As Claudia climbed out of the BMW and stretched her too-thin limbs after the long drive, her eyes closed as she found herself assailed by the warm, pungent scent of salty sea air mixing with the sweetness of candyfloss and the metallic taste of traffic fumes. She could hear the hum of the tide surging along with the sound of engines, a musical merry-go-round somewhere close by and the laughter of holidaymakers enjoying the beach. It reminded her of how calming and welcoming she’d found this place the last time they were here – and it was working its magic again.
It was her mother’s voice that broke the spell and, turning to see her coming down the front steps of the villa, Claudia’s heart swelled with love and relief. When had she ever needed her mother more? And when had her mother ever let her down?
‘Nana,’ Jasmine cried and ran straight into her grandmother’s outstretched arms. Marcy was a picture of sixty-four-year-old elegance with short fair hair, warm brown eyes and a smile that was so like Claudia’s there could never be any doubting their relationship. And dressed as she was now in blue-striped Capri pants and baggy white t-shirt, she looked almost as young and sprightly as her teenage self must have been.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, coming to embrace Claudia. ‘You look tired.’
‘A bit,’ Claudia admitted, hugging her hard.
‘It’s stressful,’ Jasmine put in, ‘when you’re afraid you’ve got someone after you.’
Through a smile Marcy reminded her to keep her voice down, and following Claudia to the boot of the car she reached for the brown leather attaché case. ‘I presume this is it?’ she said quietly.
Claudia nodded. She should have left it behind.
‘OK, I’ll take it in,’ Marcy said, and winced as she discovered how heavy it was. ‘You two bring the rest of your things.’
‘Did my new music stand arrive yet?’ Jasmine asked, shouldering a holdall and picking up another.
‘DHL tried to deliver while I was at the supermarket, but we can pick it up tomorrow.’ Marcy’s eyes sparkled again as she said, ‘Come and see the furniture. Some of it’s already assembled thanks to Rog, the very handy man the delivery chaps put me in touch with. He’s coming back to finish off in the morning.’
As she started to turn away Claudia asked, because she had to, ‘How did you feel leaving the house yesterday?’
‘It was OK,’ her mother assured her, although the light in her eyes dimmed, ‘but we can talk about it later.’
Claudia’s mouth was dry. If that wasn’t bad enough, she knew what else she needed to ask, so forcing herself, she said, ‘Have you seen the news?’
Marcy’s expression turned to dismay. ‘You didn’t listen to the radio?’
Claudia hadn’t heard the latest bulletin because Jasmine had been sleeping – and because she was hiding behind a wall of dread.
‘We can get it on my laptop,’ Marcy told her, and led the way inside.
Once past the large blue front door with its sculpted box trees either side and bold brass numbers, they had only one flight of stairs to climb to their flat where the hall was an obstacle course of unopened boxes, and the sitting room, equally chaotic, was flooded with sunlight. A gentle sea breeze was wafting about the place adding its scent to the earthiness of cardboard and newness of three mint-green sofas that were half in and half out of their protective covers. A wooden dining table with six upholstered chairs were already assembled and positioned in front of the kitchen where a kettle looked, for the moment, to be the only appliance on duty.
Marcy carried the attaché case through to the far ensuite bedroom that they’d already agreed would be hers, and after sliding it inside a closet she returned to the sitting room to turn on her laptop. When she’d found the news item she was looking for, she hit pause and rested the computer on the boxes stacked against one wall before hitting play.
As she listened and watched Claudia was aware of bile rising in her throat and Jasmine’s hand searching for hers. She linked their fingers and held on tightly.
Guilty.
She wanted to sob with relief, leap for joy, bury herself away so he could never find her again.
‘He hasn’t been sentenced yet,’ her mother told her, ‘but they’re keeping him in custody; he’s still deemed a flight risk.’
Oh yes, he was certainly that. With all those contacts, all that missing money, give him half a chance and he’d never be seen again.
The screen changed and a reporter began talking to camera.
‘So, as widely predicted, financier, Marcus Huxley-Browne, son of the former trade minister Sir Robert Huxley-Browne, has been found guilty on multiple counts of fraud and insider trading. Sir Robert, who’s believed to be suffering with dementia, was not in court to hear the verdict, but we’re expecting a statement from the family lawyer in the next few minutes.’
As the reporter continued to speak, a still shot of Marcus filled the screen, and Claudia felt so sickened and afraid that it was almost as if he was right there in the room with them. He was a strikingly handsome man, she’d never deny that, with his unruly fair hair, flirtatious smile and chiselled features, but even in this shot where he was supposed to appear nothing but friendly she could see the arrogance, the underlying cruelty that governed him.
‘… although other arrests have been expected since Huxley-Browne was first taken from his home in West London,’ the reporter was saying, as they cut back to him, ‘none have so far materialized. However, a spokesperson for the Serious Fraud Office has made it clear that their investigation does not end here. As we know, all sorts of rumours have dogged Huxley-Browne and many of his colleagues in the City for several years, but perhaps the most sinister are those concerning gangland connections. If – I stress if – any of these are true, it’s not likely Huxley-Browne will be helping police with their inquiries any time soon.’
‘They’re true,’ Claudia muttered.
‘Was his wife in court today?’ a voice from the studio asked.
Claudia’s heart turned over and she’d have stopped the video there if she hadn’t felt masochistically compelled to know what was said.
‘No, she wasn’t,’ the reporter replied. ‘She hasn’t been seen since the start of the trial, and all attempts to reach her today have so far failed.’
Up came a shot of the Kensington house surrounded by media, and Claudia could only feel thankful that she and Jasmine had managed to get out when they had. Please don’t let them mention anything else about me, she prayed inwardly. Please, please.
To her relief they didn’t, so for this report at least there were no shots of her.
A rangy, stooped man with sharp features and thinning grey hair was now ready to give a statement: the family lawyer.
‘Today has shown us what a travesty of justice looks like,’ he declared, raising his lawyerly voice to be heard. It was hard to tell how many cameras and microphones were trained on him, but his piercing eyes found Sky News as though he somehow knew it was the channel she’d be watching. ‘We will not rest,’ he said, looking straight at her, ‘until this verdict is overturned and my client is once again free to resume his family life.’
The threat was thinly veiled and sent a shiver through Claudia that felt as sharp and cold as ice. She’d never met this man, but she knew instinctively that he was as untrustworthy and dangerous as Marcus. He had probably even benefited from the crimes his client had committed. However, he surely wouldn’t have known when making his statement that the house in West London had already been abandoned, or that the shop on Kensington High Street had been sold. But he’d find out soon enough, perhaps as early as today, and then there was every chance that the hunt for his client’s wife and stepdaughter would begin.