Free The Lily-White Boys by Anthea Fraser Page B

lengthened and she drove for several minutes through open land before the houses began again and she turned off for North Park.
    A few headlights were visible in her rearview mirror. One set no doubt belonged to her bodyguard. Along North Park Drive the lamps glowed brightly, and the hall light shone in her own doorway. She drove past it and turned down the side road leading to the garages, aware for the first time of the contrast between the brightly lit road at the front and the deepness of the shadows which edged the mews.
    Reaching the garage she drew to a halt, its doors illuminated in the beam of her headlamps. Where the hell were those policemen? Well, she wasn’t going to sit here waiting for them. Slamming out of the car, she walked into the circle of brilliance. A spotlit target, whispered a little voice inside her. Ignoring it, she bent to pull up the garage door, and as she did so a sudden rustle behind her spun her round in time to see a dark figure move back into the shadows. Fear sluiced over her in a scalding tide. Without thought she flattened herself against the door, feeling the wood still warm from the day’s sunshine under her splayed fingers. ‘Who are you?’ she cried hoarsely. ‘What do you want?’
    After what seemed an eternity the figure moved forward again and as she opened her mouth to scream, a voice said, ‘Police, ma’am. Sorry if we scared you.’
    â€˜ Scared me?’ She hardly recognized her voice. ‘You’re supposed to be looking after me, not giving me a heart attack.’
    Dry-mouthed and humiliated by her fear, she turned back to the door, releasing the catch so that it swung upwards. She got into the car, drove it carefully inside and relocked the garage. Ignoring the muttered ‘Good night’ from the shadows, she wrestled with the lock of the garden door until it opened to admit her and, slipping inside, slammed and locked it behind her.
    As always, the lights of the house welcomed her at the far end of the garden. Normally she loved entering from the dark mews and walking towards the light; it was part of coming home at the end of the day, anticipating the warmth and companionship within. Tonight, she was conscious only of the shrubbery edging the path, the large patches of shadow against the wall. It took all her self-discipline not to break into a run, and it was with overwhelming relief that she gained the sanctuary of the house and went up the steps to the hall door.
    It was past eleven and her mother’d gone to bed. With held breath Monica advanced to the telephone table. There were no messages awaiting her. He had not phoned back. Damn him! she thought in an explosion of relief. Damn him for ruining her evening, and that of her friends. Until those terrifying moments in the mews, she hadn’t realized just how fearful the mysterious phone calls and the Chief Inspector’s bland reassurance had left her.
    Her breathing was still uneven and she paused to steady it, letting her eyes move lovingly over the graceful hallway. Its handsome proportions and restful atmosphere had frequently restored her over the years when despair or frustration had laid her low. That it was more than just a passageway was confirmed by the way visitors tended to linger in it, admiring the prints on its ivory walls, the colourful Persian rug, the antique tables.
    She was suddenly very tired. Reaction, no doubt, to the stresses of the day. Switching off the lights, she went slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister like an old woman. It was at times like this, she thought ruefully, that it would be good to be married; to have someone in whom to confide your fear, someone to reassure and protect you. Briefly she thought of her brother-in-law. A pity he was in Worcester. And from him her mind went, as it usually did, to George. Perhaps one day he would take first rather than second place in her thoughts, but until then –
    On an