Free Sleep Tight by Rachel Abbott Page A

time and keep his temper in check. He imagined that people who ran B&Bs had to be up at a reasonable hour to start preparing the guests’ breakfasts, so he would just have to wait. It might have been an impulsive decision to come here in the middle of the night, but he needed to be sure he was the first person to speak to the landlady today.
    At this hour of the morning the guest house was in darkness. A wide drive led to the front door of the property, and a single outside lamp created a halo of light around the main entrance. Robert could just make out a number of tall chimney pots silhouetted against the starlit sky, and the white painted window frames standing out from the traditional grey limestone of the building.
    He pushed the soft leather seat of his Jaguar XJR into recline and leaned back, closing his eyes. He couldn’t sleep, though. All he could see were vivid images of Olivia – from the moment he met her up until the last time he saw her.
    Checking his watch every few minutes, time dragged and he tried to close his mind to all thoughts of his wife. But it was impossible. By five o’clock, his limbs were twitching with inactivity and his emotions had run the gamut from rage to fear. He had to get out of the car.
    As he pushed the door open he was hit by the tang of sea air, and he could hear the waves gently lapping on the sand. He turned and looked at the beach, bathed in the early dawn sunlight of a June morning. And he looked again. Something was wrong here, but he didn’t know what it was. He gave himself a mental shake, and set off on his walk, away from the small harbour. He strolled to the far end of the bay and sat on a smooth rock looking out to sea, his thoughts coming in waves to match the ebb and flow of the tide. He had hoped the cool morning breeze would have blown away the cobwebs and allowed him to think rationally about his next move, but he was wrong.
    By five thirty he thought he should return to his vigil, and he made his way slowly back to the car as an orange sun began to melt away the shadows.
    Finally he saw a chink of light through some closed bedroom curtains. Somebody was awake. Time dragged, and it was a full twenty minutes before he saw the curtains pulled back and the light switched off. He left it a further five minutes before he felt it might be safe to approach the house. He pushed open the car door and closed it quietly behind him.
    He walked towards the back of the house where he hoped the kitchen would be. A window was open, and he could hear a radio playing quietly. The presenter announced thenext song. Michael Bublé. He almost smiled. Olivia hated Michael Bublé. She said his music was anodyne. How appropriate for today.
    There was a smell of frying bacon – and Robert realised that he had eaten nothing for nearly twenty-four hours. He hadn’t even stopped for lunch on the way home the day before. The idea of food made him feel slightly nauseous, and he swallowed the saliva that threatened to choke him.
    He gave three sharp raps on the back door and heard a voice call quietly, ‘Coming,’ with that hint of a warm Welsh accent, and a clatter of pans as if she were moving the frying pan off the hob.
    Robert realised that he probably looked like a tramp, with his crumpled shirt and the dark shadow of his unshaven face. Maybe that was a good thing.
    The lady who opened the door was exactly as he would have expected. Probably in her early sixties and looking all of her age, she nevertheless had a relaxed expression that said all was well with her world. Her grey hair was cut short in a practical, no-nonsense style, and she wore a too-pink lipstick. She smiled pleasantly, but beneath the smile he could sense a hint of wariness.
    ‘Good morning,’ she said, maintaining the welcoming air. ‘What can I do for you, dear?’
    Robert returned the smile and held out his hand.
    ‘Mrs Evans, my name is Robert Brookes. Do you think I could come in for a moment? I’d like to