Nemesis (8 page)

11

Natalie pulled into the basement car park of her apartment block, half-expecting to see another car draw up behind her. Had it really happened? Her hands still trembling, she took her phone from her bag and kept tight hold of it as she went up in the lift. She didn’t relax until she’d closed her apartment door behind her and poured herself a large glass of wine.

After which she switched on her laptop and did something she had never thought of before. She typed ‘Geraint Llewellyn’ into a search engine. There were several pages of entries. It appeared Geraint shared his name with an opera singer, a couple of rugby players and several random Welshmen. Further down the page other familiar names began to appear.
Calahurst.
Hurst Castle.
Sarah Grove.

It was a shock to see her sister’s name on screen. She sat back in her chair and thought about what to do next? Click on a site or let the past stay buried?

She moved the cursor across the screen, hovering over a couple of entries, before making her decision. The screen went black. She put down her wine glass and leant forward, thinking something had gone wrong with the computer. The screen flashed, seemingly torn apart by a jagged streak of lightning.
Great - cheesy SFX.
She gave the site the benefit of the doubt, waiting for an ‘enter site’ link to appear. Instead, there was another flash of ‘lightning’, revealing a brief glimpse of a lily pond, complete with rotting corpse. Natalie stabbed the back button.
Sick bastards.

The second site was more clinical. There was no SFX to sex up events which had no need of embellishment, only the facts, which were well researched and mostly accurate. She scrolled down the index. Sarah was listed under ‘S’ and subtitled ‘the girl in the lily pond’.

The link took her to another page. At the top was a photograph of Sarah. It was a school photograph, released to the press at the time of the murder. With her white-blonde hair, Sarah looked angelic and vaguely other-worldly. There were more pictures too - of Hurst Castle and the famous gardens. These were slightly blurry and amateurish. Presumably the author had taken them himself. The photograph of the castle showed the south wall of the castle burning with scarlet Virginia creeper, so it must have been taken in the autumn. The photograph of the lily pond had no lilies in it and the water was mud-coloured and only a couple of feet deep. That picture had been taken more recently. She imagined the photographer had to shin over the padlocked gate to get it.

Right at the bottom of the screen was another picture.
A drawing, not a photograph.
Something the police liked to call ‘an artist’s impression’. Of a man in his early twenties, with long dark hair, tanned skin and a direct gaze. It was not an accurate likeness. Natalie could have given a better description, but no one had thought to ask her.

Would she have told them?

That knot of fear returned to twist her stomach. It hardly seemed credible. There had been a massive manhunt, a search of every fairground in the UK, every port checked and his picture circulated throughout Europe. For fifteen years there had been nothing - no trail of evidence, no positive sightings - it was as though he’d vanished into another dimension. Yet tonight she’d seen him standing in the castle grounds as though nothing had happened.

Geraint Llewellyn.

12

Fifteen Years Previously

Why should Sarah have all the fun?

Natalie waited for her sister to disappear into the darkness before climbing onto her bedroom windowsill, keeping her head low to avoid banging it on the beamed ceiling. From there it was a matter of slipping through the window and onto the flat roof of the porch beyond. Her father had planted climbing roses along a metal trellis, curving up and over the brickwork, but this was not the time for an elegant descent. She sat on the flat roof, swung her legs over the edge of the porch and lowered herself down. It was further than she had thought, but she landed safely and was soon running down the path,
hurdling
the gate rather than wasting time opening it.

She passed beneath the stone archway onto the main road, where there was a long queue of traffic and a steady stream of people weaving between the cars parked on the pavement opposite. It would be easy to avoid being seen - but just as easy to lose Sarah in the crowd.

Everyone walked in the road, despite the passing cars, and occasionally Natalie lost clear sight of her sister. She quickened her pace, pulling up the hood of her cardigan in case they should spot her and send her home, but Sarah and her boyfriend were lost in a world of their own. The man had his arm curved around Sarah’s waist and his hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. He was tall and had dark hair, cut short, but at this distance that was all Natalie could see. He could have been anybody.

A few hundred yards along and the road began to widen and slope towards the village. Floodlights had been set up alongside the hawthorn hedgerows, and a police officer was stopping traffic to allow pedestrians to cross over to where a funfair had been set up. There was only one entrance - a narrow muddy path, which led over a ditch to an open gate and a queue of people waiting patiently to get in. Natalie dropped back a few paces to allow Sarah and her boyfriend to pass through the gate ahead of her, and then attempted to sneak to the front of the queue, counting on her age and lack of height to let her pass unnoticed. It didn’t work. She was unceremoniously shoved to the back. By the time she’d passed through the gap in the hedge and elbowed her way out of the crowd, they had gone.

The fairground was crammed full of people, jostling against each other in the fight to be first in the queue for the rides. There were plenty to choose from - traditional fairground rides such as the dodgems and the waltzer, and other rides she did not recognise, with names like ‘the Destructor’ and ‘Afterburner’ - the kind of rides where you had to be strapped in before being flung around. These had the longest queues.

Waiting in line for the Destructor were some of the kids from school. She paused to watch them laugh and joke around, and then moved on quickly before they saw her.

It took no time to cross the field. In the distance were the first few houses of the village - the modern detached houses belonging to the newcomers. Beyond those were the older terraced cottages, leading down the cobblestoned street to the quayside. The Destructor had been the last significant ride and she could still hear the repetitive bass of the music. In some way the vibrant noise was reassuring. It proved she was not alone.

This part of the field was dark and silent. There was one last ride, almost indistinguishable from the shadows. The sides had been painted grey to resemble a fortress, although the paint was severely blistered. She walked to the front, stepping carefully over thick electric cables that snaked through the grass. From this angle the ride did not appear so derelict; there were even lights, flickering valiantly against the dark.

“Hello,
cariad
.”

The voice caught her by surprise. It took a moment for her to realise there was a paybox inside the ride, accessed by a metal ramp. Sat behind the glass window was a teenage boy, not much older than
herself
. He was wearing a black t-shirt, emblazoned with the name of some indie band she’d never heard of, which pretty much camouflaged him.

She pushed back her hood and shook out her long, white-blonde hair. As usual, it had the desired effect. For a moment he stared, then opened the door in the side of the paybox and stepped onto the metal platform.

“Hi,” she said, before he could trip himself up with a corny chat-up line. “I’m looking for my sister.”

“There are two of you?”

OK, she had walked into that one.

“You’ve got it,” she told him. “Have you seen her?”

“I’ve not seen a soul. No one comes out this far. I can’t think why.”

He had a faint accent, although she could not place it.
Scots?
Irish?

“Thanks, anyway.” She flipped her hood back up and would have walked away - she should have walked away, if he hadn’t said,

“Aren’t you going to take a ride?”

It was the last thing she wanted to do. The ride was old-fashioned, rickety and seriously cheesy. Was it supposed to be a haunted house?
A gothic castle?
The entrance resembled a portcullis, complete with rusted spikes, hovering over a narrow track.
Very Edgar Allen Poe.
Then it dawned on her. She was looking at a ghost train.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Er, no.
Sorry. Not my thing.”

“Too scary for you, huh?”

How young did he think she was? She fixed her eyes on his, in case he was in any doubt of her sincerity. “It’s a kid’s train,” she told him. “It goes round in the dark and stuff comes out at you. Vampires, ghosts - skeletons too, I expect - all made out of plastic and papier-mâché. I bet there are even rubber bats and fake cobwebs strung up from the ceiling, am I right?”

“You can believe that if you want to,” he said, stepping back into the paybox, “if it makes you feel safe.”

There were two carriages waiting on the tracks and she could hear others rattling around inside, accompanied by the ubiquitous screams. The carriages appeared uncomfortably small and had been roughly painted, presumably to resemble skulls. The platform and steps that led up to the ride were metal, but the rest seemed to be nothing more than huge sections of plywood bolted together, designed to be flat-packed onto a lorry.

Still, he was kind of cute.

She walked up to the paybox and leant on the counter. Now they were inches apart, with only the glass between them, she could see him more clearly. There were tiny lines fanning from the corners of pale-green eyes and dark shadows beneath them. He was older than she had thought. Not a boy of her own age but an adult.
Twenty?
Twenty-one?
Far too old for her.
Her father would have a heart attack.

She grinned.

“You could keep me company?” she suggested.

There was a flash of indecision behind those cool green eyes. “Who would start the ride?”

“The ghost?”

He gave a low chuckle. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”

The doors to the ride crashed open and two carriages rumbled through to join the others at the back of the queue. The occupants jumped down, hardly before the ride had stopped, and ran laughing into the night.

“Do you want a beer?”

It took a moment for her to realise he was talking to her.

“Or coffee?”
He reached behind him and flicked a switch. Instantly the ride was plunged into darkness. “It’s bloody cold tonight.”

“Um, sure,” she said. “OK
… ”

He closed the paybox and locked it, leading her across the grass to a line of caravans parked in the shadow of the trees. Some had lights in their windows and there were people milling about outside. No one gave them a second glance. He led her towards a small, scruffy-looking caravan at the end of the line. Was this where he lived? There were no lights on. They’d be alone. This was such a bad idea.

“Is this where you live?” she asked him.

“It sure is.” He leaned past her to unlock the door.
“Home sweet home.”

That was a matter of opinion, she thought, catching a whiff of stale air, cigarettes and beer. There was a split second while she re-considered her options, but even though common sense was telling her she should run, she still went up the steps.

The caravan was no better on the inside. It was functional - which was about the best she could say - and extremely cramped. The doorway led directly onto a small seating area with a table and an equally tiny kitchen. Every available surface, and there were not many, was littered with clothes, empty drinks cans and what looked like the remains of beans on toast on two plates. Wedged beneath one of the benches, half hidden by an old blanket, were three old video recorders, stacked one on top of each other, and a couple of car radios.

He took off his money belt (which hardly made a sound as he dropped it onto the counter), then pushed the clutter from one of the benches, flipped the blanket back over the junk stored beneath, and gestured for her to sit down.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said. “Or did you want a beer?”

As the Baileys she’d drunk earlier
was
playing catch up, Natalie thought she’d rather not. “Could I have a coffee, please?”

“Sure, take a seat.” He squeezed between the furniture and into what was presumably the kitchen - an area divided off by the grubby-looking counter, with a small sink, microwave and a two-ringed hob.

Natalie sat on the bench, crashing her knee against the table as she did so. You’d have to be a munchkin to live in such a place. How could he bear the mess?

While the kettle boiled he told her his name was Geraint, and then proceeded to make small talk about the fair. She nodded to be polite but her insides were churning. What was she doing? Her father would kill her if he knew where she was.

On the other hand, so might this guy.

He returned to the table with two mugs but sat opposite her. Natalie relaxed the grip on her cardigan and took one of the mugs from his hand, inadvertently revealing the curve of her breast and a lot of goosepimples. Fortunately he didn’t notice. The coffee was too hot, so she placed the mug back on the table and searched around for something to say.

“Do you share this caravan with your girlfriend?”

“I live with my cousin.”

“Your female cousin?”

His mouth stretched into a smile. “No, Bryn’s definitely a guy.”

“He works here too?”

“We all do. It’s a family business.”

She began to relax. “That is so cool. I’d love to work at a funfair.”

His smile promptly vanished. “It’s not all rides and candyfloss.”

“You don’t enjoy it?”

“It’s not the sort of job you choose. It’s my uncle’s business and
- ”
he shrugged and took a long drink from his mug.

“What would you do,” she asked him, “if you could do anything?”

“I’ve never thought about it. You have to take what life chucks at you and make the best of it. There’s no point dreaming for something different.”

Abashed, she reached for her mug, taking it in both hands, deliberately mirroring his position. It was one of Sarah’s tricks. She could feel the heat of the coffee warm her fingertips. His hands, tanned and slightly oil-stained, were only inches
from her own
.

She shuffled in her seat. The cardigan slipped from one shoulder. This time it was deliberate. She watched for a reaction but, although those beautiful peridot eyes never left hers, his expression wasn’t right; the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, even though she’d not said anything funny. Where had she gone wrong?

The door behind them opened. There was hardly time to turn her head to see who it was when she heard a furious, “What the hell is going on?”

Natalie slopped her coffee across the table in fright. Jumping up to avoid getting it on her clothes, she stumbled over one of the radios and fell against the girl standing in the doorway.
A girl with distinctive white-blonde hair.
It was impressive timing to say the least.

“Sarah
… ”
she said, unsure whether to be pleased or put out.

Sarah Grove had the same blonde hair but had styled it with straightening irons. Her eyes were the deep dark blue of a Mediterranean sky, instead of a ghost-like grey. Her nose was straight, rather than tilted towards the heavens, and her lips were full. Sarah didn’t need to pad her bra or wear layer upon layer of carefully applied make-up to look sexy. She just was.

She’s the original, Natalie thought sadly. I’m only the copy.

Sarah scooped up the radio Natalie had tripped over and thrust it into Geraint’s hands.

“Sorry to spoil the moment,” she told him, “but you do know she’s only fifteen?”

“Fifteen?”
Even in the gloom of the caravan there was no mistaking his horror. “I knew she was young but
- ”
He looked at Natalie. “
Fifteen?”

“Nearly sixteen,” Natalie said, aware there was a note of pleading in her voice. “It’s my birthday in less than a week. Why is that such a big deal?”