Shelter Page 5

  She laughed. “I don’t think his wife would be impressed if I brought him along. Nor would his three kids. No, you’re very kind to invite me . . .”

  “I sense a but.”

  He opened the door of the Range Rover and the wolfhound leaped out past him, knocking him to one side. It made straight for Laura, tail wagging furiously, saliva dripping from jaws that had framed themselves in a canine version of a smile. It bounded up to her and reared up, placing paws as big as fists on her shoulders, a great floppy tongue dragging up her cheek.

  “Down, Socrates!” his master shouted, moving forward to grab the dog’s collar.

  Laura was laughing, ruffling the dog’s neck with her fingers. “Well, you’re just adorable, aren’t you?” she said.

  The dog panted at her happily until Charteris grabbed the collar and pulled him away. “Sorry about that,” he said to her. “He seems to have taken to you.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “So you’ll come on Friday? I assure you Socrates, like his master, does not take no for an answer.”

  She didn’t reply, but crouched down and let the dog lick her again. At that moment, from the back of the house, came a thunderous crash and a scream. “Oh my God! What on earth was that?” She sprang to her feet and raced around the side of the house to be met with a scene of total devastation.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The largest of the outbuildings had completely collapsed. Dust rose from a pile of debris almost waist high. Two of the workers were pulling at the timbers and bricks with their bare hands, with an urgency that had Laura fearing the worst. There was an ominous silence over the scene. Laura felt the worm of fear wiggling in her stomach.

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Dean was working in there when it went,” one of the men said without looking at her, his whole attention focused on the job of heaving the debris out of the way.

  Laura looked around frantically. “Where’s Shaun?” she said, but just at that moment Shaun ran from the back of the house and lent his weight to moving rubble. Richard Charteris had thrown off his jacket and was helping the others.

  When they’d cleared enough of a space Shaun held up his hand, motioning them to stop. “Quiet,” he said. “Listen.”

  “Get me out of here, will you?” The voice was plaintive and seemed to be coming from a long way away. Over the top of it was the sound of splashing water.

  “Dean!” Shaun called. “What’s happened? Where are you?”

  “Bloody floor gave way,” came the reply. “I’m up to my neck in water down here and it’s bloody freezing. Jesus, it stinks too. Hurry up and get me out.”

  As one they moved forward and started hauling the wreckage out of the way, taking care not to send any bricks or timbers down the black hole that had been hidden up until now by a section of tiled roof.

  Laura spun round at a sound behind her. Socrates was sitting back on his haunches—teeth bared, growling deep in his throat.

  “Get that bloody animal out of it, will you?” Shaun snapped at Richard. “We’ve got enough to do here without worrying about that great beast taking chunks out of us.”

  Laura turned to Richard. “Would you mind?”

  He called the dog to heel. It obeyed reluctantly. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “We’ll manage,” Shaun said.

  “Well, in that case . . .” Richard made to walk back to the car.

  Laura stopped him. “Thanks for your help.”

  He smiled at her. “No problem. And Friday?” he said.

  “I’ll ring you, if that’s okay?”

  He smiled at her, nodded his head slightly, and walked back to where the Range Rover stood, Socrates keeping pace beside him, hackles raised, the growling continuing like a low note on a double bass; focusing on something none of the humans could see or hear.

  Shaun found a length of rope from somewhere, tied one end around his waist, and lowered the other end into the hole. Someone else had found a torch and was shining it down into the blackness. Laura looked over the edge and saw McMillan struggling to keep afloat in a pool of inky water, his face white and panic-stricken.

  “Hurry,” she urged them.

  Shaun’s mouth was set in a hard, grim line. He called down to McMillan, “Grab the rope and I’ll haul you out.”

  As the rope dangled close to his fingers the terrified workman made a grab for it, missed, and sank beneath the oily water. He resurfaced, spluttering, gasping for air, tried again, missed again, sank again.

  Shaun swore savagely and waited for the man to reappear. And waited. After what seemed an age McMillan’s head broke the surface. He drew in a deep breath and looked up at the ring of faces staring down at him.

  Laura watched the expression on his face turn from panic to terror. “There’s something down here,” he said, his voice rising to a scream. “It’s got my leg!” With a splash of flailing arms he disappeared under the water again.

  Shaun untied the rope from around his waist and handed it to another of the men, kicked off his heavy work boots, and with a glance of resignation to Laura, dropped down into the pool.

  “Hold that torch still,” Laura snapped at the workman who was holding it, then reached across and grabbed it from him. “Here, let me.”

  She shone it down into the hole but could see neither McMillan nor Shaun and a hollow feeling of dread filled her stomach. A full minute later both men broke the surface, Shaun holding on to McMillan by the collar of his jacket. He reached up and grabbed the rope. “Right, pull!” he shouted.

  A moment later both men were lying on the ground at the side of the hole, exhausted and gasping for air, coughing to clear their lungs of the foul, stagnant water.

  Laura felt wetness on her cheeks and realized she was crying. She crouched down next to Shaun as he sat up. “Thank you,” she said, feeling the words were totally inadequate.

  “All in a day’s work,” he said with a grin. Then the grin turned to a look of concern as he turned to McMillan. Thankfully, the other man was breathing easily. He was still whey-faced and kept glancing back at the hole with an expression of dread.

  “We should get him to hospital,” Laura said. Shaun nodded in agreement, but McMillan struggled to his feet, his sodden clothes hugging his body, his wet mousy hair flattened to his head. Without a word he stumbled away, reached his van, and opened the door. With a final look back at them he gunned the engine.

  Shaun started to run after him. “Dean, don’t be a bloody fool! Come back here!” But McMillan let in the clutch, and with wheels spinning on the muddy ground, shot forward, swerved, and headed for the lane. Seconds later all they could see were his brake lights through the trees as he slowed to negotiate a bend in the road.

  Shaun stood at the gate, hands on hips, shaking his head. “Idiot,” he said as Laura came up beside him. “I’ll go and see him tonight after work—try to calm him down a bit.”

  “What did he mean? ‘There’s something down here.’”

  Shaun shrugged. “Search me. Mind you, it’s pretty disgusting down there. He probably snagged his foot on something. The question now is, what are we going to do about the hole? From what I could see it’s brick-built down there, a cellar of sorts. It was too dark to see exactly, but it seems fairly large. What bothers me is that the water may have come from an underground spring. If it has, then there’s every possibility the spring extends right under the house, which is not good.”

  They turned and walked together back to the demolished outhouse. The excitement over, the other men returned to their appointed tasks. Laura picked up the torch and shone it down the hole again. Crouching down on her haunches she could angle the beam to see the walls of the cellar. As Shaun had said they were brick, but covered with a thick coating of black, slimy weed.

  “I’ll hire a pump and drain the water out,” Shaun said. “Then we’ll have a better idea what we’re dealing with.”

  She looked round at him. “Hadn’t you better dry yourself off first?”

  He glanced down at his sodden clothes. His plaid work shirt was ripped and stained, his jeans sticking to his legs like a second skin. “Siobhan’s going to kill me when she sees the state of these clothes.” He smiled ruefully.

  “Tell her I’ll buy you a new wardrobe. You deserve it after today. It was very brave, jumping in after him like that.”

  He shook his head. “The great lummox wasn’t going to get out by himself, and the last thing I want is for this project to be delayed by Health and Safety inquiries. As I said, I’ll go and see Dean tonight, to make sure he has nothing stupid in mind, like paying a visit to his solicitor.”

  “Perhaps I should go with you. Offer him some kind of compensation.”

  Shaun shrugged. “As you like, but I think it’s better I go alone, at least initially.”

  In a spontaneous move Laura hugged him and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I still think you were brave,” she said, and went to inspect the newly installed caravan. It was small, and although her needs were modest she found the interior oddly depressing. It was neat enough, and clean, and certainly uncluttered enough, but the thought of living in it, after the last few years of relative comfort, brought a sadness to her. Still, it was a beginning.

  By seven o’clock the site was deserted. Light was beginning to fade from the sky, bathing the area in a murky twilight. Laura sat in the caravan, reading a sheaf of regulations thoughtfully supplied to her by the planning department of the local council. The legal-speak was giving her a headache. She reached across to switch on the reading lamp, but the electric illumination did little to aid comprehension, and nothing at all to ease the dull throbbing behind her eyes. Throwing down the papers in disgust she walked to the door, pulled it open, and filled her lungs with fresh Dorset air.

  She stared across at the house, standing silhouetted by the gradually darkening sky, its blank empty windows staring back at her challengingly. She couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had been creeping up on her steadily all afternoon. The accident was unsettling. It was the first serious incident she’d encountered since going into this business. There had been minor accidents in the past—the occasional hammered thumb, an errant saw slicing unsuspecting skin—but nothing of this magnitude. Had it not been for Shaun’s quick thinking and his boldness, Dean McMillan might have died. And how would that have sat on her conscience?

  She stepped out of the caravan and walked across to the hole. Someone had covered it with a sheet of chipboard and scrawled danger in bright red paint. She stared at the sign and bit her lip. Was it a well, or more seriously, as Shaun suspected, the outpouring of an underground spring? Until the hole was pumped out she wouldn’t know for sure. Neither would she know just how far beneath the ground the area extended. If it carried on under the house it could be a disaster. There was no room in her budget for underpinning the property, but with dubious foundations she might be left with no choice but to find the money to do it.

  With a sigh she trudged back to the caravan. Her mobile phone was ringing. She checked the caller ID.

  “Hi, Shaun,” she said into the phone.

  “I’ve been to see Dean, but he wouldn’t speak to me.” His tone suggested an understated fury, even though she knew he hadn’t been that hopeful. Dean would still be in the first throes of anger about the accident, and to expect him to listen to reason yet was probably hoping for too much.

  “I see,” she said glumly. That still didn’t bode well.

  “I spoke to his wife. She said he came home in a right state—soaking wet and shaking. He took a shower, took two more, then locked himself in their bedroom. She’s absolutely furious, and she’s baying for your blood. The words negligence and compensation were mentioned more than once.”

  “Shit!” Laura said, though she wasn’t surprised. “Give me his address. I’ll go round and see them in the morning.”

  “Is that wise?” Shaun said cautiously.

  “Better than waiting for some hotshot ambulance-chasing lawyer to arrive on my doorstep.”

  Shaun told her the address and she wrote it down on the cover of the planning regulations.

  She switched off the phone and stared at the address, trying to place the street in her mind. Then she picked up the phone again to ring Maggie. If ever she needed cheering up, it was tonight, and Maggie, with her effervescent personality and couldn’t-givea-damn attitude, was just the tonic she needed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The phone was picked up on the second ring. “Hiya, stranger,” Maggie said. “How’s the latest mansion coming along?”

  “What kind of bitch-friend are you?” Laura said. “Selling me a shit-heap like this?”

  “Going well, then, is it? Do you want to tell Auntie Maggie all about it?”

  Laura spent the next ten minutes recounting the events of the day, spurred on by encouraging noises from Maggie. When she finally paused to draw breath Maggie said, “So, you’ve met the Honourable Richard. Lucky girl.”

  “Maggie!” Laura said in exasperation. “I could be facing a lawsuit here for negligence, and that’s all you can think of to say?”

  “You worry too much. You weren’t to know the floor was going to give way. You didn’t know about the well, or whatever it is. No court in the land would find against. No, meeting Richard Charteris is far more interesting. That was one of the local delights the selling blurb didn’t cover when the house went up for sale. Have you met his mother yet, Lady Catherine? Now there’s a formidable lady.”

  Laura realized she wasn’t going to get any sense out of Maggie until they discussed it. “Go on then,” she said. “Tell me all about them.”

  “Richard’s grandfather was William Charteris—Lord Dunbar, army officer in the Second World War, chairman of several companies, member of the House of Lords. His family can be traced back to William the Conqueror. Fabulously wealthy. Dunbar Court, the family seat, has entertained several members of the Royal family, and Lord Dunbar was supposed to have the ear of a number of prime ministers. Lady Helen Charteris was the typical lady of the manor. The only official child of the family is Catherine and she inherited the lot when her father died, though by all accounts it was touch-and-go for a while whether she would.”

  “Now I’m really intrigued,” Laura said. “What do you mean ‘official?’”

  Maggie chuckled mischievously. “Catherine was a fifties child and grew up into a sixties rebel. She ran away from home at sixteen and fell in with some dubious characters. She bought into the whole flower power thing—drugs, orgies, the complete rock-androll lifestyle. I heard she even went out to India to study with the Maharishi, that charlatan who hoodwinked The Beatles, among others.

  “She eventually returned to Dunbar Court, with a baby in tow—Richard—but things carried on much the same as before. She’d hold wild parties, sometimes lasting for days. Meanwhile, Lord Dunbar set about raising Richard as his own—having another crack at parenting after making such a pig’s ear of it the first time round. Then another scandal hit the family. I’m not sure of the details, but it concerned a brothel in London that had a pretty exclusive clientele—minor royalty, pop stars of the day, that kind of thing.”

  “She was running a brothel?” Laura said, aghast. She pulled her legs under her on the sofa.

  “I said she was wild, not stupid. The press had been sniffing around the perimeters of the story for a while, getting nowhere, but then Catherine sold her story to one of the Sundays, naming and shaming several VIPs, and at least one high-ranking member of the clergy.

  “After that she disappeared completely from the scene. Rumor had it that Lord Dunbar paid for her to go abroad, but nothing was heard from her until the early eighties. Lady Dunbar had died, the lord’s health was failing, and Catherine suddenly reappeared on the scene. She quickly established herself as lady of the manor, the dutiful daughter returned from exile to nurse her ailing father.”

  “You sound skeptical.” A picture of Richard driving away in the Range Rover was hovering in her mind.

  “Given her track record I’m more than a little cynical. Anyway, the old man finally died and she inherited everything, and she’s been there ever since.”

  “And what about Catherine being the only ‘official’ child of the family? What did that mean?”

  Maggie’s laugher echoed down the telephone line, and Laura could imagine her with her feet up on her desk, cigarette in hand and gin and tonic waiting. “Nothing recorded, as if there would be, you know how it is in these landed families. There’s talk of a son born outside wedlock, as they would have said in those days, a brother to Catherine. There are probably dozens of the Charteris bastards floating about, born to poor serving wenches. You can ask Richard when you see him!”

  “How do you know all this?” Laura said. It was as if Maggie was reading from a history book.

  “You probably won’t have come across it, unless your solicitor did some digging, but the house you’re renovating was once part of the Charteris estate. They, well, sort of bequeathed it to the Hooper family. It’s them you bought it from, though indirectly through the Probate. When Brian Tanner was sniffing around I wanted to make doubly sure there were no legalities he could exploit. Our legal people checked to make sure the title was kosher. While they were doing that I checked out the family history. Just being nosy, you know me!”

  “Maggie, that’s really good of you, thanks. What about Richard? Any dark secrets?” So far Richard had escaped any criticism in Maggie’s story, although his family certainly sounded colorful.

  “No, I’ve never spoken to anyone who has a bad thing to say about him. I’ve met him only once, at a chamber of commerce dinner and dance. We were introduced, and he seemed perfectly charming, but I’d only just opened the agency and my name didn’t mean squat then. Different now, of course, but our paths haven’t really crossed since, except at the odd networking event.”

  “He’s invited me to drinks at Dunbar Court on Friday,” Laura said.