leaving her scant time to stand about thinking. She stayed after Tod had gone home, nibbling on a filled bread roll from a nearby cafe while she rearranged the stock, not because it needed it really, but to give herself something to do.
She hauled a couple of recycled-wood chests from the rear of the shop to the window, and draped two bright linen tablecloths across their corners, allowing much of the fabric to fall on the floor. Then she placed some smaller things among the folds—a glass paperweight, a bronze statuette, a branched candlestick of gleaming brass.
Her stock was an eclectic range of old and new. She specially loved antiques and second-hand knick-knacks, but also appreciated the brash colours and exciting forms of modern design, and the exotic charm of craft objects from other countries. Tara’s special talent, she’d been told, was her ability to juxtapose styles in unexpected combinations that enhanced the qualities of each. She stocked anything that took her fancy and that might catch a customer’s eye.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon pottering, and it was almost five o’clock when she opened the door and stood in the doorway fumbling in her bag for her key.
She had the key in her hand when she became aware of someone behind her and looked around, startled.
He was a big man, wearing a dark-visored motorcycle helmet that obscured his face. Steadying her breath, Tara said, ‘Can I help you?’
His voice was muffled by the helmet. ‘Money.’
Tara’s heart lurched. She tried to step back and slam the door in his face, but he was too quick for her, pushing it hard so that it swung back and she had to move further inside to avoid being hurt.
And, of course, he came after her. ‘Money,’ he repeated. ‘What do you do with it?’
‘I...it’s gone,’ she lied. There was a small safe in the back room where they kept the takings and the cash float over the weekend, but it was well hidden behind an oriental hanging on the wall. ‘I don’t keep money in the shop.’
He gave her a shove and grabbed at the bag in her hand, upending it so that everything fell on the floor, including her wallet. Snatching that up, he opened it, pulled out the several notes that it contained and stuffed them into a pocket of his leather jacket before throwing the wallet on the floor again. ‘You’ve got a safe,’ he said. ‘Show me!’
He was probably guessing. But even if he was he might be prepared to use violence before he’d be convinced. Better to lose her takings than risk that.
She thought about it a bit too long, saw his hand make a fist and tried to dodge, but he caught her cheek and sent her staggering against a solid oak sideboard, painfully banging her head, hip and elbow on the wood, and sending a small china jug to the floor, where it smashed to pieces.
Her instinct was to retaliate, but there was no weapon within reach and common sense dictated compliance. Besides, she was a little dizzy from the pain of the blow to her head. ‘All right,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I’ll show you.’
She took him into the back room used as office and storage space and pulled aside the hanging, opened the safe without a word and handed him the tin cash box.
The man stowed it bulkily inside his jacket and pushed her again. ‘What’s in there?’ he demanded, nodding his helmeted head towards the door behind her.
‘It’s a toilet.’
He grabbed her arm and shoved her inside the tiny room. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t come out for twenty minutes or you’ll be sorry.’ He slammed the door.
Tara leaned an ear against the panel, closing her eyes in a mixture of relief and hope. She heard his booted feet on the floor, and the muffled voice shouted, ‘Twenty minutes! Or you’ll get it.’
He was making his getaway, not hanging about to see if she obeyed. She knew that, but her ears strained, her heart thudding. Had he gone all the way to the door? Would he wait for a minute—five, ten? Or just run? Was that the roar of a motorbike she could distantly hear? What direction did it come from?
She was shaking. The painted wood against her ear, her cheek, felt cold. She wanted to be sick. How long had she been standing here, too afraid to get out, to move?
The longer she delayed the more time he had to get away. Cautiously she turned the door handle, then paused. Nothing happened. She opened the door a crack, holding her breath, peering through the inadequate aperture. Still nothing.
Gathering her courage, she opened the door properly, looked through the connecting doorway to the shop. The place seemed empty. The telephone was on the desk in one corner of the back room. She dived for it, and with trembling fingers dialled the emergency number.
* * *
HOURS LATER she opened the door of the turn-of-the-century Epsom cottage she’d restored and refurbished, and thankfully closed it behind her. The police had been great, but trying to remember every detail that would help them and poring through photographs of likely suspects had taken its toll. Someone had given her coffee and a biscuit, and the phone number of a victim support group.
Her legs were unsteady as she walked across the dimmed living room, drawn by the light blinking on the answering machine sitting on a graceful antique writing bureau. She turned on a side lamp and pressed the play button on the machine, listened to a message from the library about a book she’d requested, another from a friend offering to sell her a ticket to a charity concert, and then jerked to attention as Sholto’s voice filled the room. ‘I’ll phone again later,’ he said, adding, ‘It’s Sholto,’ as though she didn’t know his voice, didn’t react to it with every pore.
He had phoned again later, and again, each time with the same message, leaving no number for her to return the call.
Tempted to replay the tape just to hear his voice again, Tara clenched her teeth and reset it instead. She wasn’t a mooning adolescent now; she was a grown woman and she’d got over Sholto. Not easily, but at last. There was no way she was going to fall into that maelstrom of emotion and pain again. If he did repeat his call she would let the machine deal with it.
In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator and her stomach turned at the sight of food. Closing the door, she made herself more coffee and nibbled on a dry cracker. And found herself back in the living room, leaning against the door jamb and staring at the phone.
When it rang she almost dropped the half-finished coffee in her haste to intercept the rings before the machine cut in. Snatching up the receiver, she managed a breathless, ‘Hello? This is—’
‘Tara,’ Sholto said. ‘I’ve been phoning you all day.’
‘I was at the shop,’ she said. ‘I heard your message—messages.’
‘You work in a shop?’
He didn’t know, of course. ‘I own a shop. Bygones and Bibelots. Mostly it’s just called Bygones, though.’
‘Antiques?’
‘Yes, and some new stuff. A mixture.’
‘You work late.’
‘No, not really.’ She swallowed, remembering the man in the dark-visored helmet. The shadows in the unlit corners of the room were deepening
