Chapter Four

18 December 11.59 p.m.

Somewhere in the depths of the house, a clock was chiming.

Drew leaned back on his chair and counted. ‘Ten … eleven … twelve.’ He stretched his arms above his head, working out the kinks in his shoulders. Midnight, and the book was finally, definitely, irrevocably finished.

At last.

He closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

The scene on the roof of the train hadn’t turned out the way it was supposed to. And we all know why that was. A dozen attempts, and no cigar. The ending wasn’t the one he’d planned, either, but that happened when you were writing. Things sort of shifted, and the words crept up on you when you weren’t watching them. He’d had his doubts about that ending, but it had seemed to work out. What the hell – it’s done.

He opened his eyes, clicked on his e-mail and typed a covering note, attaching the manuscript. For a second his hand hesitated over the keyboard. Then he pressed send, and it was gone, winging its way to Geri and his editor. Just in time for Christmas.

He scrubbed the heels of his hands over his face, blinking blearily at the screensaver on the computer screen – a shot of a high cliff, a strand of pale sand and a whirl of swooping sea birds that he’d taken on a remote island, off the coast of Scotland. He lowered his hands and exhaled. With the book, and the charity thing which was coming up fast, he’d done nothing about his usual holiday get-away. Maybe there was still time to find somewhere suitably isolated – well away from anything festive.

Christmas.

There was a chill gathering in his chest. He pushed away the coldness and the swirling flashes of memory – a wind-swept railway station, the hunched and silent crowd, sick and scared like him, waiting for news.

And then – the bleak-faced official.

And the massive engulfing shock of total loss …

A shiver ran through Drew’s body, shaking the dark images lose. He exhaled.

Don’t remember. Plan.

If it was too late to organise a get-away he’d hunker down in the London flat with maps and guides and a good single malt, disconnect the phone and plan his next trip.

He leaned back in the chair, aware of the stiffness in his neck and shoulders, turning to stare out of the un-curtained window. The study was at the top of the house and the view in daylight was stunning. In darkness it was just that – darkness. At this time in the morning the unrelieved black of a cloud-filled night was unbroken by even a glimmer of light.

He might be alone on the planet.

The house, on the edge of the Peak District, had been the perfect retreat to finish a book that had got decidedly sticky in the middle. Now it was done he’d have been happy to spend Christmas here. Alone. Unfortunately he had to give it back. He squinted at his watch, abandoned on the desk beside the computer.

In about twelve hours’ time.

The friends who had lent it to him while they made a trip to the States would be home this afternoon, and he would be gone before then, avoiding any invitations to stay for Christmas. House returned, with grateful thanks.

Actually he couldn’t have stayed. Tomorrow night he had his date with a gang of kidnappers. And how crazy is that? He wasn’t regretting it exactly, but it still felt weird. Geraldine’s office had handled the arrangements – her latest assistant – a dark-haired girl with intense eyes. Adele? Ada? No, it was Aveline. Aveline had done the work with Philmore’s people. All he had to do was show up. He’d been out of the media loop for weeks, head buried in the book, with no idea if the details of what was going down had leaked out. Not exactly a surprise if they had, with so many people involved. Not your problem.

Geri and her PR people would spin it. That was probably what she’d been thinking, some free publicity for the new hardback, in time for the Christmas trade. She’d been pretty keen for him to be part of it …

His stomach gave a loud, disconcerting rumble, surprising him into a bark of laughter. Leaning forward, he closed down the computer. He couldn’t actually remember when he’d last eaten a proper meal. There was an empty packet that had once held chocolate biscuits on the desk. He shook the wrapper hopefully, but there were only crumbs. Three coffee mugs stood in a group, two empty, one half full and stone-cold. He drank it anyway, grimacing, gathered up the debris and headed down through the dark house, to the kitchen.

Hauling out bread, cheese, a pot of home-made chutney and a celebratory beer, he slumped at the kitchen table to wolf down a doorstep sandwich. He stifled a yawn. Was it late supper, or very early breakfast? Whatever it was, it had hit the spot.

He savoured the beer – brewed locally especially for Christmas, according to the label, which was liberally illustrated with snowmen and reindeer – and looked idly around the dimly lit kitchen. It was big and warm and homely. And probably very expensive, he concluded, swinging back in his chair. Deceptively simple grey painted units, granite surfaces, carefully placed lighting, most of which he hadn’t bothered to turn on, under-floor heating. Tranquil and comfortable.

He really needed to get himself a place like this. Not so big, or so lavish, but somewhere more remote than Chelsea. Even being around the corner from the Physic Garden, it hardly matched the kind of books he wrote. He took a sip of beer, pondering. The flat was convenient. And paid for, thanks to a couple of film deals. And as he was rarely there, it was really all he needed. He didn’t see much of his neighbours, but Kaz and Devlin were in the next street, if he wanted company. They’d be at home at Christmas. Kaz had invited him to a drinks party they were giving on Christmas Eve. Drew grinned. It might be worth sticking around for the holiday, just to see how Devlin, the original ice man, coped with the concept of ‘party’. Flawlessly, of course, like everything he does.

Drew shook his head, and finished the beer. In the New Year, he’d start house hunting. Maybe. Do you really need anything more than the flat you have now? A small space to store his books and clothes and occasionally to sleep. For the rest of the time he was on the road for one thing or another – research, promotion or just plain old restlessness.

What are you running from, Drew?

The voice in his head whispered, and the dark memories flickered again, just for a second. Echoes from a long, long way back. A place he really didn’t visit any more, in his head, or out of it.

He rose abruptly, dropping his plate and knife into the sink and the empty bottle into the recycling bin. After a moment’s thought, he fished the bottle out, rinsed it and dropped it in again. Then he headed for his bed.

By lunchtime he’d be on his way back to London.