Exposure Read online

  “Are you interviewing me, Ms La Borde? Or is this strictly off the record?”

  Helene laughed lightly.

  “Off the record. Like I said, I’m on holiday.”

  “Well, off the record then, I’d say it depends on who you ask.”

  He paused. “What would you say about me?”

  “Me? I’ve only just met you.”

  “Sure, but using those journalistic instincts of yours... what would you say?”

  Helene crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side.

  “I’d say you can be very charming – when you want to be.”

  He raised his glass to her.

  The match was interrupted abruptly.

  “Charles? Charles! I thought you were getting a bottle of wine. You didn’t say you were having a drink here. I’ve been waiting! Who’s this?”

  “Suse, darling. Meet Helene, a very charming journalist. Helene, this is Susan Hunterdown.”

  “How do you do?” said Helene and held out her hand.

  The other woman looked her up and down coldly, sensing potential competition.

  “Hi.”

  She ignored Helene’s outstretched hand. “Charlie! I’ve been waiting ages!”

  Helene’s handshake withered. The man seemed to enjoy Susan’s ill manners and Helene’s annoyance.

  Normally Helene didn’t like to cause unmarital discord but the gremlin of mischief was whispering in her ear and she was prepared to make another exception. She withdrew her business card from a silver card case and held it out towards him between two fingers.

  “I’d be very interested to hear how an ex-military man copes with civvy life. For an article I’m writing. Call me.”

  Susan was red with barely suppressed temper but the man took the card smoothly and placed it in his wallet. He was clearly enjoying the encounter between the two women.

  Without rushing, he stood up and drained his glass.

  “Well, delightful meeting you. Bon chance,” he said.

  “Ciao,” said Helene.

  The whole pub could hear Susan’s strident complaints all the way up the lane. The men at the bar were thrilled – this was better than telly.

  Helene was pleased, too: Phase One accomplished. She’d laid enough bait: she was certain he’d phone.

  Chapter 4

  Helene took the long way home, driving through delightful narrow lanes, shielded by high stone hedges. She stopped just once to buy stamps – and to post her contract.

  Her hand hesitated as she held the thick envelope at the mouth of the post box. Closing her eyes and saying a brief prayer, she posted it and didn’t look back.

  By the time she arrived at the cottage her spine was aching again and she was feeling hot and uncomfortably moist. Finances hadn’t run to aircon when she’d bought the Renault.

  As she turned into the track that led to her village, she was trying to decide whether she felt hardy enough to dig out a shortie wetsuit and head for the beach, or to open a bottle of wine and sink into a hot bath. At the moment it was forty/sixty.

  But as she pulled into her drive Mrs Jenkin leapt in front of her, straddled the car’s bonnet and Helene had to do an emergency stop on her own gravel.

  “Oh, Miss La Borde! What a to-do we’ve had. The police have been here. But Ron has been at the allotment and no-one was here – I mean I didn’t have your number. Alfie’s been barking and fashed hisself into a lather. Oh, it’s terrible! Terrible!”

  “What on earth has happened? Are you alright?”

  Helene got out of the car, genuinely worried that the old woman was going to have a stroke, she was so purple in the face.

  “Come and sit down. Let me get you a glass of water.”

  Helene went to use her key, then noticed that her front door was hanging open.

  “What the... What’s been going on?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Someone broke into the cottage while you were out. I saw these two shifty-looking characters – in suits – if you don’t mind! And they did something funny with your front door and I saw it open. I think they jimmied the lock. And I knew they were up to no good because you don’t have any friends. So I called the police and they asked me if you were in the house and I said ‘No’, I’d seen you drive away and then they didn’t seem to think it was an emergency and they took so long to get here and Ron was at the allotment and Alfie was howling. So I stood outside and I shouted at them to get out! Yes, I did! And one of them looked out at me and he had this evil look on his face and I knew he was a wrong ‘un. So I told him that God was watching and knew his sins and that the police were on their way and my husband would be back any moment. And I kept shouting and Alfie kept barking and then they left. They ran up the lane towards the church and by the time the police got here there was neither hide nor hair of them. So the police went away again. They gave me this piece of paper to give to you. You’re to phone them when you get in. Oh, oh! What a carry on.”

  Helene took the piece of paper. It had a crime scene reference number on it and instruction to call the police should she find that anything was missing.

  Mrs Jenkin was still a dull shade of magenta so Helene put her arm around the older woman’s beefy shoulder, and drew her gently into the cottage. She saw at once that the place had been subjected to a thorough search: drawers had been emptied out and every book had been torn from the shelves, shaken and dropped. Mrs Jenkin collapsed onto a kitchen chair that groaned ominously. Helene gave her a glass of water and looked around anxiously. When Mrs Jenkin’s colour seemed more natural, Helene ran upstairs to see what damage had been done there: her sea chest was open but the bedroom was still closed. Flinging it open she saw that the room was undisturbed; it was probably only because of Mrs Jenkin’s lifelong nosiness that the intruders hadn’t had time to search it. Not that they would have found anything: nothing interesting had happened in the bedroom for years.

  Helene felt shaky, but hearing Mrs Jenkin wheezing downstairs helped to steady her. She hurried back into the kitchen.

  “I think we could both do with a cup of tea, Mrs Jenkin.”

  “Yes, dear,” said the doughty lady in an unusually quavering voice. “With four sugars, I feel that fashed!”

  To her surprise and dismay Helene found that her hands were shaking as she made the tea. She reminded herself that it was just the adrenalin: her body was telling her to react to the shock, to run – the primitive fight or flight that we’re all born with.

  Knowing that couldn’t stop her body reacting and a knock on the door made her jump, scattering sugar over the worktop.

  Angry that she felt so vulnerable in her own home, Helene squared her shoulders and marched towards the door. A young PC was standing there, notebook in hand.

  “I’m PC Wearne. Are you Miss La Borde?”

  “Ms.”

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s Ms La Borde: M, S. Ms.”

  “You are Helene La Borde?”

  She sighed.

  “Yes. Come in.”

  The young officer hesitated then introduced himself as Police Constable Michael Penrose. He took off his cap and had to bow his head so he could enter without braining himself.

  “La Borde? Is that a French name?”

  Helene pointed him to a seat and the man sat down. “No, Breton. Tea, Officer?”

  “Oh, no thanks. I’ve just had a... er,.. Can you tell me what time you left home this morning, Miss La Borde?”

  “About 8.30am.”

  “It was 8.35am, Officer,” said Mrs Jenkin. “I happened to notice because I was baking some shortbreads and I didn’t want them to burn because they do so easily if you don’t watch them and it was biscuit Sunday at church: we have coffee or tea after the service and I make the biscuits. Well, I saw Miss La Borde get her car out of the garage and I said to Ron, that’s my husband, I said, ‘She’s off before church’. And he said, ‘I expect she doesn’t want to get blocked in,’ and I said,
‘she’s early for a Sunday,’ and then he said...”

  The PC was nonplussed at the tsunami of words pouring from Mrs Jenkin’s hard worked mouth. Helene decided to help him out.

  “I left about 8.30am and, as you see, I’ve just got back,” she said.

  “And where were you today?”

  “Walking the coast path,” said Helene smoothly.

  He nodded and wrote a few words in his notebook. “Has anything been taken?”

  “I don’t think so but I haven’t really had a chance to look around.”

  “Well, let us know if you find anything. My colleague left a crime scene number with your neighbour.”

  He rose to go.

  “Is that it?” squawked Mrs Jenkin. “Aren’t you going to ask me any questions? Aren’t you going to interrogate me? I saw the whole thing you know. It was 2pm this afternoon that I saw them. Strangers! I know the correct time because I was wanting to watch ‘Waterloo Bridge’ with Vivien Leigh and I thought I’d miss the start and I do like Robert Taylor. I happened to look out of the window and I saw them at once. I do think you ought to ask me some questions: I can describe what they looked like. One was ordinary and the other was a darkie. They were both wearing suits. Well, you don’t see that much around here, not unless there’s a funeral on, like we had for Bertie Shaw last week. And even then, the way some young people dress... and the white one had cold, dark eyes like a fish. It made me feel quite faint just to look at him. They jimmied the lock – I saw them do it. Opened this door in a few seconds. Chilling, it was, what with Ron up at the allotment and me here by myself.”

  “Who’s Ron?”

  “My husband, of course, I already told you. He looks after the place when Miss La Borde’s away, which is most of the time...”

  “So your husband has a key to Miss La Borde’s house?”

  “Of course he does. I... what are you suggesting, young man? My husband is as honest as the day is long. It’s for a favour that he prunes her roses and makes sure her post is put on the table...”

  “I’m sure PC Penrose wasn’t suggesting anything untoward,” said Helene, bravely cutting across the current. “Yes, Mr Jenkin has a key to my cottage and I leave a spare with my solicitor in London. And that’s it. Besides, as Mrs Jenkin told you, the men, whoever they were, picked the lock. They didn’t have a key.”

  And although she didn’t want to admit it to herself, the intruders must have had a considerable level of expertise to have opened the door so quickly. Besides, workaday burglars didn’t usually wear dark suits. So who were they – and what did they want?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a pounding at the door. An out of breath Mr Jenkin was standing, trembling in her doorway.

  “Are you alright, Miss La Borde?” he stuttered. “I just heard about this awful business from Brenda.”

  “She’s fine,” yelped Mrs Jenkin from the kitchen table. “I was the one that saw it all and this police officer is accusing us of aiding and abetting the criminals!”

  Mr Jenkin looked from one to the other in utter confusion. The young PC was bleating denials and Mrs Jenkin was building up a head of steam. Helene felt like laughing but instead half collapsed into an armchair and let the wall of sound tumble over her, tremors running through her like short bursts of electricity.

  In the end it was Mr Jenkin who took charge. He marched the young PC all around the cottage and insisted that Helene look to see if anything had been stolen or damaged. He checked and re-checked all the window fastenings and even gave the coffin hole a good kick to make sure it was secure, and only then did he dismiss the young PC Penrose with dire warnings about dereliction of duty.

  “Thank you, Mr Jenkin,” said Helene weakly. “I really feel... well, just... thank you. Thank you both.” And she squeezed Mrs Jenkin’s hammy paw. “If it hadn’t been for you – and Alfie, who knows what they... thank you.”

  Mrs Jenkin was nearly speechless with pleasure.

  “Not at all, my dear. It would be a pity indeed if neighbours can’t look out for each other. And a woman on her own is always a target. As I’ve said to Ron a hundred times, haven’t I, Ron?”

  “You were very brave,” said Helene sincerely. “But please don’t ever put yourself in danger again. It’s just a house and you’re worth a lot more than mere things.”

  Mrs Jenkin swelled to ever greater dimensions at the new idea she’d been brave and it was with many declarations of long-held affection ringing in Helene’s ears that Mr Jenkin was finally able to manhandle his wife out of the cottage whilst she renewed offers to help tidy up; all of which Helene refused.

  “They’ll not risk coming back after this palaver,” said Mr Jenkin over his shoulder, “but don’t forget to bolt the door afore you go to bed, Miss La Borde.”

  Helene promised faithfully to do so and was finally left in peace.

  The rush of adrenalin had passed and Helene felt weak and shaky. She was surprised to recognise that Mrs Jenkin’s almost sympathetic bulk had been reassuring whilst sitting in her kitchen. Now she was alone without even a cat for company.

  She finished her cold tea with an expression of distaste then began to return order to the cottage. She hesitated: PC Penrose hadn’t suggested dusting for fingerprints. She had his number punched into her mobile and was about to dial when it occurred to her that the men who had so efficiently broken into her cottage would have been unlikely to make the rudimentary mistake of not wearing gloves. Still… she stared down at the phone and imagined the dirt and chaos if she insisted on a forensic team. Who knows when she’d get the cottage back.

  She sighed and pushed the phone back in her pocket. Shivering slightly, she drew all her curtains, despite the fact the daylight had not yet faded. Flimsy as they were, the privacy made her feel safer.

  How flimsy indeed are the things that lull us into a false sense of security.

  It was then that she noticed that her computer was on. She frowned, trying to remember whether or not she had turned it off before she’d left that morning. She remembered printing out the contract, but had she shut it down? Or had the intruders turned it on to gain access to her files? Either way, it would have been a matter of moments for anyone to download her entire hard-drive to a memory stick and, if you knew what you were doing, with or without a password. She tried to work out if the machine had been tampered with. It looked the same: a box with a screen, keyboard and mouse. Even if someone had tampered with it, even if they’d deleted the hard-drive, she carried a complete back up at all times.

  Helene knew that there was nothing of interest in her files; most of her contacts were easily traceable: one or two wouldn’t want to be found by the police but the men who’d searched her cottage definitely weren’t police. So who were they?

  The thought revolved in her head as a chilly feeling of dread crept over her. Then she recalled her conversation with Frank.

  “Oh God!”

  It was a moment of madness but she had been overheard, she was sure of it. She’d been a journalist long enough to know that any phone conversation could be listened in to at any time. Say the word ‘bomb’ and ‘Buckingham Palace’ and an automatic red flag would alert the authorities. She suspected that ‘White House’, ‘Langley’ and ‘Spycatcher’ would have had the same effect. Damn it – she more than suspected.

  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 b
izarre 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.”