Shifting Sands

BROUGHT TO BOOK

JIGSAW

PERSON OR PERSONS UNKNOWN

A FAMILY CONCERN

ROGUE IN PORCELAIN

NEXT DOOR TO MURDER

UNFINISHED PORTRAIT

PRESENCE OF MIND

THE MACBETH PROPHECY

BREATH OF BRIMSTONE

MOTIVE FOR MURDER

DANGEROUS DECEPTION

PAST SHADOWS

FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

THICKER THAN WATER

SHIFTING SANDS

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

 

First world edition published 2011

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2011 by Anthea Fraser.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Fraser, Anthea.

Shifting sands.

1. Widows – Fiction. 2. Safaris – South Africa – Fiction.

3. Journalists – Fiction. 4. Sudden death – Fiction.

5. Suspense fiction.

I. Title

823.9′14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-107-1 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8057-4 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-363-2 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

ONE

J
onathan Farrell pushed back his chair and strode to the window, staring down at the street two floors below. It did little to lighten his mood. Pedestrians hurried by, doubtless with meetings to go to, appointments to keep. Cars swept past; even a dog, pausing at a lamp post, seemed to have a sense of purpose.

Unlike himself. He was bored, restless, and worried on a number of counts. Foremost at the moment was the fact that, as a freelance journalist, he'd had no work for the past two weeks, while his friend Steve, whose London flat he was presently sharing, was engaged on a lucrative assignment.

He turned from the window to make yet another mug of coffee. There was also, he reflected, spooning in the Instant, the question of how long he could impinge on Steve's hospitality. Incredibly, he'd already been here three months, and though Steve, good friend that he was, insisted it was no problem and he was glad of the company, Jonathan felt increasingly guilty. For one thing, his presence affected Steve's love life, despite his regularly absenting himself in the evenings, passing the time in a nearby pub or cinema in order to leave the flat free. But the time was fast approaching when, unless he bought or rented a flat of his own – which seemed altogether too final a step – he'd have to sort things out with Vicky.

It was undeniable that he missed her and the boys. True, he went down to Kent each weekend to take his sons out, but it was an unsatisfactory arrangement, necessitating brief and difficult meetings with his wife. And at nearly four and six, they were increasingly asking questions he found difficult to answer. Nor was it ideal that during these visits he'd stayed perforce with his mother, who strongly disapproved of his conduct. At least she'd now gone on holiday, and for the next couple of weekends he'd have the house to himself.

But that brought him to another concern. It was only ten months since his father, who'd never had a day's illness, dropped dead on the golf course, a fact Jonathan still had difficulty accepting, and as a much-needed break for their mother, he and his sister, Sophie, had arranged this holiday for her. It was the most damnable luck that her friend Beatrice, who was to have accompanied her, had broken her arm and had to drop out. Which meant that instead of the loving support they'd envisaged, Jonathan feared she might now be lonelier than if she'd stayed at home.

His mobile rang suddenly, startling him into spilling his coffee, and, hastily locating the phone, he saw the call was from
UK Today
and felt a surge of hope. ‘Nick, hi! Got something for me?'

‘Sorry, mate, not at the moment. Or, come to think of it, just maybe.'

‘And what the hell does that mean?'

‘Some bird just rang, asking for your number. Sounded foreign. You might want to give her a call. Could be something in it.'

‘Name?'

‘She wouldn't give it. Sounded pretty cagey to me.'

Jonathan frowned. ‘When was this?'

‘Just now. She was on a mobile.' He read out the number, and Jonathan jotted it down.

‘Right. Thanks, Nick, and if anything comes up, let me know, won't you?'

‘Will do.'

Ending the call, Jonathan picked up the pad and regarded it thoughtfully. A foreign girl who wouldn't leave her name? He felt a stirring of interest. As Nick said, there might be something in it, but even if there weren't, he couldn't afford not to follow it up. Feeling more positive than he had in a while, he punched out the number.

She sounded French, but could as easily be Belgian or Swiss. They arranged to meet in a café across town, though she again withheld her name, saying merely that she'd be wearing a blue jacket.

Jonathan arrived with minutes to spare and, turning into the doorway, cannoned into a young woman on her way out – a young woman in a blue jacket. Her eyes widened as she saw him and a flush spread over her cheeks.

He said quickly, ‘I'm Jonathan Farrell. Didn't we arrange to meet?'

Her eyes dropped. ‘Yes, I . . . I am sorry. I changed my mind.'

‘Well, since I'm here, let's at least have coffee, and perhaps I can change it back again.'

She hesitated, but he took her arm and led her inside to a vacant table, studying her covertly as she settled in her seat opposite him. Mid-twenties, at a guess; short dark hair, with a feathery fringe that accentuated large eyes, now lowered as she let her handbag drop to the floor.

Straightening, she caught his gaze and gave an uncertain smile.

‘You could start by telling me your name,' he suggested.

A pause, then: ‘Elise.'

‘Elise what?'

She made a small movement of her hand. ‘That will do for now.'

Hiding his impatience, Jonathan signalled a waitress, checked his companion's preference, and placed the order.

‘Look,' he reminded her as the girl moved away, ‘it was you who requested this meeting.'

‘You must forgive me.' She smiled, lifting her shoulders in a gesture essentially French. ‘I used up all my courage to telephone your paper. When you were not there, I was . . . relieved.'

The accent was attractive, perhaps deceptively so. Because, Jonathan reminded himself, however hesitantly she spoke, she was
thinking
in her own language.

‘Yet you left your number, and when I called, agreed to meet.'

‘Yes.' Her voice was low, and she was avoiding his eyes.

Their coffee arrived: latte for her, espresso for himself. He needed the kick that Instant had failed to give him.

He tried again. ‘You asked for me by name, right?'

She nodded. ‘I have read . . . your articles.'

That was a surprise. ‘You live over here?'

‘Since two years. For my work.'

‘Which is?'

A tremor crossed her face. ‘In . . . the leisure industry.'

Which could mean anything, Jonathan thought irritably. She might even be a high-class hooker. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes on her face. ‘So why did my articles make you want to speak to me?'

She stirred her drink. ‘You . . . find out things.'

‘And what do you want me to find out for you?'

She looked up quickly, glancing around as though to check they couldn't be overheard.

He waited expectantly, but all she said was, ‘I am not sure.'

This was like drawing teeth, he thought in exasperation. The fact that he'd come more or less on spec showed how desperate he was. Instead of immediately galloping over here, he should have waited for her to ring again, and since she probably wouldn't have done, they'd both have saved time and trouble. In any event, he'd had enough of being messed around. He swallowed his coffee, burning his tongue in the process, and pushed back his chair.

‘OK, you've changed your mind. Let's leave it at that. Enjoy your coffee. I'll settle up at the desk.'

‘No!' She reached out, laying a detaining hand on his arm. ‘Wait! I am . . . sorry!'

He paused, looking down at her. ‘Five minutes. I'll give you five minutes to tell me what you want, then I'm off. OK?'

She seemed on the verge of tears, and he wondered uncharitably if it was an act. ‘You do not understand.'

‘Too right.' But he sat down again. ‘Well?'

She took a sip of coffee and drew a deep breath. ‘It . . . might be dangerous.'

‘
Dangerous
? Dangerous for whom?'

‘For me. And perhaps also for you.'

‘Look, I don't take kindly to threats—'

‘No, no!' She was shaking her head violently. ‘But there are people who would not wish me to speak to you.'

He looked at her helplessly, convinced, despite himself, of her genuine distress. ‘People you work for?'

‘Yes.' It was barely audible.

‘And they are . . .?'

‘That, I cannot tell you.'

He slammed his hand on the table, making the cups dance. ‘Then what the hell do you expect me to do?'

She had jumped at his outburst, and now met his eyes at last. ‘This was not a good idea,' she said quietly. ‘I am sorry to have wasted your time.'

He gazed at her in frustration. ‘Is there
anything
you can tell me?'

She spread her hands helplessly. ‘Not enough. I see that now.'

‘Right.' He stood up abruptly. ‘Then all I can do is wish you the best of luck.' And, leaving her sitting there, he paid the bill and walked out of the café without looking back.

Exactly what was the point of that? he asked himself angrily, striding down the street. A new line in pickups? A honeytrap of some kind? She'd told him less than nothing. Perhaps he should have waited and followed her when she left the café. But to what end? To see if she'd report back to someone?

He smiled grimly; he was letting his imagination run away with him. He'd write the whole thing off as a diversion that had whiled away a boring morning and could now be forgotten. And, as a first step, he'd treat himself to a pub lunch before renewing his search for work.

But dismissing Elise left the field clear for Vicky, and, as he ate, his earlier worries flooded back. When, he wondered miserably, had things begun to go wrong?

When they'd met, she'd been a subeditor on the Women's Page of a paper he occasionally worked for – bubbly, ambitious, full of ideas. She'd shared his excitement as his name became known and increasingly respected, and her pride in him continued through the first year of their marriage. Gradually though, as, more and more often, prearranged visits and outings fell foul of deadlines, she'd become disenchanted.