properly. Beautifully cut suit, blue tie, blue handkerchief poking out from the breast pocket, but yes, grey eyes. Wolfish.
‘Drink?’
‘Drink?’ She was confused at the sudden change of subject.
He nodded to her empty glass. ‘More champagne?’
‘I’m drinking water.’
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you? You look as though you might need a glass.’
‘Really?’ She didn’t look that shaken, surely. Still, she did feel as though she could do with some alcohol at this particular moment. Sod it. ‘Okay. Why not?’ Now she did allow herself to smile fully at him.
He clicked his fingers and a woman, impeccably dressed in a white shirt and tight black skirt, glided towards them, bearing a tray at shoulder height. Alex wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to be impressed or not. She wasn’t. In fact, after the evening she’d had, it would take more than an imperious clicking of fingers and a solemn waitress bearing booze to impress.
The woman handed her a glass; Alex drank deeply, hardly appreciating its coldness and the pop of bubbles on her tongue.
‘Looks like you needed that,’ he said.
‘I did. Thank you.’ She took a more delicate sip, wanting to savour it this time.
‘Who was he?’ The man leaned against the window. The fireworks had ended.
Alex sighed. ‘He was a friend who wanted to be more than a friend.’
He was David Gordon, the head of a charity for the homeless in East Anglia, who had invited her along to the event at Riders’ Farm – an event not in aid of his charity, but for one concerned with refugees. He liked to pick up ideas, he told her. Also, he said, the Riders were big donors to Fight for the Homeless and it behoved him to be there. Alex thought at the time his use of the word ‘behoved’ was rather sweet and old-fashioned.
She had found David an interesting person to interview for The Post. He had come into money and had decided to put it to good use. He wanted to make the lives of homeless people more normal, he had told her earnestly. To fight the root causes of homelessness. It was no good merely giving money to beggars on the street, you had to put that money to good use. To fight drugs, robber landlords, the benefits system. And to that end he had set up a hostel in Norwich and another in Ipswich where people could go and not have to account for themselves in any way, but would be helped with whatever problem they had. No one would ask them questions.
Finding out about David’s hopes and ambitions had been the sort of freelance job she liked best. A good subject, an interesting cause. She’d enjoyed herself, so when he’d asked her to join him at the function at the Riders’ farm, she’d agreed. She’d heard that the event at the rather splendid farm was the place to be seen. Not that she was interested in being seen as such, but there could be some people here who would make good subjects for future features she enjoyed writing. And she might even get a news story of some sort out of it. She badly wanted to up her news credibility with Heath Maitland, the news editor at The Post.
The evening had started off so well, with David taking her to a delicious early supper at the nearby Dog and Partridge.
The party was well underway by the time they arrived at Riders’ Farm. Alex could hear the strains of a jazz band as they walked towards the large oak front door up the path lit by dozens of bamboo garden torches and strings of fairy lights hanging from the bare branches of trees.
At first David had been the very model of attentiveness, making his way through the packed rooms, introducing her to all sorts of people from the chief executive of a local hospice to the raddled drummer of a famous band of old rockers. The great and the good were in evidence everywhere. Suffolk’s Assistant Chief Constable was chatting to a prominent surgeon from Ipswich Hospital. The Chief Fire Officer was listening to the Lord-Lieutenant of Suffolk – a post currently held by a countess. And the canapés were delicious and the champagne cold.
‘When do I get to meet the Riders?’ Alex asked, after spending several minutes in the company of the pompous High Sheriff of Suffolk, complete with the gold medallions of office, who was telling her how the city council was about to adopt a zero-tolerance policy towards beggars on the streets.
She couldn’t wait to get away.
‘There’s Marianne, the matriarch, I guess you’d call her.’ David nodded across the room.
Marianne Rider was tall and elegant, wearing a crimson dress that was nipped in at the waist and fell to the floor. Her silver hair was carefully twisted in a chignon and diamonds glinted in her ears. As if she knew she was being looked at, Marianne Rider turned and stared at Alex. The woman’s face was tastefully wrinkled, though the number of lines around her mouth denoted a heavy smoker. Her lipstick matched her dress. A silver necklace glinted across her collarbone. She didn’t smile. She turned back to continue talking to the man next to her.
Alex almost shivered. She felt snubbed. Marianne Rider did not look a cosy sort of person.
‘And that’s her husband next to her, Joe Rider,’ said David.
Joe Rider was as tall as his wife and stood dutifully nodding at whatever she was saying while sipping from a glass. His dark navy suit was stretched across his paunch. He was sweating slightly, and he ran his fingers around the inside of his collar as if it was restricting his breathing.
‘I can’t see the three sons, but they must be around somewhere,’ said David. ‘Apparently Marianne likes the family to present a united front, so they always have to come to these events with their wives.’
‘Wives? You make it sound as though they’ve got several each.’
David laughed. ‘One of the sons is on his third wife, but I don’t think all three have to attend. Still, I’ll introduce you when I see them.’ He tried to sound casual, but Alex could hear the excitement in his voice. She didn’t like to tell him that she had done a bit of research before the evening and knew a little about the Riders. They were an old farming family who owned a lot of land in Suffolk, an awful lot of land, including an island off the coast. An island about which there were all sorts of stories, stories of strange lights and noises at night. Screams carrying over cold air. Bodies washed up on beaches. Local people said the island was haunted.
‘… diversification. Are you listening to me, Alex?’ David stared at her with irritation.
‘Sorry.’ She tried to look contrite.
‘What I was saying was that they have diversified and done very well out of it. They have “forest lodges for the backwoodsman” on some of their land.’
‘For townies to “experience” the countryside, I suppose,’ said Alex, grinning. ‘Yes, I read about that.’
‘There’s also a centre for holistic therapy, complete with yurts, and a couple of barns that can be used for corporate events or as wedding venues. Of the three sons, Simon, the youngest, is married, and has a degree in chemistry or something. The eldest, Lewis, is on his third wife as I said, and the middle son, Jamie, has just got divorced. There we are. A potted history.’
Alex wondered if she was meant to give him a round of applause.
The evening
