watering the plants and dealing with bookings and bills. It was endless and left approximately zero minutes per day for watching the news or reading tabloids. Frankly, she’d probably have missed a zombie apocalypse until the undead trudged over the hill looking for the next human limb to chomp on.
Now, though, she knew it all. Or at least knew what had been reported. She knew that Ben Retallick, up until two years ago, had been a celebrated criminal prosecution barrister living and working in London. He’d come a long way from the days of hangover recovery on a Cornish hillside.
That had all changed when he accepted a case involving Darren McConnell, a man who was accused of swindling pensioners out of their life savings. One of them had been so overcome with guilt at losing his and his wife’s nest egg that he’d committed suicide, leaving evidence for the police of McConnell’s involvement.
Eight other elderly couples came forward with their version of events, claiming McConnell had done the same to them. Ben Retallick, though, had not managed to secure a conviction – the evidence was all circumstantial, leaving the jury with enough doubt that they were unable to convict him.
The rest of the story came out at another court case – Ben’s own. He was charged with criminal assault after beating McConnell so badly he was left with three broken ribs, a broken jaw and concussion. Various versions of events were recalled, but the conclusion seemed to be that McConnell had gone to see the lawyer after the case and thanked him for “letting him off”. During the course of the conversation, he gloated about the fact that he had been guilty all along. That he’d stolen the money, that they’d been “asking for it”, that he had no remorse. That he didn’t give two hoots about the “old codger” who died.
Retallick had snapped and taken a swing at him. A fight ensued, with McConnell coming off much the worse – unsurprising as he was a weasel of man who ended up hospitalised. Ben had been sentenced to a year in jail and disbarred, despite a media campaign that portrayed him as a hero. The press came down mainly on his side, stressing the way the legal system had let the victims down, and that Ben Retallick had finally cracked under the pressure.
He’d never given an interview, never gone on the record outside the court case, never spoken publically about the mess his life was in, even after his release. In fact, he became something of a hermit, with near-legendary status – people snapped pictures of him on their mobiles and posted them on websites, reported sightings of him, wrote messages of support to newspapers. Someone had even set up a fake Twitter account in his name with photoshopped pictures of Big Bad Ben taking down historic villains with a handy right hook.
McConnell might have been the victim – and there were plenty of pictures of him with his taped-up ribs, matching black eyes and head bandage – but Ben came out as the one people sympathised with. Ben Retallick was a criminal – but he was one the nation very much approved of. Despite his silence, newspapers and columnists were still debating the rights and wrongs of the whole fiasco. A convicted criminal or a national hero, depending on your point of view.
Exactly which Ben Retallick was here, with her family, Pippa wondered? Hiding out in Honeysuckle Cottage. Moments away. Probably asleep, although the light was still burning in his bedroom window. What should she do about it? He’d seemed a nice man, a calm man. A thinker, not a fighter. He’d even helped with the recalcitrant cow. Yet the photos didn’t lie – he’d come close to killing McConnell, and no matter how much he might have deserved it, that kind of violence was frightening.
As she often did when she was troubled, Pippa turned to her parents for answers. She twisted around in bed, looked at the framed photo of them on the cabinet. A rare shot of all of them together, Scotty a babe in arms, Patrick lurking in the background, already looking sullen and angry with the world – as though he knew the world was going to punch him in the face even before it actually did.
Marissa and Stuart Harte had been kind people. They never judged and they’d raised their kids to do the same. They were always encouraged to think freely, to use their own instincts. To trust their own feelings. Even if that ended up getting them dunked in a duck pond.
And that, she thought, climbing out of the tangled sheets and pulling on a pair of old tracksuit trousers and a vest top, was exactly what she had to do now. She needed to follow their lead and trust her instincts. Use her own judgement – not that of the tabloid press.
She checked in on the kids as she tiptoed down the hallway, avoiding the patches of old wooden floorboard that creaked – they needed replacing, which was coming in at about number ninety-eight on her to-do list. Daisy and Lily were top-to-tail in one bed, as usual, even though they each had their own, and Scotty was crumpled up in his traditional tiny ball of warm flesh. His hair was too long, she thought, seeing it stuck to his forehead in blonde clumps. She lingered an extra moment, the sweetness of the sight filling her heart and chasing away at least some of the strain of the day. Bless him. He was the anti-Patrick – for now at least. With her parenting skills, though, he could be a criminal mastermind by the time he was ten.
Satisfied they were all firmly in the land of nod, she crept downstairs and slipped out of the side door, crossing the cobbles to Honeysuckle, realising it was too chilly for flip-flops. She paused and looked up at the cottage. The light was still on. She wouldn’t be waking him. And even if she was… well, it had to be done, and it pretty much had to be done now.
She knocked lightly as her hair flew around her face in the wind. Not quite gale force, but the waves would be crashing into the cove. She could hear them rolling in already. She hoped Patrick had found somewhere more civilised to bunk for the night, then switched that train of thought off – there was nothing she could do about Patrick. Not right now, probably not ever.
Ben opened the door, interior light flooding around him as he looked down at her. She took a gulp and hoped it wasn’t audible. He was wearing only a battered pair of faded Levis and his hair was damp from the shower he’d obviously just taken. Tiny droplets of water had scattered over broad shoulders and the moonlight played over the smooth, dark skin of his bare chest, even the small movement of holding the door open showing her the ripple of muscle in his arms. A fine line of silky black hair trailed down into the waistband of his jeans, and she tried not to stare at it. She was here for answers, not to lech, she reminded herself.
“Can I come in?” she asked simply, and he moved back, inviting her into the cottage that technically she owned. She sat down on one of the squashy armchairs and noted the open laptop with a screen full of text, a glass of rich amber liquid next to it. At least she hadn’t woken him. Maybe he had badass stun gun-wielding worries in his brain as well.
“Whisky and work,” he said, grabbing a black t-shirt and pulling it on. “The two essentials of my life. Want one?”
He held up the bottle – the label looked Scottish and expensive – and she shook her head. She rarely ever drank, and this didn’t seem like a good time to start.
“What is work now…after, you know…?” she asked.
He settled down opposite her, looking no less attractive for being clothed, but certainly less distracting.
“Why? Are you worried I won’t be able to pay my bill?”
“That’s not what I meant at all…and I didn’t mean to pry, but I’m sure you can imagine I have some questions.”
“Yeah. I can. To answer one of them, I’m writing a book. My second – the first is due out later this year. And no, it’s not about me and what happened – although there were plenty of offers to do just that. It’s a legal thriller. I’ve wanted to do it for years, but never had the time. Now, I have nothing but time, and a three-book publishing deal
