He Will Find You: A nail-biting and emotional psychological suspense for 2018. Diane Jeffrey

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СКАЧАТЬ ago in Minehead.

      I look to the right, observing the lush green grass speckled black and white with sheep, and beyond that the blue-brown water of Lake Grasmere. I’m struck by how incongruous this residence seems against the surrounding countryside. This isn’t the right place. But a quick glance at the black and white chequered flag on the satnav screen confirms that I have arrived at my destination. Even so, I remain hopeful that the right house might be situated a few metres further along the road until I see the slate sign on the wooden gate. The Old Vicarage.

      I can’t quite believe it. It has taken me nearly eight hours to drive all this way, but I’m here at last. The Old Vicarage, my new home. I’ve left everything and everyone I know; I’ve left my whole life behind in Somerset. Here I am, moving to a region I’ve never visited, into a house I haven’t laid eyes on before. This is the start of a new existence for me. It should be exciting, but I feel so scared. Butterflies are hurtling around in my stomach. It’s only to be expected, I suppose. This is such a monumental change.

      As I get out of the car to open the gate, I notice a mailbox. To my surprise, my name is on it. He has handwritten it on a scrap of white paper and stuck it next to his own name, engraved on the rectangular metal plate. It must have rained since it was added because the ink has run slightly where the Sellotape has come away. I can still make out my name, though. KAITLYN BEST. But even that is about to change.

      There is a cattle grid and I’m careful walking over it as I push the gate open. I have to get out of the car again to close the gate once I’ve driven through it. It’s only then that I realise how cold it is outside this evening. Even as I shiver, I can’t help but admire the view of the fields and the lake. The daylight is fading fast now, but the scene is breathtaking. I could get used to this place.

      But then I turn around and see the house again. It’s late Georgian, although it makes me think of a Gothic castle. It’s been in his family for years, this place, and I know he loves it. Telling myself it’s probably more welcoming inside, I drive up to the house.

      I use the heavy knocker to bang on the front door. I wait for several seconds, but there’s no sign of anyone moving inside. I step down from the porch and pace up and down in front of the house, looking around me and pushing my hands into my coat pockets for warmth. Creeper covers part of the wall. I imagine in any other season it must look beautiful and detract from the drab colour of the stone, but at this time of the year the web of spindly branches looks dead and bare. There’s a light on upstairs. He must be here. I’ll try again and then I’ll text him.

      Am I making a terrible mistake? I wonder, not for the first time. My dad and my elder sister both tried to talk me out of coming here. After all, I’ve only seen this man once in the past twenty years. I step forwards again and go to grab the knocker, but then I spot a metal handle hanging down to my right and so I pull on it instead. I hear a loud chime sound inside the house. Seconds later, the door opens and he’s standing there. Alexander Riley. My heart beats madly. He’s smiling and it warms me through. Any doubts I had evaporate as I look up into his handsome face.

      ‘Katie,’ he says, sweeping me into his arms and squeezing me so tightly I can hardly breathe. He smells amazing. ‘Come in. Welcome.’ He releases me, takes my hand and leads me into the house. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ He doesn’t pause for me to answer. ‘I hope your drive wasn’t too long,’ he gushes as we walk side by side through the entrance hall, away from a huge pine staircase leading upstairs.

      ‘Here’s the sitting room. Go on through and I’ll bring you some tea.’ He pushes me gently into a spacious room to the left with high ceilings and a log fire burning at the end of it. ‘I’ll bring your stuff in from the car later. I’m so glad you’re finally here.’ And with that, he disappears.

      I stand with my back to the fire for a couple of minutes, admiring the built-in bookshelves. Many of them have books on them, but there’s more than enough space for some of my paperbacks when I bring up the boxes I’ve stored at my dad’s house.

      Feeling exhausted after the journey, I sink into an armchair. I look out of a sash window at the other end of the room. This one has thin wooden bars, too, in keeping with the Georgian period, no doubt. They’re supposed to be decorative, I imagine, but I find them disturbing. The windowpanes are black now; night has fallen quickly.

      Alex soon comes back carrying a tray with sandwiches, biscuits, a teapot and two mugs. He puts it down on the coffee table. Then he walks over to the sideboard and pours himself a Scotch. Holding the glass in one hand, he puts his arm around me from behind my armchair and, stroking my breasts and then my tummy, he plants a kiss on the top of my head. Then he bends over the coffee table, and from a little bowl on the tray he takes two ice cubes, which chink as he drops them into the amber liquid. He drags a heavy armchair nearer to mine and sits down.

      I watch him as he does all this, his blue eyes bright with excitement. Tall with dark curly hair, he’s very good-looking. I know he has an incredible, muscular body under those jeans and that sweater. When he smiles, dimples appear in his cheeks. He has an aquiline nose. His sideburns are way too long, but I find this endearing. His face has the healthy glow – even in winter – of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. I have so many photos of him – I’ve kept all the photos he sent me in his emails – but none of them really do him justice.

      ‘I’m finding it hard to believe we’re finally together,’ he says, picking up the teapot and swirling it around. Then he pours tea into a mug that already has a little milk in it. ‘Do you take sugar?’ he asks.

      It seems strange, this question, when we know each other so well. At school, I hardly talked to him. I fancied him like mad, but I kept that a secret from everyone, especially him. Both my sisters had more to do with him than I did back then. But since we reconnected about seven months ago – initially thanks to Facebook – we’ve exchanged hundreds and hundreds of emails and phone calls. We’ve spent hours and hours chatting on FaceTime.

      We’ve talked about our respective families in detail. I’ve never met Alex’s children, but he has told me all about them so I feel as if I have. I know that Alex’s favourite dish is shepherd’s pie and that his favourite dessert is tiramisu. I could tell you his place of birth, his date of birth, his hobbies and interests and his tastes in music. I know so much about his education and career that I could probably write his CV.

      He read Wuthering Heights when I told him it was the best book I’d ever read and he watched The Piano because I told him I loved that film. Once, he sent me a purple silk scarf and another time, I received a pink T-shirt because these are my favourite colours. He knows I adore roses and lilies and he has had bouquets delivered to both my place of work and home. He knows I hate take-offs and landings on planes. He’s familiar with my deepest fears and darkest secrets. He could even describe my sexual fantasies.

      But he has no idea how I drink my tea. I do take sugar, usually, but I can see that Alex hasn’t put any on the tray, so I shake my head.

      Alex talks non-stop when he gets excited – I know this from our numerous phone calls – and he babbles away as we eat. He says that tomorrow we’ll visit Grasmere. He mentions a famous gingerbread shop, which he says is open almost every day of the year. And he promises to show me William Wordsworth’s house and his grave.

      I love the idea that this Romantic poet, whose works I studied at school, links my old home to my new home. I’ve come from Somerset to the Lake District; William Wordsworth did the opposite. He moved from Cumbria to the village of Nether Stowey, which is only about fifty miles from Porlock, where I grew up. And slightly closer to Minehead, where I lived until this morning. Eventually, Wordsworth returned to his roots. He was homesick. I hope I won’t be.

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