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In the outer office, Sandra Langton, who was just putting on her coat, said with obvious sympathy, ‘Tough luck.’
Then, dropping her voice, ‘I must admit I was surprised by how hard old Sourpuss took it…When will you be leaving?’
‘Now…As soon as I’ve cleared my desk.’
‘Well, all the best.’
‘Thank you.’
Shock setting in, Tina climbed the stairs on legs that felt as wadded and useless as a rag doll’s and, sinking down at her desk, gazed blindly into space.
She had been with Cartel Wines since she left college two years ago. It was a job she had loved and been good at. Even old Sourpuss—as the staff called De Vere behind his back—had admitted it.
But that made no difference whatsoever. Due to circumstances, she was now unemployed.
A kind of futile panic gripped her. Six months’ salary was a buffer, but when the alterations to the house had been completed and she moved back into her flat, her rent would be considerably higher. That, added to Didi’s expenses, meant losing her job couldn’t have come at a worse time.
Over the past year, life had been a series of downs with scarcely any ups. Now, with this final blow, she seemed to have hit rock-bottom.
Well, if that was the case, the only way was up.
Allowing herself no more time for regrets, she rose, squared her shoulders and started to tidy her desk top.
Only when it was clear, did she suddenly recall the letter she had been going to read. Seeing the handsome dark-haired stranger had put it right out of her mind.
But where was the letter?
A quick search through the papers she was taking failed to bring it to light.
Oh, well, it must be there somewhere. She would look more thoroughly later.
Finding an almost empty box in the cupboard, she transferred the few remaining items in it to one of the shelves, then, taking her personal belongings from the desk drawers, stacked them in the box.
The plants she had brought to brighten the somewhat spartan office, she would leave.
She pulled on her coat, put the strap of her bag over her shoulder, tucked the box under one arm and, switching off the light, closed and locked the door behind her for the last time. There was nothing of value in the office, so she left the key in the lock.
Just the night security lights were burning, which meant that the rest of the staff had already gone and she was probably the only person still left in this part of the building.
The main entrance doors at the front would have been locked and bolted some time ago. But her car was in the rear car park, so it was just as quick to go through the warehouse.
As, without looking back, she began to descend the stairs to the dimly lit passage, a movement she heard rather than saw made her realise that she had been wrong. There was someone else still here.
At the bottom of the stairs she turned right and in the gloom saw that the double doors at the end of the passageway were swinging slightly.
Whoever was still here was obviously only a little way in front of her and heading for the car park, as she was.
When she went through the doors, however, the long warehouse appeared to be deserted.
More than a little puzzled, she frowned and, her footsteps echoing in the vast space, began to walk past the various bays, with their rows of pallets stacked with crates and boxes of château bottled imported wine.
Last autumn and winter, on the nights she had worked late, she had walked through the warehouse without a qualm. But tonight, for no good reason, she felt on edge, uneasy.
The night security lighting was high up in the roof of the building and left areas of deep shadow that suddenly seemed sinister, providing as they did an opportunity for someone to lie in wait…
She was doing her utmost to ignore the far from comfortable thought, when some sixth sense insisted that she wasn’t alone, that someone was watching her from the shadows.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose and her skin goose-fleshed. Instinctively, she paused and glanced behind her.
Not a soul was in sight.
Gritting her teeth, she was about to walk on when in the silence she heard a faint noise like the brush of a furtive footfall.
The echoing vastness of the warehouse made it impossible to tell where the whisper of sound had come from.
She was standing rooted to the spot when she realised that it would be George Tomlinson, the night security man.
Feeling foolish, she took a deep breath and called out, ‘George, is that you?’
Only the echo of her own voice answered.
She tried again, louder.
Still no answer, apart from the mocking echoes.
It occurred to her that he was probably doing his early evening rounds of the offices, checking that all the lights were out and the doors locked.
But if it wasn’t George she’d heard, who was it?
Perhaps someone had slipped in through the small door the employees used and had been heading for the wages office when they had heard her coming and decided to hide?
Reason soon put paid to that theory. It was Friday night and, as any would-be thief would undoubtedly know, Friday was pay day and the safe would be empty.
After a moment she recalled that there were a couple of cats who lived on the premises.
But cats moved silently and they didn’t go through heavy doors and leave them swinging.
A shiver ran down her spine at the memory.
Don’t be a fool, she chided herself sharply; it was time she used her common sense rather than letting her imagination run away with her.
Instead of someone going out ahead of her, it must have been George, coming the opposite way to check the offices, who had left the doors swinging.
It was a perfectly logical explanation.
Yet, illogically, she didn’t believe it.
Well, whether she believed it or not, it was high time she made a move.
If George had already locked up and completed all his checks—he wouldn’t have worried about a light in her office; he was used to her working late—he could well be ensconced in his little cabin on the far side of the annex, having his tea.
Which meant that he might not emerge until it was time to do his rounds again and she couldn’t stand here much longer. Her ankle hurt and the box under her arm was getting heavy.
Glancing round her, she could see no sign of life or movement. Still the feeling of being watched persisted, as though the watcher was patiently waiting to see which way she would jump.
She pushed the thought away and, summoning all her willpower, decided that as she had already walked more than half the length of the warehouse it made sense to go on, rather than turn back.
Fighting down a panicky impulse to run, she forced herself to walk steadily towards the huge sliding doors at the end of the hangar-like building.
Her legs felt curiously stiff and alien, her breathing was rapid and shallow and every muscle in her body had grown tense. Try as she might, she was unable to stop herself from glancing repeatedly over her shoulder.
When she reached the small staff door to the left of the big main doors and found it securely closed, she breathed a sigh of relief. It boasted a Yale lock so, unless someone had a key, it could only be opened from the inside.
So much for some thief slipping in and hiding! With an over-active imagination like that, she should be writing stories…
Her tension relaxing, she let herself out into the dark, wet night and closed the door carefully behind her. Everywhere appeared to be deserted, though a dozen or so cars remained and, outside despatch, a couple of Cartel’s vans were waiting to be loaded.
The pre-harvest sales push had been phenomenally successful and extra orders for hotels and restaurants were being dealt with by a special evening shift working over in the annex.
Beyond the range of the annex’s lights, however, the car park, poorly lit apart from the entrance, had areas that looked pitch-black.
Having come in almost an hour late that morning, she had been forced to park in one of the old, narrow, brick-walled bays that sloped steeply down towards the river. None of the employees used the bays if they could help it because of the difficult manoeuvring that was entailed, and the fact that they were at the far end of the car park.
There wasn’t a soul in sight as she began to limp to where she’d left her car, but once again she felt that uncomfortable awareness, that disturbing sensation of unseen eyes watching her, and a tingle of fear ran down her spine.
She felt a cowardly urge to head for the annex where there were lights and people…
But then what would she do? Admit that she was scared to walk through the car park alone? They would think she was mad.
And they wouldn’t be far wrong, she thought crossly as, resolutely ignoring her fear, she carried on. Perhaps all the stress of the last year had caught up with her and was making her paranoid? If so, the sooner she got a grip the better.
Unable to see more than a few yards ahead, it took her a moment or two to locate her small navy-blue Ford. When she did, it was a relief to put her carton on the back seat alongside her case and slide behind the wheel.
There! Safe! So much for these stupid fancies.
As she started the engine and began to back out, it occurred to her that she still had no idea where she was heading.
For someone who was…had been…paid to organise things, she wasn’t doing too well on her own account, she told herself wryly. But, for once in her life, she hadn’t been thinking straight, otherwise she would have looked for somewhere inexpensive and booked before she’d left the office.
Her left ankle had stiffened up and she was finding it painful to use the clutch, so it would be as well if she could find somewhere comparatively close.
As she started to turn, it occurred to her that there used to be a smallish hotel a couple of streets away. Now, what was it called…? Fairfax? Fairhaven? Fairbourn? Yes, that was it. She couldn’t remember noticing it lately, which might mean that it had closed down, but—’
From behind there was a sudden dazzling blaze of headlights and a glancing rear impact sent the front of her car swerving into the wall with a grinding of metal and a tinkling of broken glass.
Momentarily paralysed by shock, she was sitting motionless when the driver’s door was jerked open and a male voice demanded urgently, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes…Yes. Quite all right…’ Her own voice seemed to come from a long way away.
The car had stalled when her foot slipped off the clutch but, even so, he reached inside and felt for the ignition key to turn everything off.
‘Then I suggest you stay where you are for a minute while I assess the damage.’ He closed the door against the rain.
Though she felt dazed, part of her mind registered that his voice was low-pitched and pleasant, a cultured voice and not one she recognised.
But that attractive voice had said, ‘while I assess the damage’…She groaned inwardly. From what little she could see, his car appeared to be a big expensive one. And, though he had hit her, she was to blame. If she had been concentrating, instead of thinking about where she was to stay, it might not have happened.
She had just managed to gather herself and was about to unfasten her safety belt and climb out, when the door opened and he was back.
‘How bad is it?’ she asked fearfully.
‘The original impact was only a glancing blow, so there’s hardly a mark on my car…’
She could only be thankful for that.
‘But I’m very much afraid that the damage caused when your nearside front wing hit the wall will make your car undriveable.’
After the kind of day she’d had, it was the last straw and she gave way to a crazy impulse to laugh.
His face was in deep shadow and she couldn’t see his expression but, sounding concerned and obviously wondering if she was about to become hysterical, he asked, ‘Sure you’re all right?’
‘Quite sure…’
A shade apologetically, she explained, ‘I was just seeing the funny side. It’s been an awful day and I’m afraid I’d reached the stage where I either had to laugh or cry.’
‘Then you made the right decision.’
As he held the door against the wind, a scattering of rain blew in.
Suddenly realising that he was standing getting wet when, but for her, he would no doubt be on his way home to his wife, she made to clamber out, favouring her bad ankle.
He stepped back and put a steadying hand beneath her elbow.
Startled by his touch, she said jerkily, ‘I’m really very sorry about all this…’
‘As my car hit yours, I’m the one who should be apologizing,’ he told her.
Honesty made her insist, ‘No, it was my fault. My mind was on other things and when I started to back out I hadn’t realised there was anyone else about.’
‘Rather than stand in the rain arguing,’ he said dryly, ‘I suggest that, for the moment at least, you allow me to accept the blame. Later, if necessary, we can always agree on six of one and half a dozen of the other.’
Opening the door of what, at close quarters, she could see was a top-of-the-range Porsche, he added briskly, ‘Now, before you get wet through, suppose you jump in and I’ll take you home.’
‘That’s very good of you, but I…’ Her words tailed off as, in the glow of his headlights, she recognised the dark, powerful face she had thought never to see again.
When, her wits scattered, her heart starting to race, she stood rooted to the spot, he said, ‘Is there a problem?’
When she didn’t immediately answer, he suggested, ‘Perhaps you don’t trust me?’
