Dead Dream Girl Page 15

  He began to run. He was a strong man and tall, but he knew Hellewell would have the edge over him, working daily on his land. He’d had one glancing blow from a fist that felt like granite, if he took a full-on blow coming out of nowhere in this darkness it could disable him. At least he still had his torch and he made his way along the side of the house and round to the terrace again, then ran down the wide steps and on to the path that skirted the pool and led into the formal garden. He’d rarely known such darkness as that which enveloped Julia Gregson’s immense property, standing as it did in the lee of unlit moorland terrain.

  Beyond the formal garden the land was broken, as he remembered it, by smaller gardens, the gazebo, lofty hedges, pleached archways. Beyond all this again was the boundary copse. Maybe he could make for that, then scale the perimeter wall? He moved as rapidly as he dared, with short bursts on the torch to light his route along one of the main walkways. It seemed to take for ever, but he finally reached a strip of open, well-cut lawn. He was able to race across this, as the land was even, and to reach, with a sigh of relief, the dense forest trees of the copse. He moved warily into an even denser darkness, feeling his way past the massive trunks of the ancient trees, not daring to use his torch now in case Hellewell had somehow caught up with him and spotted the brief flashes of the torch’s glow.

  But he knew he was becoming disoriented as he picked his way along, with many slight changes of direction. He wondered where Hellewell was. He’d not given instant chase and Crane had heard no sounds at all of pursuit as he’d made his way the entire length of the garden. It made him very uneasy. Had he done a runner? But his car now had no lights. Would he risk using it? Maybe he’d gone off on foot. He didn’t want to think he might have gone back inside the house to finish the job he’d come for.

  Crane’s plan was to scale the perimeter wall and double back to his own car, where it stood on the roadside verge, and ring for help from the car phone. But what if Hellewell had worked that out for himself, and was crouched nearby waiting for his return? It wasn’t possible to even guess how his mind would work. He put a hand to his throbbing cheekbone and muttered, ‘Christ, Anderson, where are you when I really need help?’

  And then, glancing behind him, he saw it. It was like the brief flickering of a single star in the vacuum of darkness. It had to be a torch. That must have been what had delayed Hellewell, getting it from the Accord and inspecting the damage to his car’s lights. At a guess, the torch had given its single burst from beyond the strip of lawn that separated the garden proper from the copse. Within seconds he’d be in the copse too. He must have plotted Crane’s course by the small amount of noise he’d made, the brief flashes he’d had to give on his own torch. He wondered if he should stay completely still. It was difficult to move silently when he couldn’t see anything. And attempting to climb the wall would have its own problems. It would be virtually impossible to manage it without giving his position away. Something fluttered to his left, as if a springy branch had been pushed aside and not released carefully enough. It sounded to be several yards away. Crane was worried now that if Hellewell had got a torch from his car he might also have picked up some weapon that could do even more damage than those stony fists of his.

  He thought hard. He’d been roughly reoriented by the flash of the other man’s torch. He could detect the smallest glow of light coming from the strip of open lawn compared to the near impenetrable conditions in the copse. He decided to make for it. Take a chance that Hellewell was aiming to nail him trying to get over the wall. It could keep him occupied for five or ten minutes. Crane was certain he’d know there was a wall there, he must have made deliveries to Cheyney Hall himself in the early days of his business. If he retraced his steps, he might be able to regain the house and ring for help from there.

  It wasn’t possible to move around without being heard in the total eerie silence of the little wood. Hellewell moved along very slowly and carefully, but the occasional rustle of leaves, the soft crack of a twig underfoot, indicated his progress. Crane decided the stealthy noise of the other man’s passage might mask his own movements, and as Hellewell crept in what seemed to be the direction of the wall, Crane inched the other way, towards the strip of lawn. He came to a complete stop every few seconds to ensure Hellewell’s progress was still covering the sound of his. Maybe he should have made even more stops. When he halted at the edge of the copse there was a prolonged and ominous silence. And then Hellewell’s torch came on and the copse was suddenly filled with crashing sounds as he charged towards the point where Crane had been standing. But Crane was already sprinting across the lawn.

  Shapes seemed marginally clearer after the pothole darkness of the copse. Crane ran diagonally to the right, the opposite side of the garden to the way he’d come. From memory again, it had seemed to offer more secluded areas where he could hide while trying to plot his next move. He came to another shade of darkness which appeared to be a tall hedge. He began rapidly feeling his way along it. It was on a curve and he remembered then. There’d been a tall yew hedge that had seemed to form a complete circle. He’d seen one entrance when he’d looked from Julia’s drawing room last evening. He reckoned there’d be others. He was right. He came to an opening shortly afterwards and slipped inside the circle, glancing warily behind him as he did. No torchlight, only the profound silence of before.

  Then another shock. There were people in the garden, standing motionless. He could almost sense them rather than see them. He shivered, as if he’d fled from one indefinable menace to another. He risked a fast burst on his torch. They weren’t people but topiary chessmen. His beam caught a mitred bishop and beyond it a king. It did nothing to stop him shivering. He felt at another of the shapes and decided it must be a castle, an elaborate turreted affair. He crouched behind it and listened, but could hear nothing.

  What could Hellewell be aiming to do? Crane was certain he’d have killed Julia had he not been disturbed, just as he’d feared. Killed her, destroyed the diary, got another ‘friend’ to alibi him for the nights he was missing. But didn’t he realize DNA samples might tie him to the scene? It needed only a single hair, a minute flake of the skin everyone shed all the time? Perhaps he’d decided it was worth the risk. If Julia was out of it and there was no diary to tie him to Donna that night at the Raven, he might have decided the police wouldn’t have a case. Perhaps he’d been going to make it look as if Julia had surprised an intruder, keen to get his hands on costly antique ornaments, and had been attacked and killed. Perhaps, perhaps.…

  But Crane had surprised him, and he had to have decided that whoever Crane was he couldn’t let him live either. That had to be the logical conclusion. He wished to God he could see. This great garden had become the loneliest and scariest spot on earth. If he could see properly he could at least put up a fight, and might even have a chance of winning. If he was fighting for his life he’d have to.

  Where was he now? He still couldn’t stop shivering. This area of dark shapes in a dark place was spooking him like a nightmare. He couldn’t stop anticipating the oblivion that would go with a savage blow over the head from some tool. Or the appalling, gasping pain of a knife in the back.

  Suddenly he knew Hellewell was there. With him in the topiary garden. His eyes were operating at their optimum capacity, and perhaps fear gave them a slightly keener edge. The shapes loomed about him like ghosts, one shade of black on another. But one of those motionless figures had a face with the faintest pallor.

  He wondered if the openings in the yew hedge were at compass points, to match the precision of the overall layout. If he rejoined the footpath, which he’d left to crouch behind the chess castle, would it lead him to an opening exactly opposite where he’d come in? He got to his feet and began moving again, as quietly as he could and hunched like an animal.

  He’d guessed right. The path led him to an exit from the circular garden. He kept on through it, knowing the small sounds he’d made had to have been amplified
in the silent, deathly stillness. And then he heard it again, that sudden heart-stopping rush of thudding feet. And then an even more hideous noise. The crashing sound of blows. Hellewell had to be beating at the chess figures with some weapon, lashing out blindly in every direction in the hope one of those blows would connect with Crane’s skull or shatter an arm.

  Crane’s stomach felt like a bag of crushed ice. He’d no idea where the opening had led him, but as the sound of the blows receded he risked another burst on his torch. He was now on a broad walkway, where closely planted cherry trees were pleached almost to form a tunnel. Statues on plinths stood every two yards or so along the right, of the naked goddess type, with flowing hair and hands that gracefully protected modesty. The beating sounds behind him abruptly ceased and he leapt behind the third statue in a darkness as impenetrable as that in the copse.

  There was a sudden brief burst of torchlight. Hellewell too would need to know where he was. The tunnel of pleached trees would look deserted with Crane hidden; would he keep on going to whatever lay at the end? There was a lengthy silence, lengthy even though the seconds seemed like minutes to Crane’s taut nerves. Then came a sudden appalling crash. He felt the ground vibrate slightly through his hands and knees, where he crouched behind the stone goddess. He felt almost nauseous with tension. Hellewell had toppled the first of the statues, which must be free-standing on their plinths. He knew then what his game was. Dislodging the statues gave him two chances. One of them either landed on Crane or badly injured him, or it flushed him out so that Hellewell could then get going with the weapon he had.

  There was a second thunderous crash as the next statue went over. He would now be creeping towards the one that sheltered Crane. Crane got slowly to his feet and waited, beads of sweat trickling steadily down his back. He knew only too well that if he waited too long it would be as bad as not waiting long enough. The timing was utterly crucial. The nerve-shredding seconds fell away and he knew Hellewell must now be very close. He could just detect the tiniest movement of his feet on the earth track. Crane breathed slowly and deeply then suddenly toppled his own statue outwards.

  ‘Christ!’ The whisper sounded almost like a shout. Crane couldn’t begin to guess what damage its fall had done to the man, but its descent to the ground had definitely seemed obstructed, so it must have given him some kind of blow on its way down.

  He didn’t stay to find out. As Hellewell cursed and groaned behind him, he ran to the end of the lengthy tree-tunnel, along the beam of his torch.

  The tunnel led to the main conservatory, the one that angled from the left side of the rear of the house. This meant Crane was back in the area of the pool and the formal garden. And at this point there was an opening from the tunnel that provided an escape route.

  But he hesitated. He could make a dash for it, possibly even reach his car. But he didn’t know what state Hellewell was in. He didn’t sound to be out of action, as he’d hoped. His powerful hands must have been reaching for the statue even as Crane began to topple it over. The damage could have been relatively light, maybe a bruised shoulder or a damaged arm. He was no longer making any noise.

  Crane tried the door of the conservatory. It wasn’t locked, but controlled by a closing mechanism to ensure it wasn’t left open by mistake. The door to the house though, at the far end, was sure to be locked. He was certain Hellewell wouldn’t believe he’d go in the conservatory. He’d think he’d now be making for his car, by some circuitous route. He crept in, glad that hinges had been kept well oiled. Maybe he could sit it out in here until he was sure Hellewell had gone off into the great rambling spread of land beyond the pool and the formal garden, then pick his time to make for his car and phone. He daren’t risk his torch again, but to the right of the door he located what seemed to be a rough wooden table against which leant garden tools. With a sigh of relief, he grasped something with a shaft and handle that had to be a spade or a fork. He was armed. But in seizing it he dislodged some other implement. It began a sliding fall then crashed on to what must have been a concrete floor. Hellewell’s torch instantly ignited from halfway along the tree-tunnel and he began to run towards the conservatory. Bent double, Crane scuttled along one of the narrow paths that cut its way past pulpy exotics, oppressively scented flowers and fronds of greenery that touched his forehead like moist hands. He crouched behind a dense screen of foliage towards the centre of the house of glass. He heard the clatter of what could only be the garden tools being swept aside, and then the grating sound of what seemed to be the table itself being dragged somewhere. He cursed. He’d be putting it in front of the door. He grunted with pain as he did so, but the statue clearly hadn’t done him any damage he couldn’t handle.

  The table wouldn’t stop Crane getting out, but it would slow him down, give Hellewell enough time, wherever he was in the conservatory, to get to him. Hellewell began thrashing about him now, at plants and foliage and the curtains of dangling fronds. He no longer bothered to douse the torch, as he had Crane cornered. All Crane could see of him was his shape behind a narrow but high-powered beam, and what looked to be a thick heavy stick.

  From what he could gather, a path ran down each side of the wide chamber, with cross-paths to give access to fixtures laden with plants, flowers and shrubs. Hellewell wasn’t advancing in a straight line, but branching off along the cross-paths to give his lethal attention to every square foot of the room, as systematically as a beater driving game until it broke for cover.

  But Crane wondered what break he could possibly make. Sweat now ran down his spine in rivulets from the heat needed for the many rare tropical blooms. His mind seemed almost to seize up with the overwhelming pungency of the scents clotting the atmosphere. At least he had the spade. And he was in good physical shape. But not in Hellewell’s class, the action man who spent his entire life outdoors working the land.

  The beating and slashing was getting relentlessly closer. He forced himself to think calmly and logically. He pictured the garden again as he’d seen it last evening. His mind had been trained to gather detail. He recalled the look of this lengthy conservatory, jutting from the end of the house, like a pier. Had there been a second entrance along the side, one that could be reached more easily from the terrace or the pool area? He was near certain there had been a glass-panelled door that had barely defined itself against the glass walls.

  Hellewell was about two yards off, working his way steadily along a cross-path, slashing and clubbing at costly blossoms and alien wide-leaved plants, even swinging at hanging flower baskets in case Crane had pulled himself up on to a beam. Crane estimated he was about halfway down the lengthy annexe, possibly roughly in line with the side door. He began to creep to his right behind the screen of foliage. For part of a second the beam of Hellewell’s torch flicked over the conservatory’s garden side, but it was enough for Crane to glimpse the door he’d been near-certain would be there. He crept rapidly up to it, holding carefully on to his spade, paused until the torch beam was focused elsewhere, then slipped through the side door and began to run as rapidly as he dared, giving brief flashes on his torch to light his way. But it was no good. Hellewell had razor-edge reflexes to go with the honed body. Within seconds, Crane heard the soft thud of his feet behind him. They were on the circle of lawn now that bordered the pool, which he could see clearly in the light of Hellewell’s torch.

  Crane was fast, Hellewell was faster. He came up on him so rapidly Crane knew he’d have to protect himself with his spade. He’d need to hold it in both hands to get his full strength behind the blow, so he stuffed his torch in his pocket, swung round and brought the spade down towards the shadowy figure behind the streak of light.

  Hellewell dodged the blow with an almost contemptuous agility, and with his beam now locked on to Crane’s legs, gave him a blow to the side of his left knee. It sent him sprawling, gasping with pain. He knew, in a nanosecond that this was it. There was nowhere else to go. The torch’s beam then trawled with a deliberate, almo
st sadistic precision over his body. When it reached his head he knew the carefully positioned strokes would follow it. He also knew he’d not be left holding on to life like Ollie Stringer. Not by a single thread.

  But suddenly, inexplicably, the area was flooded with light. High-voltage security lamps blazed from points along the house’s façade and the balustraded terrace. Both men were momentarily blinded. Except that, when they could see again, Crane wasn’t looking at Hellewell, though the man was tall and fair and fit-looking.

  ‘… Geoff?’

  ‘… Frank?’

  TWELVE

  ‘Are you all right, Frank?’ a voice cried.

  It was Julia. She stood on the terrace, looking down at them from across the balustrade, her face pale as wax, her hair dishevelled, the gleaming, bloody patch on her temple clearly visible. She had what looked to be a double-barrelled hunting gun trained on Anderson.

  ‘More or less, Julia,’ Crane said, getting shakily to his feet. The pain in his knee was excruciating and he could stand only by taking the bulk of his weight on his right leg.

  ‘Have you any idea what’s going on here? Why did that maniac attack me? It was you who rang just before he did, I take it?’

  He tried desperately to clear a brain that had had one shock too many. ‘I … I rang you from the road outside. I needed to warn you you might be in some kind of danger.’

  ‘From him?’

  ‘No. Someone else. I’m sorry, I’m as much in the dark as you.’

  ‘Frank,’ Anderson murmured, ‘I’d no idea it was you. Thought it must have been one of her retainers.’ Incredibly, he was smiling his usual engaging smile.

  ‘But you’d have killed me!’ Crane shouted.

  ‘You, whoever you are. Explain yourself,’ Julia called, in the peremptory tone Crane knew well. ‘The police will need facts that make sense when I ring them.’