I wish you wouldn’t do that. Creep up on me.’

  Undeterred her husband’s arms enfolded her waist. ‘Why?’ he queried, his grip all the tighter, and second kiss to her neck a teasing gesture. ‘The more scary the better not so long ago, right?’

  She well remembered the scary stunts he’d pulled on her just for the hell of it, back in the Balaclava wearing days of his SAS past, but the caller came back on the line and asked to speak to James Douglas. She said she would inquire as to whether the gentleman was indeed present, but expressed doubt.

  With the mute button re-depressed, she declared,  ‘It’s for you.’

  Jamie had a very definite, if it’s for me, expression, I’m not here.

  ‘It’s a foreigner, an odd one at that.’

  ‘Define foreign,’ he urged.

  ‘As in foreign lilt, what else, and weird to boot.’

  A sigh then preceded, ‘Give it here.’

  He grabbed the phone, free hand toying his wallet previously discarded on the hallstand. Without preamble he demanded to know who was calling . . . He listened awhile . . . His expression then clouded thunderous whilst jotting a memo on pad to hand. He then switched to the caller’s native tongue. To hear him fluent in Arabic over the phone was not so unusual, but she sensed real aggression in his action of tearing a loose leaf from the pad.  She turned away to make herself scarce, precisely at the point of his slamming the phone down with force.

  He read the scrap of paper eyes narrowed, and she knew him deep in thought even a tad puzzled. He then muttered under his breath, glanced at his watch, turned toward her.  ‘Can I borrow your car?’ An hour at most.’

  ‘But I thought you said you had nothing on, and that’s why you weren’t the least bit fussed about a courtesy vehicle while yours went for repair.’

  ‘Don’t, Cassie, don’t ask me to justify why I have to go out at this precise moment in time.’ He grabbed her shoulders his mouth on hers sensual and appeasing, yet underlying hint of sexual aggression surfaced. His hazel eyes always glowed gold and fiery when adrenaline started coursing through his veins at warp speed, his kiss mere precursor to, ‘Please.’

  She had no intention of bemoaning the fact that an hour for Jamie could mean all day, for on his return a plausible excuse would be mustered. Although deeply disheartened by his imminent departure it came as no surprise to find herself shelved, as she had been for the greater part of their married life: her designated deadline on hold, too. ‘The keys are in my bag, in the kitchen.’

  The words were hardly out of her mouth before he was skidding through the kitchen doorway in a youthful manner reminiscent of his son. Seconds later he returned with cell phone in right hand along with car keys dangling from his little finger. He paused directly in front of her, and with his left hand raised hers and kissed the eternity ring given to her the night before; a big grin on his face as he said, ‘I reckon your answer will be a resounding yes, seeing as you’re wearing the ring.’ He dashed for the front door, and with the door ajar, furthered, ‘I know you, Cassie, know what you’re thinking. And for all your cool persona, you’re still as hot as hell for Jamie Douglas.’ He blew a kiss, added, ‘I won’t be late, that’s a promise.’

  As he slammed the front door behind him she again turned to pick up the vase, and noticed his wallet on the hallstand. She grabbed it and dashed after him. With the door wide open she looked to her right and there he was, eight cars distant and about to get into her Mercedes.

  Directly she called his name and held the wallet aloft, he yelled, ‘Stay there, right there.’

  There was something else, too, something odd about his smile before he slid into the driver’s seat. It was a worried tentative smile. Nonetheless he would snatch his wallet in passing. She heard the car’s engine burst into life, and guessed him to be readjusting the seat for the vehicle remained static. She stepped forward in readiness to descend the steps to the pavement below, a girlish flush rising to her cheeks at his remembered words in the hallway: still as hot as hell for Jamie Douglas.

  And then last night, as though having read her restless mind he’d sworn that a divorce would never keep them apart for long, even if she filed for one. Had he really thought that was likely, hence the ring? She once more glanced toward her car. Jamie had reversed it a little and it was now moving out from between parked cars.

  The unthinkable happened.

  An explosive blast rocked the crescent.

  The car doors blew outward and the vehicle rose into the air.

  Shock waves slammed into parked cars and nearby houses; window frames splintered and a storm of glass rained down all around. Engulfed in a ball of flames the vehicle fell to earth a mangled heap of metal.

  ‘No, No,’ her words a silent scream.

  Hell had risen before her eyes and nothing remotely human able to survive the macabre scene before her, yet here she was alive, virtually untouched by the blast. Oh God. Immobilised, numbed, fingers toying with his wallet, the silence unbearable she couldn’t hear the words but said them all the same, ‘I’ll always love you, and you did guess right.’

  As faces appeared at shattered windows and people spilled onto the street, a black pall of smoke billowed ever upward. Every movement around slid into slow motion and nausea and faintness washed over her.

  Her ears suddenly popped and in the far distance wailing sirens were audible . . . She couldn’t move. Knew she should. The children. She must not let them see. With blood trickling and tears cascading like red rain down her face she glanced to her left. The street seemed to be tilting. She grabbed at the handrail, leaned on it. It hadn’t happened had it? It was all a bad dream. Please God. But the police presence was real. She could smell faint essence of perfume, a gentle hand resting on her arm. Several fire officers dashed past, and a paramedic shook his head. There was nothing that could be done for Jamie. Why, why did he have to die like this?

May 1993: London.

Rhian Roberts steered her car along traffic-strangled streets, the hustle and bustle of evening rush hour seeming to be less invasive than usual. That said, miscues of a wandering mind proved utterly distracting and wouldn’t have passed muster beneath the watchful gaze of a professional bodyguard. Professional she wasn’t.

  Regardless of her amateur status she was proud her acquired duty as chauffeur cum-bodyguard had passed the test of ten months service without any damn thing untoward happening to her employer. Even so, on occasion she truly wished she’d attended a suitable training course on the subject of close protection. But to let the subconscious meander along Memory Lane dragging the conscious with it, was a damn stupid thing to do. She knew all that, and more, for when driving a car she was supposed to be alert for any potential threat. What kind of threat and, from whom? Dunno, being the answer.

  True enough, the present twilight-run was as yawningly tedious as had been on every evening for the past few months. Of course traffic fatigue and ever-present factor of aggressive men behind steering wheels was enough to cause any woman to scream. All of which played a major role in her present field of vision.

  Okay . . . so aggressive men behind steering wheels was a fairly feeble excuse for lack of concentration on the job in-hand. Then again, adding male dominance to the equation of negotiating the streets of London made it all seem so reasonable and just. No doubts about it, she was surrounded by male drivers’ endeavouring to intimidate female motorists: in particular black cab drivers. Not to mention a madman trying to switch lanes at her rear and acting Ape-like fist on his car horn.

  Worse, a blonde, immediately behind countered the Ape’s horn chorus with a sporting mega blast. Pointless exercise ‘cause no one was going anywhere on a red light. Bugger, the lights are green. The blonde resorted to flash of headlights and another mega blast. Oh hell, Rhian. Bloody concentrate, will you.

  Embarrassingly, it was definitely bite one’s tongue and hold fire on obscene gestures of Up Yours to the blonde: green light or not. With foot to accelerator she granted the blonde’s wish to proceed onward, thus preventing Ape-man from cutting in. The upcoming lights then rapidly sequenced to red almost before they had crossed the junction. Once again on stop she experienced a dreaded reverie.

  The last thing she needed was the vision of a bomb blasted car flashing across her cerebral scope in Technicolor gory. Not that she’d actually witnessed the terrible incident in which her boss’ husband was assassinated, neither had she thought about the consequences of its blast in months. Nevertheless, the devastation and aftermath of that evil moment in time had seriously affected the woman sitting alongside. All in all, it was a miracle Cassie was leading any sense of normality after trauma of that magnitude.

  Many words still remained unsaid that needed to be broached, but the right moment just hadn’t arisen. Perhaps Cassie was in need of much more than moral support . . . but how could one tell for sure? Although she seemed in control of her life in the every day sense of the word control, air of detachment prevailed.

  A fog girding a motorist was the best description Rhian Roberts could manage when asked by a business acquaintance as to Cassie’s present state of mind: Like you know double-trouble is coming from behind and you want to go faster, but it’s madness to go faster because you can’t see what’s in front either.

  She glanced at her rear-view mirror. Ape Man was now positioned directly behind her vehicle. Moments beforehand the blonde in silver sports saloon had graced that space along with white-van-man bringing up on her rear; duly blocking vision beyond the sporty motor.  Oh what the . . . She should have been clued to lane changeovers at the stop sign, and should have noticed at which point Ford man had muscled up on the blonde and when white-van-man had ducked out of sight. She was crap at her job, absolute crap at body guarding.

  Traffic lights to the fore blinked to green and once again vehicles surged forward en masse. Meanwhile, the dark blue Ford practically kissing the backside of her BMW bugged her in extremes. She cursed as the upcoming traffic light hit red again. This was the moment to peer into her rear-view mirror with venomous contempt, but as she did so, an adrenaline rush kicked-in.

  Wake up. You’ve seen that driver before . . . Where . . . Think . . . Walking past the office . . . Loitering across the street, near the bakery. How many days . . . As much as a week . . . Hell, was it possible? Damn, damn, damn.

  A former crisis was supposedly over according to sources of renowned authority in matters of terrorist’ activities, and nothing said to the contrary when undercover security officers had finally abandoned surveillance of George Crescent. Well, not as far as Rhian Roberts had been given to understand.

  She quickly averted her gaze from the Ford driver, not wanting to appear too focused on his visage. Needless to say the traffic light was Green, the car in front having moved a considerable distance ahead. She stabbed her foot at the accelerator in order to close the frontal gap: a matter of seconds and her car again forced to a standstill. In real terms they were only a few yards farther forward, and a nightmare scenario could be about to kick-off.

  Despite riptide of fear riving round her heart, she guessed she was most likely overreacting in cinematic worse case scenario. Ford man was probably entirely innocent and as desperate to get home as she was, but it was better to overreact than to end up in a wooden box beneath laurel leaves and white lilies.

  She snatched a brief glance at her silent companion: sensed all was not well, quizzed, ‘Is it my diabolical driving?’ She was well aware of her own failing in being tad over zealous on acceleration and lax on the brake pedal until absolute necessity dawned.

  Eyes glazed with tears, Cassie replied, ‘Sorry, I'm not very good company today, I know. Time to adjust, that’s what my father-in-law keeps saying. Time Cassie, just allow yourself time.’

  ‘It’s not going to be easy to accept what happened but time will help in healing the wound.’ God, that sounded feeble if compassionate, but she was half glad Cassie was at last talking about her late departed. ‘You need to talk through what happened, and might you not try therapy again?’

  ‘Absolutely not, I really cannot abide talking to people who seem totally incapable of understanding Jamie’s background, or why the person he became appears to be so at odds with his upbringing. As for the blasted therapist, she was an out and out feminist man-hater . . .’

  Rhian Roberts, good old Rhian nodded in response, though hadn’t as yet heard what the therapist had actually said, and urged Cassie forthwith, ‘Go on.’

  ‘She as good as told me that as Jamie was dead and buried and no longer a part of my life, that I needed to let go and be at peace with myself. When I said how do I let go of the intense guilt that deepens with each passing day, she mooted it was guilt of my own making and I had nothing, absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. If that is so, then why did I leave him on tenterhooks . . . Why didn’t I tell him straight off that my answer was yes, and that I was flattered he wanted us to renew our wedding vows.’

  There was a long pause, and Rhian mindless Roberts couldn’t respond, and quite expected Cassie to burst into floods of tears, but she didn’t and further said: ‘It was cruel, wasn’t it, to punish him like that, but I had so desperately wanted to inflict a sense of pain, the kind of pain I’d suffered over and over while he ate, slept and drank the Regiment. Then later, all the damn secrecy that came with his London posting, it was really hard to get my head around it all. It was always as if there was no tomorrow for him, that he lived only for the day at hand.’

  She figured it was best to maintain silent counsel in light of Cassie’s continued heartfelt outpouring: ‘I confessed all to the therapist, and she said my silence hadn’t mattered. Because, all in all my prime objective of inflicting punishment upon Jamie was purely to make him understand that when left alone, night after sleepless night, and no idea of where he was, not to mention the dangers he might have been faced with, worried me senseless. It was the not knowing that was utter purgatory.’

  ‘I agree in that,’ she remarked, reassuringly. ‘You had every right to express what you were feeling at the time, and in any case Jamie wouldn’t have held it against you. No way. He just wouldn’t have.’

  ‘God, when I think back to how I wondered what-if, what if he never comes back. I went through hell sometimes wondering if he was alive or dead, and all because he hadn’t made contact in days, sometimes weeks. Then when he quit the forces and kept going walkabout, I despaired our life ever becoming a life together. It even crossed my mind at one point that he might have been having an affair, but I don’t think so. Jamie was dedicated to something not someone, or why else would he have wanted us to renew our vows and take a second honeymoon?’

  ‘I can’t answer that, and you really shouldn’t feel guilty, Cassie. And yes, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right in one sense. If you’d said yes to his request, immediately, it might have made you feel a whole lot better now, but I don’t suppose he minded one jot about being punished, as you call it. In fact, in all honesty, I’d say he got off on not knowing the outcome.’

  ‘Given time who can say how much lost ground we might have regained. That said, he had changed, an awful lot during the last few months of his life . . . Changed to someone I felt I could no longer relate to half the time. It wasn’t that he was less loving or inattentive when at home, it was something else . . .’

  ‘But he hadn’t seemed any different to me.’

  ‘Maybe not, but take when he and I went out together. The getting from A to B had to be as quick as possible and by differing routes, which didn’t exactly lend any sense of romanticism to evenings out. That is, in the last few months, you know . . . before it happened . . .’

  Cassie wiped away a tear before it shimmied down and settled upon her cheek. ‘But you know how it was . . . Like the way he became testy when awaiting specific phone calls. And that’s not all that happened. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before. But you see, I just so happened to return from the office earlier than expected on one occasion, and believe me he’d locked himself in the study. Had, actually locked himself in. To this day I cannot think why, and he certainly had no explanation and not the least intention of providing one. He just shrugged his shoulders and laughed it off with a finger-to-nose.'

  Rhian cut in with, ‘Few marriages can be perfect from beginning to end, and if one partner is away for long periods with little or no contact then it’s inevitable problems will arise. You often said he was a chip off the old Douglas block, and in truth, his father always seems a bit of a cold old number.’

  Cassie rallied with, ‘But there’s an awful lot about Jamie that you’re not familiar with.’

  ‘Granted.’

  ‘Honestly Rhian, his family life was terribly complicated, and I can only begin from a halfway point with any sense of certainty . . . You see, the best place to start is shortly after we were married when a piece about our wedding materialised in the society pages of several broad sheets along with a photograph of happy bride and groom. Jamie instantly swore that his father had wanted him out of sight, preferably dead if the picture was anything to go by, meaning the IRA had been baited with a target of now you know what he looks like come and get him.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Far from it, not that I believed Charles had had any desire to see Jamie dead. But you see, a feud between father and son had started way, way back in Jamie’s childhood.  That’s when the belief that his father despised his very existence began to emerge.’

  ‘Yeh, but as kids we’re prone to mountainous molehills heaped with bullshit and I admit, as a kid I lied about inconsequential incidents and played them up as major events.’

  ‘Maybe Jamie lied a little,’ sighed Cassie, ‘but you see, his mother confessed that she became a reluctant pawn in a bitter struggle for prominence between father and son, which ensued for the greater part of her married life. After all, as soon as Jamie was old enough to answer back and question his father’s right to punish him war truly began. Jamie, of course, hadn’t seen fit to enlighten me as to why he and his father were seemingly at odds so often. That’s why Charlotte, bless her, opened up one day and revealed a little of why the two men appeared to be constantly at war.’

  ‘Sensible woman, by all accounts.’

  ‘Oh absolutely. You see, Home Farm was hers, by inheritance, and she wanted us to live there until such time as Raven Court became Jamie’s. Naturally, Home Farm was close at hand, barely a crow’s mile the other side of the river, and like all mother’s she hoped any future grandchildren would be close at hand, preferably within walking distance.’

  ‘Oh, so Home Farm was his mother’s family home?’

  ‘Yes, and no matter how much Charlotte prayed the warring would cease, it didn’t. Not in her lifetime, and after her death all hope of any reconciliation was truly dashed outright.’

  ‘Jamie was incredibly jealous, that’s why,’ she said, having witnessed the green-eyed monster at work, ‘and I guess Charles didn’t help matters with that bloody-minded attitude of his.’

  ‘Jamie could be jealous, in some respects, yes, but for reasons beyond those you might be thinking of. It all sounds so silly when one considers Jamie as a very young impressionable little boy. He really did live in awe of Charles’ distinguished wartime military service, as in, son of a war hero.’

  ‘Quite something to live up to, I would imagine but what actually caused the deep rift between them?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Charles’ post-war career was the crux at issue. Apparently, when Jamie reached his teens he read his father’s memoirs and immediately displayed signs of despising his father’s involvement in aspects of foreign policy, in particular, the creation of the State of Israel. Worse. While at University Jamie disowned his father and branded him the enemy in more ways than one.  Although Charlotte disapproved of her only son’s behaviour, she could not and would not abandon him as Charles requested.’

  Cassie paused, expression of deep sadness settling upon her, she then recovered her previous flow: ‘Why father and son argued so much about the Middle East, more especially over Charles’ term of office in the Diplomatic Corp puzzled me for quite awhile, until Charlotte revealed all. For some unknown reason any mention of Israel seemed to stir intense emotional outbursts between them. As for Israel’s eventual invasion of Palestinian territory and continued occupancy of Gaza and a greater part of The West Bank, the inevitable encroachment of kibbutz on Arab land, not only caused tempers to flare in the Middle East, Raven Court became a worse war zone than before.’

  ‘So that’s what they argued about, was it. I knew Jamie could babble away in Arabic with the best of them, which I gathered old Charlie boy couldn’t. Actually. Do you remember that day when Jamie popped by the office with some Arab friends in tow and Charles dropped by as well?’

  ‘Memorable,’ replied Cassie, ‘memorable.’

  ‘Absolutely. Especially when Jamie made a big deal about introducing them to his father. That’s when I twigged Jamie was fluent in Arabic because he interpreted what his Arab friends had said. That is, most of what they’d said. Charles obviously grasped the odd word but hadn’t enough of the lingo at hand to converse directly.’

  Cassie half smiled. ‘I expect Charles understood more than he was letting on.’

  ‘I reckon those Arabs had a good handle on the English language too, and I suppose with hindsight, I’d say Charles hadn’t looked as though he’d thought them ignorant camel herders any more than I had. But, is that all Charles and Jamie argued about?’

  ‘Not entirely, but you know how it is with family rows and how sometimes all sense and reason is lost in the heat of the moment. Anyhow, after graduation at Oxford and a stint at Sandhurst followed by operational duty in the SAS, Major James Douglas, from the viewpoint of a disgruntled little boy within, admirably outranked Capt. Charles. Evelyn. Royston. Douglas.’

  ‘Can’t say as I’m surprised really that Jamie viewed higher rank as beating the enemy,’ she remarked, smirking at Cassie’s reference to Charles’ second name.

  ‘True enough, and the feud escalated for the worse after Charlotte’s death.’

  ‘Terrible tragedy was that.’

  ‘Mmm, so very sad, and all because of a drunken driver speeding in foggy conditions.’

  ‘I guess his mother was a very likable woman?’

  ‘Assuredly so, and no resemblance whatever to archetypal parody of a mother-in-law, and she became a sort of surrogate mum to me. She so understood how much I missed my mother, and she sympathised with the fact I’d never known my father. I think because he died in action a month before I was born, I suppose that’s why I always feared losing Jamie in similar circumstances.’

  ‘I sort of guessed all that from the way you described Charlotte as more friend than mother-in-law.’

  ‘She was indeed a good friend and a much-loved confidante. Do you know, on one particular day of womanly reminiscing she revealed all about her life as a young wife and mother of a soldier. She claimed Charles had been bound heart and soul to the Intelligence Corp during the war. She even showed me wonderful photographs of their time together as a young couple before Jamie was born. You know how it is . . . when looking at pictures of the past. How the memories come flooding back; well, she really opened a window to her heart.’

  Cassie’s thoughts having drifted to Charlotte, was perhaps no bad thing.

  ‘Charlotte said, “colours and honours aside one is married to the Corp my dear, not just the man”, and I so remember how she smiled whilst fingering a pearl necklace, then furthered with, “As for service to crown and country, and sometimes beyond the call of duty, one must never begin to try and understand what motivates a selfless devotee”. She was such a lovely woman.’ Cassie sniffled, then continued: ‘I feel sure you would have liked her. As for Sir Charles, well . . . he’s a wonderful grandfather even if branded a failed father by his only son. Yet, even with Charlotte gone, and despite stubborn resolve never to set foot inside Raven Court until the day his father ceased to be, in all fairness to Jamie, he never kept grandfather and grandchildren apart.’

  ‘I’m surprised you stuck it out with Jamie, what with all that going on in the background.’

  ‘Jamie said on our wedding day that if things went wrong between us we’d damn well have to work them out because divorce would never be on the cards no matter what happened. He also said that if I dared to walk out on him he’d track me down and drag me back.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Yes, well, that was Jamie.’ Cassie actually chuckled. ‘I remember a specific incident in which I jokingly broached separation between us.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes, it occurred one day when he was down in the potting shed, and according to the children he was incredibly secretive about what he was doing. So, when he hadn’t shown by late evening and the children long since in bed, I took him a flask of coffee and suggested that a sleeping bag might be a good idea, followed by trial separation, seeing as he preferred his own company so much. Oh boy, what a mistake.’

  ‘I can imagine. Blew his top, I guess’

  ‘Oh no, far from it. He was in the kitchen within minutes of my return, a little boy hurt-expression the like I’d never seen before. He said nothing, absolutely nothing. He just hugged me tight like a child seeking comfort after severe verbal chastisement. It was so out of character, and that’s why I feel so guilty, so terribly guilty about the day the bomb . . .’ Cassie paused, mopped at a tear. ‘You see, when he gave me the eternity ring on the previous evening and I refused a straight answer to his proposal, there was a flicker of that same hurt expression, albeit momentary.’

  ‘Very touching, I would imagine.’

  Cassie mopped up another tear, and continued: ‘Absolutely, and before retreating to the guest bedroom he asked would I agree to renew our vows if my answer was a yes.’

  Was Cassie that blind to the Manipulative Bastard? ‘I guess I always saw rough tough handsome epitome of macho male in Jamie. I never really thought of him as the romantic type.’ The traffic suddenly moved forward and Rhian cast a rapid glance at her rear-view mirror. No chance, then, that Ford man was turning off to the right. Best the conversation was kept flowing. To that aim she said, ‘I thought Jamie more of a last minute hastily purchased flowers and chocs en route type of man, and you, as always falling foul to his charming suave self without a thought as to where it would lead. You can’t deny he was a master at emotional blackmail.’

  ‘You’re being harsh, Rhian, and all because you and he rarely saw eye to eye in anything he did or said. We may have been sailing dangerous waters at times, but I don’t think either of us wanted to chance jumping ship into icy waters without a lifejacket. And maybe, in all honesty, we were each other’s lifejackets’

  ‘Tell me about it. I know I’m being harsh. I watched you suffering in silence when he was gone for weeks with no word of where he was, and saw the way he would breeze back and expect no questions asked.’ Forced to brake violently at the next set of lights she almost cursed. The Ford was still there, and it was time to tell her charge of her own fears, because if she didn’t Cassie would be hopelessly unprepared if trouble was indeed about to kick off. ‘I hate having to say this, but I think we’re being followed.’

  ‘You’re becoming almost as paranoid as me,’ sniffled Cassie. She grasped a tissue from her bag: eyes again brimming with tears. ‘Here I am with a husband laid to rest in a peaceful village graveyard, his last kiss a plea for clemency, truly unforgettable, and now, suddenly, I’m obsessed with his secret lifestyle. I want to know, want to know what in hell he was involved in. As it is, old military pals of his seemingly have mouths tighter than clams, but there must be some way of finding out more about his covert lifestyle. More especially, who he was really working for?’

  ‘What did you expect from ex pals of his. Men like Jamie close ranks, and if you start prying you might get yourself in deep water.’ Deep shit, more like, leapt to mind whilst she reassessed their present situation. ‘Perhaps we’re not being tailed. Maybe it’s all down to my imagination and too many nights booking it with bedtime thrillers. Then again, if you’ve been asking questions or approaching the wrong people who knows who might be watching you. Whatever, I’ve got a prickly feeling around my neck right now and it’s extremely uncomfortable.’ Itching to put pedal to metal, and although half concentrating on getting Cassie home safely, at the same time she could only hope to hell it was pure imagination in believing they were being followed. ‘I intend losing that damn Ford at the first opportunity, so hold onto your bag when we turn right into Tatton Terrace.’

  Cassie glanced over her shoulder. ‘Why would anybody be following us? Like you said, it’s almost ten months since Jamie’s funeral, and you were right in what you said, yesterday. I do need to get my social life back and to accept that he’s gone and won’t be coming back. I have to stop wandering aimlessly through each day in a morbid state of happy and unhappy memories. Grief. I have a boy still at school who hasn’t had a proper holiday to speak of in ages.’

  Cassie paused, her expression blank and no sign of emotion . . .

  This was normal, and nothing Rhian Roberts could do to help during one of Cassie’s blank moments. Damn it all, it wasn’t natural for a widow not to have cried properly since the day of the bomb blast, but she hadn’t. Cassie’s silence proved shorter than usual and she carried on from where she’d left off:

  ‘As for Fiona’s year out prior to university, it’s probably for the best she chose to stay with Aunt Grace. The South of France is close but not too close to home, but I did think a more wild experience might have widened her horizons a little. That said, I think she would have opted for a much more adventurous gap year had life been a little less cruel.’

  ‘I confess I’d half expected to hear she was off backpacking in some far flung place.’

  Cassie dabbed at a tear, said, ‘Time away from home does seem to have allowed for adjustment to life without Jamie. I’m so glad Fiona talks about him quite freely, and less emotional now. Meantime, I’ve become a neurotic workaholic with little effect in the work place.’

  ‘Quite understandable in the circumstances,’ intoned, chauffeur-cum-bodyguard.

  ‘The trouble is, I have this blasted bee in my bonnet and just cannot settle to anything. Maybe the past could be laid to rest if I knew what Jamie was up to on that awful, awful day. And yes, periodically, I’m convinced I’m being watched and followed at every turn. Take the other night when we both stepped out for a take-a-way.’

  ‘It’s all over, Cassie, and it’s unlikely that anyone is stalking you, or the children.’ Oh God she hoped not, and further said, ‘Even that guy, in the white Merc the other night, was nothing but a ruddy kerb crawler.’

  ‘I can’t explain why I feel this way,’ returned Cassie, ‘but I need to know why Jamie dashed out of the house immediately after receiving a phone call . . . Think about it, seriously. Who rang him, and why did he go that day in such a rush?’

  There was no getting away from the fact the day the car bomb exploded was the day a window to hell opened up on Cassie’s doorstep.  What had happened had been relayed over and over again on television news footage, but what the newscasters didn’t know was how Cassie’s heart had taken a massive dive, how vomit had stuck in her throat. Who could doubt her account of screams echoing in the darkest recesses of her mind? Utterly traumatized by the blast and by the loss of her husband, at times she still seemed as though stuck in limbo land: not in the real world at all.

  If only Jamie hadn’t assumed Rhian Roberts to be a nosy-sugar-begging neighbour, their first encounter might have been less prickly. From that day sparring with words, out of Cassie’s earshot, became the norm for them, and Jamie’s sense of humour had always, in her mind, had a sick edge. She burst forth with her thoughts. ‘He had a sick sense of humour, and couldn’t bear to think a woman might view him as anything less than stunning, which he was of course.’ She regretted the outburst as soon as said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘I know you didn’t mean to think out loud, but that’s what I like about you. You say it how it is, and that’s what I have to do.’ said Cassie, slicing through Rhian hob-nail-boots Roberts’ apology. ‘I can’t forget that he was in my car not his, nor that I visualized a raven sitting atop a tombstone moments before he died. But as you know there was no raven atop a tombstone during his internment . . . a tolling bell, yes. Which may suggest I have yet to encounter that raven. Therefore, could it not be that I was the target, not Jamie?’

  ‘He was the target, Cassie. As for that raven of yours, you don’t seriously believe in old witch ‘n’ wives tales, do you?’

  ‘I know the information fed to the press by the bomb squad officers suggested possible IRA involvement, but no matter how despicable members of terrorist organisations are, not one Irishman ever laid claim to his death. And the IRA has always taken the credit for jobs well done no matter how vile. The person on the phone before I handed it over to Jamie was very definitely of Arab nationality. Or at least, I think he was. In fact, the man’s soft-toned voice still haunts me today and I feel sure Jamie knew him quite well. If one thinks about the spiritual vision I had of the raven, take into account the name of Jamie’s childhood home and where he’s buried, then the raven makes some kind of sense I suppose. But why, why do I feel so sure that I will see that raven one day, and sitting on a tombstone.’

  ‘You’re safe, Cassie, safe, and quite frankly, I view the connection of the mystical bird as that of Raven Court House. I don’t know how it happens, how some people have premonitions but clearly you did. Don’t you think if you had been a target someone would have struck shortly after security around the family was dropped?’

  ‘Who knows,’ said Cassie, sounding confused, ‘who knows how long an individual or organisation will wait to exact reprisal?’

  ‘Reprisal against whom, and for what?’

  ‘Assumption being’ returned Cassie, ‘that Jamie crossed paths with some fairly unsavoury characters during his military career, and I dread to think what he was involved with when he became a secret intelligence officer.’

  Rhian glanced in her rear-view mirror; words inadequate at best, given the continued presence of Ford man.  ‘And we dare not mention squirrels and the like.’ Disquieting silence settled, until she again charged the air. ‘Who ever carried out the attack is unlikely to return to the scene of the crime ten months later.’

  Cassie burst forth with, ‘Why my car, Rhian, why my car blown up?’

  It fell to her to cue plausible reason. ‘It was a professional assassination, and I think the assassin knew Jamie would have used your car in a hurry. I think this person also knew Jamie’s car had been damaged the day before. What I don’t understand, is why Jamie didn’t routinely check to see if your car had been tampered with.’

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Cassie, hands noticeably trembling. ‘He didn’t check the car over because it was mine, and that’s why I think the bomb was meant to kill me.’

  ‘Has it ever crossed your mind that perhaps Jamie’s car was deliberately rammed the day before. If so, it would have raised the stakes somewhat on Jamie leaping into your car and driving it away without a quick safety check beforehand.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right . . .’ There was a long pause, and then, ‘you’ve done so much for me over the past few months, Rhian. I am grateful . . . truly grateful.’

  ‘My pleasure.’  She reached for Cassie’s hand; a reassuring gesture that she was there for any eventuality until the other woman felt able to travel back and forth to the office of her own accord.  She glanced ahead, the traffic lights again changing to red. ‘With luck we’ll make the green next time round.’

  As Cassie leaned her head into the car’s headrest and closed her eyes Rhian guessed her companion might be slipping back through time and memories. What right did she have to say what Cassie needed, and if a therapist was out of the question as vehemently stated, perhaps personal soul-searching was Cassie’s best route to self-healing.

  Although she herself had never warmed to Jamie he had on one occasion, when alone together, revealed his version of how he and Cassie had met . . . Quite scary, at that.  But such was his life back then, and now it seemed as though his past was still lurking in the shadows.

~~~

Unbeknown to Cassie and Rhian, a black Porsche 911 had followed closely in their wake, its driver patiently edging nearer to the left-hand side of Rhian’s BMW.  Not that he wanted to draw level with the red BMW before it turned right at the next interchange and glad he hadn’t. He was happy to watch and bide his time. However, the streets of London were reasonably familiar territory to him, despite not having driven himself along them for a good number of years. A few of the old jazz haunts he’d frequented in 1969 still existed but all had been revamped almost beyond recognition.

  Yep, he was a long way on life’s road, his student days at Oxford a distant memory.

  Back then he was afforded time to explore London and much of the UK, his present lifestyle allowing little leisure activity. Quality time was now a rare luxury, and there hadn’t been any female plus points in a long while. He was lucky, true enough. His working environment included a personal aide, two secretaries and umpteen bodyguards under his command, and he could call on military aircraft to ferry him around the globe when necessary. He could order a helicopter at a minutes notice for short hops, but what he didn’t have, and what he wanted most, was a life that he could call his own.

  For the first time in years he was back working in the field, on a covert mission, and damn glad someone had discreetly hung around at Heathrow to lead him to the correct parking lot and had pointed out the Porsche in passing: its ignition key placed exactly where expected, in a magnetic box attached beneath the car’s offside rear wheel arch.

  Reality had then hit big time. He sure as hell hadn’t had to drive himself out and beyond an airport perimeter fence in decades, and hadn’t used a clutch in so long this mission could have proved somewhat embarrassing for the first half-hour or so if the car had had a stick-shift and clutch gear change.

  He reached up and began massaging his neck. It wasn’t that he felt physically stressed-out as he might have after a hard day at The White House. Knowledge of an assassin on the loose hounded his every waking hour, and the fact that he had speciality-trained agents deployed undercover in dangerous zones of political discontent, a living nightmare. As far as he knew heads were still on their shoulders the last time he touched base with central control.

  Thinking of heads, a brief glimpse of Cassie half an hour earlier, albeit at a distance, had given him a definite buzz. A crisp new photo of her for identification purposes displayed a highly attractive woman and much as he’d expected, but he preferred a tatty old snapshot deviously acquired a very long time ago. The picture in question was now somewhat faded: Cassie wearing sunglasses and alluding to air of mystery, and as intriguing today as had been when first seen.

  Never having had the pleasure of a meeting with Jamie’s wife, he only knew what he had been told, endlessly, by her late husband. Privy to personal facts including Cassie’s love for his one-time best friend, he carried a second burden of guilt in knowing the truth behind Jamie’s secret life. His own, equally complex.

  It was supposedly to the benefit of wives to keep them innocent and ignorant to covert activities, but sometimes wives were not all they seemed even when their past prior to marriage had been checked and double-checked for any security loopholes. He couldn’t imagine Cassie as a sleeper agent, yet the signs were there.

  He hoped his former background would provide sufficient credentials and maybe he’d be welcomed into her family fold and without too many questions asked of him.  He had to discover the identity of person or persons’ responsible for coded messages, deliberately or inadvertently dispatched to Langley via a linked network from Cassie’s home: the director at CIA headquarters awaiting exposition.

  Like everyone else Jamie had had an auto-responder on his computer station, which regularly logged-on to the CIA network for the posting and collection of covert signals. After his death the portal was supposedly deactivated by means of auto viral download, but it was obvious someone had fucked up big time. Dead men, theoretically, were unable to post electronic messages from a deactivated portal. It was therefore possible that although the auto-responder had received a deactivation code and should have instigated a hard drive wipeout, that somehow the system had evaded incoming viral attack and had lain dormant until activated manually via password protected gateway.

  The general consensus of opinion at cyber city CIA, was that Jamie’s skill as an amateur computer programmer and his outstanding ability to hack into almost any computerised system might have been the reason why the ingoing virus failed in its task to obliterate the gateway. Hence reason enough for Langley to hit the panic button upon receipt of weird text from Jamie’s so-called dead portal.

  Worse case scenario was that of some person having discovered vital information relating to US Military Intelligence by design, and perhaps now had ideas of selling it to the highest bidder. Naturally, the person in question might have viewed the US Government as a fairly lucrative source before dangling damning evidence under the nose of a none too friendly Middle East country. Hence umpteen mystical quatrains floating off the ether and no one the remotest inkling of what the incoming verses actually meant, beyond immediate reasoning of impending threat or other to US interests.  Hardly surprising then, that the Director had ordered immediate connection to McKinley at The White House.

  Previous close affinity between himself and Jamie was definitely within Directive accessibility, and it was agreed that he would take time out from duty to go prospecting in London.  If he failed to silence the hacker then other factions from Langley would be less merciful, regardless of man or woman the culprit on the London portal.

  The Internet access point had been confirmed as 7 George Crescent, but that was all there was information-wise for the time being, and for Cassie’s sake, he prayed she was not an accomplished hacker thinking of selling information to the highest bidder. Steel-gutted as he was, when it came to hunting down women, even operational enemy agents, he believed they deserved a little finesse and dignity unless pointing a gun at his head and about to squeeze the trigger.

  Aware the traffic on his offside was already moving forward and filtering to the left, and cars in front also moving steadily onward he was glad he hadn’t drawn alongside Cassie’s car before the driver turned right at the traffic lights. He drove onward, his destination within walking distance of her house, his route strategically plotted including a private parking space where the car would be free from parking restrictions. Patience and timing, although frustrating, a planned strategy was in motion and he was once again on a blood hunt. Cassie’s doorbell would ring. She’d have a stranger on the doorstep albeit old buddy of her late husband: What then?