The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One) (6 page)

In the proper light of the cottage Anna's plight became all too apparent. She
was indeed covered from head to toe in ditch water laced strongly with pig, and
from self protection Adam wasted no time in showing her the bathroom, the shower
and every available fragranced soap he could lay his hands on.

It was only when he could hear the shower running that he realised that the
events of earlier in the day had receded from his mind. That's the effect
Dunwich had, he thought, or was something else responsible?

Ten minutes later, having deposited Anna's case in 'Last in Line', Adam returned
to see Anna coming back down the stairs, a caterpillar turned butterfly. He had
to admit that the bathrobe looked better on her than it did on him.

"Wow. You clean up really well, you know that?" And Adam meant it. He surveyed
the long black hair, now gleaming, and the bathrobe revealing a neat figure with
curves in all the right places. She bore no resemblance to the muddy figure that
had disappeared gratefully into the bathroom fifteen minutes earlier.

They
stood and surveyed each other for a minute, weighing up what they saw before
them. Anna seemed to give Adam a thorough examination, but an onlooker would
have observed that she was more interested in his face than anything, as if
assessing what was going on behind it. Adam found it mildly disconcerting,
whilst he on the other hand, regarding her figure, was experiencing feelings
that he had submerged since Fran died, and try as he might they just wouldn't go
away.

"Can I get you a drink or something to eat?"

"Coffee, I need coffee."

Adam smiled. "Brazilian or Kenyan? Black, latte, americana, cappuccino or
intravenously?"

"Listen Adam Lennox, if you know what's good for you, don't mess with a New
Yorker low on caffeine. Just give it to me any which way."
Adam took the hint
and they moved briskly into the kitchen, all oak and country utensils, where the
coffee maker sprang into life, much to his relief. He didn't want to find out
what happened when a New Yorker's caffeine tank showed completely empty.

Adam pulled out the largest mugs he had. "So how long have you been in
England?"

Anna sat on a high stool and polished the work surface with a well-manicured
nail. Adam made a mental note to have the home help come in more often.

"This
time around, eight months. Third visit. Like the people and the history, not
too fussed about the weather." She looked pointedly at the pile of muddy clothes
by the back door and they both laughed.

"You have family Stateside?" Smalltalk expert. Adam had been to night-school,
passed the tests.

"Just the old man left. Mom died when I was eleven. I had a brother, two years
older than me. Died seven years ago in July. Dad retired to LA last year."

Adam wasn't good at sympathetic noises so left silence to do the job for
him.

Anna broke it. "So what about Adam Lennox. What's in his background that causes
him to go around saving maidens in distress, or in ditches for that matter."

Adam hesitated. "You really want to know?"

She nodded and smiled. "I really want to know."

Adam poured the coffee and passed the larger mug to her, just to be on the safe
side. He sat on a chair by the table.

"Born to well off parents. Educated at public school, rebelled, lived on the
streets for several years, joined the army, left when I decided that I wanted to
live long enough to receive a pension, dossed around for a while until I
discovered I had a talent for publicity management. Started my own business.
Spend my spare time rescuing beautiful maidens in distress." Some CV.

"Well
I appreciate the way you spend your spare time, Adam Lennox." She rose and
moved across to Adam and sitting on his lap gave him a lingering kiss full on
the lips, her long dark hair brushing his cheek, whilst the bathrobe slid off
her shoulders. "You know, if we went upstairs to your bed I guess I could show
you the full extent of my gratitude."

Now this was definitely new territory and Adam did a double take whilst a
maelstrom of mixed emotions surged through him.

He looked away from her. He struggled as images of Fran flashed through his
mind. His continual dilemma of what to do with Fran's memory when it came to
relating with other women returned once again to haunt him, causing guilt, anger
and confusion to dominate the moment. One instant he was sure that Fran would
have understood, the next he could imagine the hurt expression on her face and
doubt his love for her. He turned back to the semi-naked, very attractive woman
on his lap.

"I'm sorry, I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

He held her gaze. "Can't."

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't like girls?"

"No, nothing like that. My wife died three years ago." Oh come on, he thought,
get over it. Move on. Visions of Bel and Clare flashed before him unbidden and
took him by surprise.

"So when was the last time?"

"Three years ago."

"Wow. You really do need to move on."

Adam hesitated. She couldn't know Bel, could she? Or could she?

"It's too complicated. No reflection on you. And no offence meant."

"None taken."

She slid off his lap and without embarrassment moved around the kitchen
finishing her coffee.

"Well I'm bushed. I guess I need to sort myself out and then turn in."

"No problem. You can return the bathrobe anytime."

"Actually I wanted to ask a favour. Can I hitch a ride tomorrow to someplace I
can get a rental car. I didn't realise this was so far out of town."

"Sure. I need to leave for London at ten. I can drop you off on the way."

He watched Anna disappear out into the darkness. It had been one hell of a day.
On reflection, he was warming to these American women he thought. Adam Lennox,
fully qualified basket-case.

Chapter 8

As often happens in that part of the country, after a night's rain the next
morning gave way to a pale blue sky reflecting the sun off the sea. The sound of
waves on the shore was just discernible as was the call of wood pigeons in what
remained of the old forest opposite the cottages. Here and there the bright
yellow of gorse in bloom on the heath was evident, adding a splash of artist's
palette to the scene.

The jog to the beach was a short quarter mile, down to the beach car park and
the Fish cafe. The sound of diesel engines and the smell of exhaust plumes
filled the air as the vividly coloured fishing boats were being winched ashore,
high onto the shingle bar that separated beach from marsh. Already some fish
were being sorted and some chalkboards displayed the day's prices on the
fishermen's huts, with Southwold and Walberswick visible along the shoreline to
the north.

The
shingle beach was a killer on the muscles but when the tide was right and there
was exposed sand it was a glorious run for the two miles to the coastguard
cottages at Dunwich Heath. Protected by the sandstone cliffs, the sound of the
waves was always soothing and the salt spray better than eucalyptus. Five
minutes break gazing out over Minsmere, and beyond to Sizewell Power Station, a
strangely incongruous pairing. In between, Dingle Marshes, the ruined Chapel and
the sluice, which fed the lakes of the RSPB bird reserve. By the time he
returned to the cottage he always felt washed clean by the exercise, no matter
what stresses there had been in the City.

On this occasion as he reached the beach he realised he had been joined by Anna
in grey jogging suit, hair in a ponytail. Last night seemed a lifetime away but
he wasn't sure he wanted the company, after all this was his beach.

"I love that cottage, it's so cute."

Cute?

"You sleep well?" Making small talk with the holidaymakers you understand, it's
only polite.

"Slept like a log, no dreams of pigs or ditches at all."

"Good." Small talk, short of breath whilst running, long grammatically correct
sentences were thankfully not possible.

Breath was then conserved until the break at the coastguard cottages where they
sat on a bench to prevent it blowing away in the breeze.

Adam kept his eyes on the scenery whilst Anna kept her eyes on Adam.

"Can I ask you a question?" she posed.

"Try me."

"What did your wife die of?"

Adam turned to meet her gaze.

"She was killed in a hit and run accident."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realise."

"No. Well how could you?" And with a quick movement that prevented any further
questions, he left the seat and started back to the beach.

The return was the quickest time he had clocked for a while. He wasn't sure if
he was trying to sweat something out of his mind, or punish himself for
something, but it did have the bonus of leaving Anna and uncomfortable questions
far behind.

Adam reflected, as he finished breakfast standing on the back doorstep and
looking out onto the somewhat overgrown, but natural, back garden. This is what
made him come here, the sense of renewal and refreshment, wiping away the
yesterdays, making way for the tomorrows. The happenings of yesterday, of
elephants and cameras, of John Bartlett and his secretiveness had all receded,
although strangely it was the picture of Bel that he couldn't get out of his
head.

At
almost exactly ten o'clock a knock at the door proved to be Anna, as expected,
claiming the promised lift. Looking considerably more refreshed and with that
smile back in evidence she seemed to match the mood of the day. Adam Lennox,
psychoanalyst par excellence.

They locked up the cottages and made their way through the luxuriant (Adam would
never acknowledge that it was overgrown) front garden to the gate. The previous
evening, for speed, he had left the car by the roadside, on the gravel verge
opposite the cottages. Adam played his usual game of 'see how far away you can
be and still get the car remote control to operate'. Boys and their toys. So sue
me. His record to date was twenty feet, on a good day with a following wind.

Today was windless and at about fifteen feet the remote connected.

There was the loud crack of a pistol shot, always louder than you imagine it
should be, and a puff of smoke billowed up from the car engine cowling. Adam
dropped to the ground instinctively, rolling away across the roadway into the
cover of the hedgerow. Almost without any delay flames started to appear and
within seconds the entire vehicle was a raging inferno.

Living
on the streets in London, or on patrol in Iraq you didn't hang around in these
circumstances, when it was as dangerous to be a witness as it was to be the
victim. From his prone position Adam watched his much beloved car literally
going up in smoke and many thoughts flashed through his mind, most of them
unprintable. The heat very quickly became intense and the acrid billowing smoke
drifted away on the light breeze, a growing black stain against the blue
sky.

He reached instinctively for the revolver at his waist before remembering that
he wasn't in Iraq any more and didn't walk around armed all the time.

After what seemed like minutes but was probably less than twenty seconds, Adam
became aware that his mobile was trying to attract his attention and in an
absurd reflection of normality he reached into his pocket and pulled it out.

"Yes?"

"Mr Lennox. Nice car. Shame to waste such a beautiful beast." The Irish lilt was
almost ingratiating and apologetic but soon the tone changed.

"Stay away from the police Mr Lennox. Keep your nose out of John Bartlett's
business or next time the bomb will go off when you put the key in the ignition
and you'll end up dead just like old man Bartlett, or like your very late wife."
There was a pause. "And be sure that your friend Miss Trent gets the message
too." Another pause. "Now that would be such a waste."

Adam's mind took a second to catch up. "Who is this? What do you want? What the
hell are you talking about?"

"You
are not a fool Mister Lennox, don't waste your life, you'll work it out, as
will that pretty young lady who was behind you a moment ago."

Alarms went off in Adam's brain. Shit. He's here. Bastard. He can see us. He
raised his head slightly and scanned the scene with a trained eye out of
practise. Nothing visible. He scrambled to his feet and turned to warn Anna,
only to find her already scrabbling to unlock the door into her cottage.
Vaulting the picket fence he followed her into the cottage and slammed the door
behind him.

Anna turned on him, grabbing his arm with both hands.

"What's going on Adam? What happened to your car? What was that phone call?"

This was not a time to stand around answering questions and Adam didn't waste
precious seconds. There was the sound of shots hitting the front door, and a
front window breaking upstairs as he pulled Anna roughly to her feet, pushing
her through first the living room and then the kitchen to the back door. A brief glance up and
down the row of gardens revealed no particular danger to him. They ran across the small
yard to a tumbledown outhouse with broken windows, peeling paint and a
profusion of ivy. Adam pulled open the large double doors, pushing them past
knee high weeds, to reveal a well worn Landrover passed its prime. The smell of
dust and nesting rodents rose up past them in the draught caused by the open
doors.

"Get
in," he yelled. He scrambled over boxes of rubbish to the driver's door without
waiting to see if she was actually following instructions. By the time he had
the key in the ignition Anna was already in her seat. He turned the key
unhesitatingly before the caller's words came back to him. A muffled roar
sounded from the road as the Lotus' petrol tank ruptured and sent gouts of thick
black smoke into the air. The Landrover's engine fired first time, without
incident, and they rocketed out of the yard, onto a track behind the cottages,
before bucketing, without reducing speed, onto the metalled lane that led out to
the public roadway.