• [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

     

    DON'T ASK WHY

     

    Annabel Murray

    Had she undertaken more than she could cope with?

    Liana was used to her journalist husband, Anthony, disappearing to follow up a story, but when he was away longer this time without a word, Liana began to wonder if the lurking stranger was connected to the mystery.

    Then she discovered that he led to Breid Winterton, ex-journalist and bestselling novelist. And Breid had more than one reason to hate Anthony.

    Marooned in a lonely Norfolk Fens windmill, Liana learned more than she bargained for. About Anthony--and about her feelings for Breid....

    For Sheila Walsh

    Friend and Mentor with thanks

     

    'Don't ask why, ask what for.'

    Carl Jung

     

    CHAPTER ONE

    On Sunday morning the watcher was still in the square. It was his third consecutive morning—surely too often for coincidence.

    Giana stood slightly to one side of the bedroom window, her tall, slender figure concealed by heavy gold curtains. February could be a treacherous month and a flu-like cold which had run riot among her colleagues had kept her off work and indoors for several days. Now, as on the previous two mornings, she observed without being observed, her heart-shaped face with its high cheekbones set in serious lines.

    Godolphin Buildings stood around an inner courtyard of fountains and rosebeds which in summer would be a blaze of colour. At the moment everything was a uniform grey. At each of the four corners an archway gave access to the busy London streets outside. It was in one of these archways that the watcher had taken up his position this morning, sheltered against the heavy rain. What was the man's interest in this block of flats?

    Giana wasn't normally of a nervous disposition. Her work called for her to be fit, to have both physical and emotional stamina. But there was something unnerving in the man's unmoving stance and, oddly, he was making no attempt at concealment. There must be two hundred people living in Godolphin Buildings and it was idiotic of course to suppose that the watcher had any connection with herself, or even with Anthony, who, in the course of his work, must have made many enemies of one sort or another. She'd meant to mention the watcher to Anthony last night. But Anthony had arrived home late from his current assignment, tired and bad-tempered, as he often was these days.

    She turned her head slightly to look at her husband where he lay sprawled in the big double bed, as always occupying more than his fair share of the space. Her hazel eyes were troubled as she studied the round, bland face that once she'd thought so handsome.

    Giana wasn't quite sure when she'd first realised that her year-old marriage to Anthony Leyburn had been a mistake. Perhaps the knowledge had crept up on her gradually as she'd come to know' more about the virtual stranger she'd married.

    She returned her attention to the watcher. He was still there. Impulsively she decided to get dressed and go out and take a closer look at him. Her cold was in its last throes. She would be able to go back to work tomorrow. Suddenly she felt restless and cooped up, and Anthony would sleep for hours yet. Besides, if the man on the corner was some kind of villain it might be handy to be able to give a detailed description of him.

    Throughout the current winter Giana had taken to wearing colourful tracksuits around the flat. Now it was only the work of a moment to don her bright red mackintosh, matching rain hat and suitable shoes. In her mood of energetic restlessness she disdained the lift and ran lightly down the four flights of stairs.

    It was still early and the courtyard was empty; Sunday morning and the steadily falling rain were keeping other residents indoors. At the outside door she paused, sudden doubt assailing her. Just suppose the watcher was waiting for her? Then she shrugged away the ridiculous notion and stepped out briskly in his direction.

    As she approached him her keen brain assimilated and stored facts which might be useful. He was below average height, of indeterminate age but probably around fifty. Clean-shaven. Half-moon glasses. A jaunty spotted bowtie peeped between the revers of his coat—astrakhan to match his hat. He looked eccentric rather than alarming, and his expression remained uninterested as Giana strode past. Her challenging 'good morning', issued in her throaty, attractive voice, received the barest acknowledgement.

    As she turned the corner of the street she glanced back. No one dogged her footsteps. And after two or three such checks she drew in a sigh of relief and was able to laugh at herself.

    'Being cooped up indoors has made me quite neurotic,' she told a damp huddled pigeon.

    She took the Underground and fifteen minutes later she was window-shopping on Oxford Street. When she returned to the flat, some two hours later, the watcher was still there, but this time she ignored him. Fresh air and exercise had restored her sense of proportion. There was, probably some perfectly good reason for his presence in the square. She was even ready to cope with whatever mood Anthony produced when he awoke.

    Surprisingly, it was an affable one. He was already up and dressed and preparing lunch, an uncommon occurrence.

    'How was the trip?' Giana asked him as they ate.

    'Extremely satisfactory,' he said smugly. 'I got a good story from the rapist's ex-girlfriend. It'll be on the front page tomorrow.'

    Anthony was an investigative journalist for one of the more sensational dailies. Mostly he specialised in exposes of the famous, the wealthy arid the influential. But occasionally he handled lurid crimes of violence. And though Giana did not like his work or his attitude towards the people he researched, she had to admit his pieces were well written.

    He went on with some enthusiasm to relate the facts he had uncovered. When an assignment had gone well he was always on a high, even though the mood might not be of long duration. Today, Giana thought dispassionately, he seemed more excitedly febrile than usual. His swarthy features were animated, his dark eyes glittering. And in the next few moments she thought she knew why.

    'Fancy a night out?' he asked with would-be- casualness. 'There's a do on at old Pratt's place tonight.'

    Simon Pratt, the owner of the paper Anthony worked for, moved in exalted circles. One could always be certain of meeting the celebrated or the notorious at his parties. Anthony must be on the trail of another story, and it must be a big one to incite, all this euphoria.

    Sometimes, after a full week's work, Giana did not feel like attending these rather empty social occasions. And she knew it didn't matter to Anthony whether she went or not; he would go whatever happened. But she'd had several days of enforced inactivity and Anthony's mood had made her curious.

    'Yes, all right,' she agreed.

    This settled, Anthony went on talking. It was typical of him, Giana thought, that he didn't reciprocate by asking how her work had gone while he'd been away. Very early in their marriage she'd given up discussing the hospital or her patients with him. Perhaps because Anthony himself had come from a deprived working- class background, he mistrusted and denigrated the efforts of workers in the public sector. If he were ever to need hospitalisation, she reflected, he would make an awful patient, the kind nurses dreaded.

    Both Giana and her husband had got where they were by their own industry.

    Giana had left school after her 'O' Levels. Her father, vicar of a small parish in Hertfordshire, couldn't afford to keep her in full-time education for another two years. She had done shorthand and typing at school and at first she'd been employed as a secretary-cum-ancillary worker in a residential establishment for the mentally handicapped, not far from her Hertfordshire home. She had liked the work but decided that being a secretary did not totally satisfy her ambitions or her need to help others. On attaining her eighteenth birthday she had applied and been accepted for training as a nurse. Three years later she was a fully qualified SRN and since her marriage had obtained a post in a London hospital.

    She had met Anthony Leyburn at a party to which a friend had dragged her. It was not the kind of party Giana normally attended, though she'd realised since that such events were meat and drink to Anthony. It was a sophisticated affair, the conversation and acquaintance superficial, and Giana had felt very much out of her depth. It was surprising now to recollect how Anthony had come to her rescue. It had honestly never occurred to the modest Giana that her striking looks far outweighed her obvious lack of importance. When the party was over they had left together. Attracted to him, she had agreed to see him again. Their friendship ripened and soon Giana believed herself to be in love.

    Her parents disapproved of her involvement with Anthony. They were not harsh or censorious. It was more of an unease that they expressed.

    'He's too old for you...' Anthony was eleven years older than Giana.'... and he's not our sort,' her mother had warned. 'And I don't mean because he comes from a poor background. God forbid I should indulge in such snobbery, especially in our circumstances. But, Giana, your father's had several long talks with him. Anthony just doesn't have the same values, the sense of responsibility we've tried to teach you. There's a hard, rather callous streak about him. And you don't seem to have anything in common. That's a very important element in a marriage, darling, it really is.'

    But Giana had thought she knew best. Anthony was fun. He made her laugh. He still could. And nowadays she often felt guilty because she didn't love him as much as he must love her.

     

    It didn't take Giana long to decide what to wear that evening. Though Anthony now commanded a good salary, she'd insisted that while they were both working she would pay her own way, and she did not possess a vast wardrobe. She had job security and sometimes job satisfaction, but the career prospects and pay were hardly inspiring.

    The simply cut black dress always looked good on her tall, slender figure, making the ash-blonde fairness of her hair seem even lighter by comparison. The barest touch of make-up that was all her good complexion ever needed, and the few pieces of jewellery she owned completed her outfit.

    They took a taxi to the Pratts'. The party was already in full swing when they arrived. Simon Pratt was surrounded by two or three drinking cronies, but his wife Fay came to greet them.

    'Georgiana!' Fay always gave Giana her full name, 'How nice. You don't often come to see us.'

    Giana liked the older woman. Unlike her burly boisterous husband, Fay Pratt was small and thin with a quiet, faded manner.

    Predictably, Anthony disappeared at once and Fay led the way to the cloakroom where Giana left her modest coat among the assorted fur wraps hanging there.

    'I suspect,' Fay went on as they returned to the large drawing-room, 'like me, you don't much care for these dos?'

    'I'm sure you give very nice parties,' Giana said hastily, anxious not to offend her hostess, 'but I'm usually whacked at weekends. All I want to do is flop and get my feet up.'

    'And get away from people?' the other woman hazarded shrewdly. 'Besides, I imagine you find the sort you meet here much less worthwhile than those you encounter in the course of your work?'

    'I don't find I have much in common with these people,' Giana agreed with a nod towards the crowded room. 'It doesn't seem right that some people should have so little and others so much. Not that I've any Communist leanings,' she added, 'but I would like to see a fairer distribution of wealth and—particularly— health!'

    A hovering waiter offered them cocktails and, as they sipped, Giana looked around her. As she'd anticipated, there were several well-known faces present and she wondered which of them was currently exciting Anthony's attention.

    'Your husband's over there,' Fay Pratt pointed out. 'Such a handsome man, and so charming.'

    'Yes,' Giana said drily.

    Anthony had a bold approach, a charm that never failed to captivate strangers, women in particular. He could make a woman think she was the only person in the room who mattered. But Giana, who knew him better, was aware that every ingredient of that charm had been tested and perfected. She knew all his little tricks. The firm handclasp. The easy joke. The deep, deceptive candour of his gaze.

    'Did you want to join him?' Fay asked.

    'No, thanks. He won't want me around while he's grilling someone.' They both smiled at Giana's description of journalistic techniques.

    The someone this time was a young brunette—very young. Giana didn't recognise her, though she must be of some importance to attract Anthony's notice. From his intent manner, he was subjecting her to some close questioning. Yes, she had to be business, Giana decided. She wasn't the type he usually flirted with. Anthony preferred mature, experienced women who knew the rules of the game, not the ingénue type who might take him seriously.

    The two women found themselves a seat on a deep settee in an alcove and settled down to chat. Fay Pratt was genuinely interested in Giana's career.

    'Are you still enjoying your work, Georgiana?'

    Giana wrinkled her shapely nose attractively.

    'I wouldn't say "enjoying" was exactly the word. It's not a glamour job, is it? But it is a challenging one and I'm doing what I wanted to do, helping people. But there are bad moments, too—when patients die in spite of everyone's efforts. And it's even worse when it's a young child that dies. That's the sad side of the work.'

    'The part I should dislike the most is emptying bedpans,' Fay confessed. 'Or seeing accident cases brought in. Blood!' She shuddered. 'How do you stand it?'

    'I don't think I'm particularly squeamish, though once or twice I have felt bad,' Giana admitted. 'But I try not to show it, of course. And so far I've managed not to .panic when we've had a sudden rush of accident victims.' In fact Giana did herself less than justice. She had remained calm and clear-thinking throughout many a crisis. 'When people are badly hurt there isn't time to worry about yourself and how you feel.'

    'Well I think you do a marvellous job,' Fay said warmly, 'It's a great pity nurses aren't better paid for what they have to do. How you cope with it I can't imagine. Shifts—evenings, nights, even weekends—and being a housewife!' Fay's life was totally devoted to her newspaper-tycoon husband's comfort, and Giana smiled at her emphatic manner.

    Talking to Fay made the evening pass surprisingly quickly, even though it was well into the small hours before the first guest made to leave.

    Anthony, Giana noticed, had spent almost the entire evening with the young woman, who was also extremely pretty.

    'Who's the brunette in the yellow dress?' she asked Fay.

    'No idea, except that I heard someone call her Tina. I don't know half the people who come to these affairs. Simon just tells me how many to cater for. Would you like me to ask Simon who she is?'

    'Goodness, no. It's not important.' Giana hadn't been deliberately watching her husband. In the early days of their marriage she had been a little jealous when he'd paid attention to other women, but now she knew it was all a calculated part of his stock in trade. In public he was all affability and charm to those they met. In private he hadn't a good word to say for anyone, not even their mutual friends. His work, too, reflected his cynical attitude towards life and people in general.

    Above all else, Giana prized sincerity. Perhaps it had been when she'd realised Anthony did not possess this quality that the disenchantment had begun and gradually she'd fallen out of love with her husband. If it had ever been love. Sometimes she wondered if it hadn't just been infatuation. Her parents had gently suggested that it might be.

    Not that there was anything she could do about the unsatisfactory state of her marriage, Giana thought sadly. She had made her bed and she must lie on it— literally. There was no way she was going to let Anthony down. They might not be compatible, but he'd given her no other grounds for complaint. Besides, with her parents she'd had a secure and stable family existence in which codes of honour and unspoken rules existed. She still lived her life by those strong moral standards and believed staunchly in the sanctity of the marriage vows she'd taken. Her parents had been unhappy about her marriage but they would be shocked to the core if she left her husband. Divorce was something that happened to other people, the kind of people Anthony wrote about. Yet sometimes, on the rare occasions she allowed herself to dwell on it, the thought of the long years ahead dismayed and depressed her.

    Maybe if she could have had a child things would have been different. But Anthony didn't want children.

    'My mother had ten of us,' he'd told Giana once, 'and we lived in abject poverty. I'm not going to work my guts out to support a load of kids. In the end they don't thank you for it.'

    Anthony was still cock-a-hoop on the journey home, though his conversation was all small talk. He never divulged anything about his current investigation until it was 'in the bag' as he put it. As usual he'd had plenty to drink, and Giana was glad they'd taken a taxi.

    As the vehicle deposited them at the archway most convenient for their flat, Giana noticed another taxi overtake and draw up a few yards ahead of them. While Anthony paid their driver, she watched the occupant of the other taxi descend. It was the man in the astrakhan coat. She nudged Anthony.

    'See that man?'

    'What about him?'

    'He's been hanging around here for several days. I believe he's watching someone. And he's just got out of that taxi. Suppose it's us he's following?'

    'The chap probably lives here.'

    'If he lives here, why would he stand around for hours in the rain, just watching the place?' Giana argued. 'Anthony, he makes me nervous.'

    Rain was falling again and irritably Anthony hustled her inside the building.

    'I don't see why. You're getting neurotic,' he told her. 'He's hardly likely to be after you.'

    'I am not neurotic!' She refuted the suggestion indignantly. 'Besides,' she reminded him, 'he could equally well be watching you.'

    'Most unlikely. Even if he were, he's only a pint-sized looking article. I can take care of myself.'

    The bedside clock said almost half past three as they undressed, in silence for the most part. Giana could tell Anthony was still engrossed with thoughts of his latest project. From time to time a self-satisfied little smile curled his rather sensual mouth. Once in bed he gave Giana a perfunctory kiss, then almost immediately he fell asleep. He'd done that quite often in the last two or. three months, and Giana was ashamed of her relief. Her husband had always been a highly sexual man and his recent abstention puzzled her. Sometimes she wondered if he was seeing another woman.

    Not surprisingly, they both overslept next morning. For Anthony it wasn't such a disastrous occurrence, since his hours were flexible. Journalism wasn't a nine-till-five job, he'd told Giana in the early days of their marriage, when he'd been late for meals.

    Neither was hers, Giana thought ruefully as she dressed hurriedly in her uniform, but she'd given up expecting Anthony to sympathise.

    Anthony was the first to leave. As she dumped the breakfast pots in the sink to be washed that evening, a slovenly necessity she deplored, Giana watched him stride across the courtyard below. Although they had a car, Anthony only used it when a story took him out of the city.

    She was in a hurry, but for some reason she loitered to watch him out of sight. Suddenly she stiffened. Casually, but none the less certainly for all that, the watcher was following her husband.

    She snatched up coat and handbag and flew downstairs, but when she emerged into the square both men were out of sight. She knew the route Anthony took every morning. Forgetting for the moment that she was late and that she was going in the opposite direction from the bus she normally caught, she plunged into the Underground and struggled through the thronging commuters.

    She reached the barrier too late. Anthony was just disappearing down the escalator with his pursuer only yards behind him. She called his name, knowing even as she did so that it was useless.

    She was fifteen minutes late for work. She had thought of phoning Anthony at his office, to warn him that he'd been followed. But she knew he would probably scoff at her 'vivid imagination'. Besides, they were short staffed on the ward. Most of the nurses were doing the work of two.

    * * *

    Her shift over, Giana still had errands to do before she could return home. These included visiting an elderly friend, something she tried to do at least two or three times a month. Old Mrs Hibbs was a former long-stay patient whom Giana had befriended. Quite often, with some patients, a strong bond was formed. But somehow Mrs Hibbs wasn't just 'a case'. She was special. In a way she reminded Giana of her late grandmother. Mrs Hibbs had no close relatives but, though she lived alone and was plagued by endless ailments, she was a cheerful soul who looked forward eagerly to Giana's visits.

    'You look tired, dear,' was Mrs Hibbs' greeting.

    'It's been a hectic day,' Giana said as she carried the tea tray through to the 'best room'.

    'You try to do too much for other folks,' Mrs Hibbs said. 'Wonderful, you are. Next thing to a saint, and I'm a selfish old woman expecting you to call on me like you do.'

    'Nonsense!' Giana smiled. 'Coming to see you relaxes me, helps me unwind before I go home. So I don't take out the day's frustrations on my husband,' she joked.

    But despite her fatigue and the depression which sometimes overtook her at the end of the day, she listened quietly as Mrs Hibbs chattered on. She'd heard all the old lady's stories before, but Mrs Hibbs had very few visitors, sometimes none between Giana's calls. Part of the ritual was that they should listen to the news together. Mrs Hibbs wouldn't have a television in the house.

    'Give me the radio any day,' she said as she always did. 'Leaves more room for the imagination.'

    The period while the news was on was the only time Mrs Hibbs ceased her flow of conversation and Giana was able to relax her attention. She leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the reader's soothing tones wash over her. She was vaguely aware that he was reporting on the usual worldwide disasters: wars, rumours of wars. And there were problems at a national level: only that afternoon an aeroplane on a charter flight had nose-dived into the Channel with probable loss of lives. There had been a motorway pile-up in the north of England, due to thick fog.

    But she wasn't giving the broadcast her full attention. Her mind was still half on a family she'd talked to earlier at the hospital and to whom she'd had to break the news of their tragic bereavement. Listening to other people's depression ought to make you count your own blessings, Giana thought. But sometimes she felt just like a sponge for other people's misery, and the anguish she absorbed seemed to stay with her for hours. Her colleagues told her she let herself become too involved, but somehow she just couldn't help people by remaining a detached observer on the edge of their sorrow. Her train of thought continued as she wondered if there was anything she'd left undone or unsaid that could have helped that family.

    'Terrible, isn't it?' The old lady leaned forward and switched off the radio, and guiltily Giana snapped out of her introspective mood. 'All those people missing. Their poor relatives.' Then, with a prosaicness that restored everyday sanity, 'Another cup of tea, dear? Another scone?'

    'No, thanks, Mrs Hibbs.' Regretfully, 'I really ought to be going.'

    'Not yourself today, are you?' the old lady commented. 'You're usually so bright and cheerful. A lovely-looking girl like you should always be smiling. You wouldn't think it to look at me now, but I once had lovely silvery-blonde hair like yours.' She hobbled ahead of Giana to open the door. 'See you again soon?' she asked anxiously.

    'I hope so.' Giana bent and kissed the soft elderly cheek.

    There was still her shopping to be done at the late- night supermarket. Then there was a long queue for the bus and when it came it was crowded, standing room only. Giana was thankful to reach her stop. She was tired, but nevertheless she hurried along the street, threading her way in and out of the crowds, the heavily laden carrier bags bumping against her long slender legs. It was a relief to find there was no watcher on the corner tonight.

    She took .the lift to the top floor, unlocked her front door and set down her shopping with a thankful sigh. Though she was later than usual, she was still first home. Thank goodness. Anthony disliked being kept waiting for his evening meal. She unpacked the shopping and began to prepare dinner. While it cooked she showered and changed out of her workaday uniform into one of her casual leisure suits. She might even have time for a much needed cup of coffee. She didn't really like tea, but she'd never had the heart to tell Mrs Hibbs so.

    She switched on the television just in time for the news. It was almost word for word what she'd heard on the radio. She flicked to another channel, swung her feet up on to the settee and sipped her coffee as she watched.

    It was the dregs of her drink soaking through her trousers that woke Giana to the realisation that she'd been dozing for at least half an hour and her cup had upended itself. Heavens! The dinner! Fortunately it was a casserole and it hadn't spoilt. But still no Anthony? If he was going to be this late he usually tried to get to a phone and let her know. She looked out of the window. The square below was empty, dark except for the lamppost at each corner. No one loitered in any of the archways. Giana's earlier nervousness returned. No watcher and no Anthony. The two facts assumed a sinister significance.

    Then she saw the note which, earlier, her tired eyes had failed to see. It had slipped down and lay flat on top of the television set. She ripped open the envelope. 'Came back to pack a case,' the message read. 'Following up a promising lead. Expect me when you see me.' Giana heaved a sigh of relief. Her imagination had been working overtime.

    It was part of Anthony's rebellion against his deprived youth that he demanded everything be done in style. But with no need this evening to make an effort, Giana served her own dinner on a tray in front of the television, and after watching a couple of favourite programmes she washed up and decided on an early night.

     

    The rest of the week passed in uneventful routine. There were no further communications from Anthony, but that wasn't unusual when he was hot on the scent of a story.

    On Friday, Giana was home early for once. As she got off the bus she saw the man in the astrakhan coat just leaving Godolphin Buildings. He couldn't have seen her, and on a sudden impulse she determined that she would follow him. It was surprisingly easy in the crowded Underground to keep him in view while remaining unobserved herself. At Bond Street he left the train, walked briskly down a side street and entered an office block in a mews behind Claridges Hotel.

    After a discreet interval Giana ventured into the foyer, where she discovered that two firms occupied the building: an estate agent downstairs and upstairs a firm of private investigators—Ellis and Palmer.

    'Can I help you?'

    Startled, Giana swung on her heel. She hadn't noticed anyone in the reception area. For a moment she stared at the smartly dressed girl, then her brain clicked into gear.

    'That gentleman in the astrakhan coat, who just went upstairs. Was that Mr Palmer?'...

    [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
  • zanotowane.pl
  • doc.pisz.pl
  • pdf.pisz.pl
  • wzory-tatuazy.htw.pl