One Summer At The Castle: Stay Through the Night / A Stormy Spanish Summer / Behind Palace Doors. Anne Mather

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      Liam always stayed at the Moriarty Hotel when he was in London. It was a small, select establishment, known to only a few people, and they, like himself, reserved a suite of rooms year round, so that it was always available whenever it was needed.

      It was one of the perks of being successful, he thought, as he drove south on the motorway. He could stay there completely anonymously, which suited him very well.

      Not that he intended staying more than a couple of nights there on this visit. He was due to spend a few days at the Erskine Clinic in Knightsbridge, undergoing some further therapy on his leg.

      Ever since August, when he’d been caught out in the storm because of the dogs, he’d been having an increasing amount of discomfort in his thigh. The local doctor thought he might have torn a ligament, and rather than wait for it to get better, which might not happen, Liam had been forced to seek relief.

      Of course Sam thought he was crazy, driving to London. His opinion was that Liam should have used the helicopter. But helicopters tended to advertise one’s arrival, and that was the last thing Liam wanted to do.

      He’d left Scotland behind a little while ago, and now he was some miles beyond Penrith, heading towards the service area at Tebay. He might stop there, he reflected. He could do with a cup of coffee and the opportunity to stretch his legs. And to look at the map, he conceded, not prepared to consider why he should need to do so. His route was familiar enough, goodness knew. South on the M6 as far as the M5. then east on the M40 until he reached the outskirts of London. What could be simpler?

      He parked near the service buildings at Tebay and went inside to use the facilities and buy a coffee. Then he carried it back to the car and pulled his map out of the glove locker.

      Less than a mile farther on there was a turn-off for Scotch Corner. Well, for Kirby Stephen initially, but it eventually intersected with the A66 east, which in turn intersected with the A1 at Scotch Corner. And about twenty miles south of Scotch Corner was the small Yorkshire market town of Ripon.

      Ripon!

      Liam swallowed a mouthful of his coffee, wincing at its bitter taste. Now, why would he want to know how to get to Ripon? Okay, he’d found out from Mrs Ferguson that that was where Rosa Chantry lived, but so what? It was nearly two months since he’d seen her, and after the way he’d behaved he doubted very much whether she’d want to see him again.

      He didn’t even know why he was still thinking about her. He was too old to believe that their association had been anything more than a brief infatuation with sex. He’d wanted her, yes, but experience had taught him that you didn’t always get what you wanted. There was no doubt that she’d been horrified when she’d glimpsed the ugly patchwork beneath his shirt. And she hadn’t even seen the worst of it. It was a mercy he could still function as a man.

      He tried to excuse his interest by telling himself he was concerned about her. Had she found her sister yet? Was she safe and well? Surely she must be. Despite searching the Internet, scanning every newspaper published in the Ripon area, he’d never read anything about a Sophie Chantry being missing. Wherever she was, she wasn’t making news, and that was usually a good sign.

      For Rosa’s sake, he hoped so. He couldn’t believe that in this day and age, with all the publicity there was about the dangers of young girls going off with men they knew nothing about, her sister should have behaved so foolishly. She was either completely naïve or completely stupid. Remembering what Rosa had told him, he’d put his money on the latter.

      He folded the map and put it back in the glove box, and then sat for a while drinking his coffee. What now? Was he going to get back on the motorway and drive directly to London, as he’d told Sam? Or was he going to make a detour to the north-east?

      He considered. A glance at his watch told him it was three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon in October. By his reckoning, it would be five o’clock before he reached Ripon, if that was where he intended to go. How did he know she’d be home from work? Or even alone? Was he willing to take the risk just to satisfy a whim he’d probably regret later? He knew the answer, and he tossed the empty cup into a rubbish bin. If he didn’t see Rosa again he’d never know how he really felt.

      Happily, traffic was fairly light, and he arrived at the outskirts of Ripon soon after a quarter to five. There were plenty of cars heading out of town—probably commuters, making their way home, he decided. Now all he had to do was find someone who could tell him where Richmond Road was.

      A policeman was patrolling the narrow street beside the cathedral, and although there were yellow lines warning him not to stop Liam pulled in beside him. Lowering the nearside window, he leant across the seat. ‘I’m looking for Richmond Road,’ he said ruefully. ‘You couldn’t help me, could you?’

      The policeman looked as if he was about to point out that this was a no waiting area, but then seemed to take pity on him. ‘Richmond Road,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes.’ He turned. ‘You’ve just come past it. It’s that way, just off Winston Street.’

      Liam stifled a curse. This was a one-way street, and he’d already discovered that the town centre was a maze of similar thoroughfares. How the hell was he supposed to retrace his steps?

      ‘It might be easier if you parked and walked back,’ suggested the policemen, apparently aware of his dilemma. ‘I could give you directions, but at this time of the afternoon—’

      ‘I understand.’

      Liam gave a brief nod and rolled up the window again. Was he being a damn fool? he wondered, driving back into the market square. All this fuss, just to find a woman who might not even be willing to speak to him. He dreaded to think what Sam would say if he found out.

      He eventually found a car park just off the market square. And, because most people were heading home, he had no problem in finding a space. Then, hauling his woollen overcoat out of the back seat, he locked the car and pocketed the keys, pushing his hands deep into his coat pockets as he trudged back towards the cathedral.

      A bell tolled and he realised it was already half-past five. It had taken him longer to find her house than to drive from Scotch Corner to Ripon. And he still had about a five-hour journey ahead of him, if he was planning to reach London tonight.

      Fortunately, it was a dry evening, though it was cold. The wind swept along these narrow streets, and his hip and leg became stiff and taut with pain. He should have stayed with the car, he thought. Walking any distance in his present state was madness. And all to see a woman he barely knew.

      He found Richmond Road without much difficulty. It was a street of semi-detached houses, and it was still light enough for him to see number 24. He glanced at the note he’d stuffed in his pocket. It said number 24b. But there was no 24b. No 24a, either. Had she given Mrs Ferguson a false address?

      He frowned. Then, deciding the only thing he could do was knock at number 24 and ask for directions again, he opened the front gate and walked up the path. That was СКАЧАТЬ