Exposure (6 page)

Unthinkingly, stupidly, naively, she’d got herself put on some spook watch list. And she had no idea how to get herself off it. What was she supposed to do: look up GCHQ in the Yellow Pages and phone them up to admit it was all a mistake? Yeah, that was going to work.

Her mobile chirruped softly interrupting her thoughts: ‘I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Pack your grab bag.’

There was no name and the caller ID was ‘unidentified’.

Helene’s knees gave way and she fell hard against the corner of the kitchen table, bruising her hip.

The pain helped her focus. Someone was trying to scare her – and they were doing a helluva job. It was a bizarre message, too.

As a young woman she’d reported from many war zones and for years had slept with a grab bag next to the bed. They all had. Your grab bag contained everything you needed for an emergency evacuation: passport, phone with charger, contact numbers, Swiss Army knife, dollar bills (the currency of choice in many anti-western countries), credit cards, a bottle of water and water purification tablets, torch, First Aid kit including tampons (ideal for staunching blood loss in trauma wounds), cereal bars or dried fruit, a packet of baby wipes, a pair of latex gloves and a cigarette lighter: Survival 101.

She’d also slept in her underwear and baggy shirt on a regular basis, no matter how hot and steamy the country; it would be dumb to have to evacuate in the nude and staying to get dressed could be a bad mistake: death was fatal.

Two years ago she’d added a solar-powered phone charger to her grab bag, along with a notebook laptop. But war reportage was a young person’s game and she was no John Simpson either. Not anymore. The phone and laptop had never been used.

She thought the grab bag was still in the understairs cupboard. Hopefully without the requisite bottle of water, otherwise it would be a bottle of algae by now and probably classed as a chemical weapon.

Her reverie was broken by a light tapping on the kitchen window and she realised she was still pinned painfully against the kitchen table. She struggled to her feet, confusedly wondering if it were Mr Jenkin come to check on her... except Mr Jenkin unfailingly tapped on the front door. Who tapped on a window at night? She was no Juliet so it certainly wasn’t Romeo.

Her heart began beating so quickly she thought she was having a heart attack and she gasped for breath. It’s just a panic attack, she told herself. Take deep breaths: think calm thoughts.

She looked around for a weapon, grabbing a heavy frying pan.

The tapping continued.

“Who is it?” she cried, half choking, half crying.

“Charlie. Turn off the lights and let me in through the window.”

“What? Who?”

“Charlie! Charles Paget. Let me in, damn it! I’m a sitting duck out here.”

Thinking back on it, Helene could never say for sure why she opened the kitchen window for him that evening, but she did.

Silhouetted against the light of a waxing moon, the lanky figure poured himself silently through the window, jumping from the worktop like some giant, exotic cat.

He closed the window behind him and pulled the curtains shut.

Helene’s eyes were still adjusting to the dim light.

It was him. No doubt. She could smell his aftershave.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, outraged. “How do you know where I live? This address isn’t on my business card!”

He ignored her. “Did you get my message?”

“What message?”

“Have you got your grab bag?”

“Yes, but...”

“Then there’s no time to waste. Let’s go.”

He put his hand on her arm but she twisted free, lurching backwards away from him. His touch had electrified her into action.

“No. No! You tell me what the hell is going on! I come back here to find burglars in my house and my elderly neighbour traumatised. Now you’re here acting like the Milk Tray Man. I want answers.”

“I can give you answers, but not here. We have to go.”

“No. Tell me
now.
”

“This isn’t a bloody game,” he said almost calmly. “Get your bag now or I can guarantee neither of us will be going anywhere for a very long time. Do you understand?”

He paused.

“I’m going right now, Helene. With or without you. Your choice.”

“Wait,” she said.

She fumbled in the darkness and felt her way to the understairs cupboard where she retrieved her old grab bag. Then she shoved in the backpack from her daytrip and stood up.

“I’m ready.”

“Leave your mobile,” he said, “or they’ll use it to trace us.”

Silently she handed him her phone.

“Leave it.”

She turned it off and left it on the kitchen table.

“I must leave a note for the Jenkins or they’ll worry,” she said.

“Be quick. Tell them you’ve gone to stay with a friend.”

She scrawled a note and left it in plain view.

Sound travels long distances at night, and they both heard the noise of a powerful car engine at the same time.

“Damn it! We’re too late,” he growled. “We’re trapped: they’ll see us if we leave by the front door.”

“The kitchen window?” she ventured.

“Too visible.”

He looked around desperately.

“The coffin hatch!” gasped Helene.

“What?”

“This way.”

She ran up the stairs, her bag thumping clumsily against her leg.

She tugged at the stud plasterboard that covered the large, square hole in her bedroom wall.

“Help me!”

A shower of old paint dusted their feet and debris was strewn across the expensive carpet. Beneath the layers of age, a curious doorway was revealed.

Charlie forced open the unwilling door cautiously. Helene prayed its gentle squeaks wouldn’t give them away.

He peered out. The coffin hatch faced out into the Jenkins’ garden. Leaving this way, they would be unseen by anyone watching the front door, the courtyard garden or the kitchen wall.

Charlie slid his thin body through the opening and dropped gently to the ground.

“Throw me your bag,” he hissed.

Helene pushed the bag out and watched as he caught it easily.

“Come on!” he whispered, trying to sound encouraging.

Good God! she thought. I’m 52 years old. That’s at least 30 years too old to be jumping out of second-storey buildings.

“I’ll catch you! Come on!”

His voice was tense, urgent.

Helene thought it would be a good time to start praying to St Christopher, or possibly even St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. Instead she closed her eyes briefly, awkwardly fumbled her way through the peculiar door, then dropped to the ground like a sack. He caught her clumsily, or perhaps more truthfully, he broke her fall.

Scooping up her bag, he grabbed her arm with his free hand. Then he hauled her behind him like an elderly sheep that was not willing to follow the leader.

He flung her bag over the Jenkins’ chest high garden wall, then placed two large hands under the cheeks of her backside. Helene felt herself flying over the wall, her left hip complaining sharply.

He cleared the wall easily and vastly more elegantly, then dragged her after him as they headed for the church.

What are we supposed to do now? she wondered fleetingly. Seek sanctuary?

Instead they ran past the church, through the churchyard, Helene tripping over some collapsed headstones as they tore towards the coast path. Her breathing was soon thundering so loudly she was sure that anyone could easily have heard her laboured breaths from some distance and followed them. But there were no sounds of pursuit. Evidently the watchers didn’t know about coffin holes. At least not the kind people had in old Cornish cottages. Thank God.

Helene could smell the iodine of salt and seaweed; she realised that they’d arrived at the lonesome Boat Cove. The tide was well out and she stumbled over the pebbles and sand as Charlie continued to heave her behind him. A small RIB was bobbing on the slight, summer swell.

He tossed her bag into the boat and Helene wondered if he was going to do the same with her. Instead he splashed through the water and leapt in. Helene followed with far less grace feeling the cool night water flow through her trainers, soaking her trousers up to the thigh. She flopped over the side of the dinghy like an indignant sea bass and tried to catch her breath.

He gunned the engine and they slid into Mount’s Bay. From an ungainly position on her back, Helene could see the orange-yellow glow of Penzance street lights and the dramatic illumination of the Mount itself.

She had no idea where they were going and she didn’t ask.

Chapter 5

Lying on her back, Helene felt every jarring jolt through her throbbing hip as the boat leapt across the water. And she felt stunned with everything that had happened – and the speed at which it had happened.

She stared glassy-eyed at his profile in the half moonlight, questions churning around in her head. Slowly her breathing returned to something like normal and she sat up, propping herself against the broad rubber side of the boat.

Instantly she felt the sting of salty spray on her skin and the wind sliced through her thin jacket. Charlie ignored her.

Adrenaline rush over, Helene’s scattered wits began to coalesce and she started to feel annoyed again.

She waited for him to speak but his eyes were fixed ahead of him, a slight frown creasing his otherwise untroubled face.

“What did you tell Suse?” she ventured at last. “I mean Susan.”

There was a brief pause before he answered, a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth. He shrugged.

“Nothing. I expect she’s updating the status on her Facebook page by now.”

Helene didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry’ seemed deeply inappropriate.

“Is Charlie Paget really your name?”

He glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

“Okay.”

Helene was desperate to stop the tremor in her voice. She breathed deeply.

“Well, are you going to tell me what all this is about, Charlie Paget? You promised me answers back at the cottage.”

“I told you what you needed to know to get you out of there in one piece.”

Helene looked at him sceptically. She waited for further information and the silence stretched uncomfortably. She tried again.

“Are you saying those men were going to... what... question me, arrest me... ‘do me in’?”

Her voice began to rise in disbelief.

He turned on her angrily.

“I’ve told you already, don’t you listen? This isn’t a bloody game. Who do you think you are, messing up people’s lives like this?”

She blinked in astonishment.

“
You
accuse
me
of messing up people’s
lives? You’re the one who came to my home in the middle of the night like some cut-price James Bond. I’ve been thrown out of a two-storey building, then tossed over a disturbing number of Cornish hedges by some... by you! And you say
I’m
messing up
your
life! I’m nearly a bloody pensioner! Just let me off at the next harbour and we’ll pretend this little fantasy of yours never happened.”

He looked at her calmly.

“Are you really so monumentally stupid?” he said coolly. “Listen, Ms Journalist: when you start bandying about words like ‘Langley’ and ‘White House’ people will hear you, no matter where you are. And then you turn up in
my
girlfriend’s
village and start asking questions about me. You think people are so dumb that they won’t put two and two together? You’ve put yourself in danger, you’ve put me in danger and you’ve put Susan in danger.”

Helene was stung to reply.

“You left her behind fast enough: you can’t be that bothered about her.”

His shoulders gave an impatient twitch.

“It was safer to leave her behind because she doesn’t know anything.”

“Nor do I!” bellowed Helene.

He looked at her steadily.

“You’ve made a damn good job of making people think you do.”

Helene was silenced.

She turned to stare at the silky black water passing beneath them, trying to force her numbed brain to make some sense of what was happening.

By the time he finally slowed the engine, Helene was shivering uncontrollably. She couldn’t imagine ever being warm again. Her summer walking wear offered little protection against the sea at night. Her hands were numb and her face frozen: at least it was cheaper than botox. She couldn’t have moved quickly if her life had depended on it.

Charlie seemed unaffected. He steered the RIB towards a dark opening in the cliffs. The beach shelved gently and he rode the dinghy straight up onto the sand.

He threw Helene’s grab bag onto the beach and jumped out. Then he held out his left hand towards her and she took it gratefully.

They didn’t speak.

He reached into his jacket and Helene took a step backwards, dropping his hand. She expected to see a gun but she was wrong. Instead a long-bladed knife glinted in the starlight. He walked towards her and Helene gasped.

He could kill her here, gut her like a fish and no-one would ever know. Months from now her bloated, sea-worn body would be discovered and they’d call it an accidental drowning.

Lurid images fled through her mind and she tried to force her body to move. She succeeded only in stumbling, catching her balance awkwardly with one hand on the wet sand. He loomed over her.

But instead of slicing her open, he plunged the knife into the RIB. The escaping air hissed softly and ten thousand pounds worth of boat deflated like a tired party balloon.

He caught her frightened gaze.

“We won’t be needing it,” he said, a hint of humour softening his features.

Then he pointed at the cliff face, leering some ninety feet above them.

Helene shook her head dumbly. No way. Not even in daylight.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said casually. “I’ll pull you up. Have you ever abseiled?”

“Once,” she said, her voice hoarse with tension.

She couldn’t admit that it had been in the controlled environment of an indoor climbing school, the distance similar but considerably less terrifying.