Quint could see why Tom had chosen the house he lived in. It had good vantage points on all sides, anyone approaching it would be seen. If they were watching.
Nestled in a bay beside the village of St Petroc, the house was one of a few dotted around a shingled slope that led down to the water. The bay itself was quite narrow, curving out to the sea, not wide enough for surfers, barely deep enough to launch any craft. A winding, steep, switchback road led to the cliff top. Anyone approaching came down very slowly.
The other houses were mostly summer holiday lets, appealing to urbanites who wanted the pretence of being cut off from civilisation for a week, the inconvenience of getting supplies in and the novelty of terrible wifi. They were empty at this time of year, adding to the haunted, desolate feel of the bay. The only house with any lights on was Tom’s. The last house on the bay.
Quint had thought long and hard about how to approach it. He thought covert surveillance best, only to find precious little in the way of camouflage. He was sure his motorbike’s engine would alert the house’s inhabitants. So instead he stayed at the top of the hill, looking down, a discreet pair of binoculars pointing towards the house.
Dawn struggled to rise and the light within the house was a boon for him. He saw silhouettes move behind windows. Caught glimpses of two different bodies, making their separate ways sluggishly from room to room. He guessed they would be Lila and Pearl. The names in the file. They moved in together while Tom was away. That made sense. Quint could see why Tom would do that.
The front door opened and a figure emerged. Young, female, blonde. Lila, he thought. He looked round for somewhere to hide, realised there wasn’t anywhere. He was exposed. If she looked up he would be seen. The girl began to walk towards the road.
He stowed his binoculars in a leather saddlebag, readied himself to put the bike into gear, ride away. Then looked down again. She had disappeared.
He checked on all sides. No sign of her.
Panic rose in his chest. An unfamiliar sensation. Usually he was the one that induced panic in others. Among other emotions. He thought quickly, tried to reach a decision. He would have to go. Come back later, find somewhere he could hide – construct it if necessary – and observe the house more fully. He still had his tent pitched on Blackmoor, perhaps he could bring everything over here and camp out? Would that be more or less conspicuous?
He didn’t get any further in his thinking. Because there, right in front of him, was the blonde girl. Walking towards him. He immediately put his head down, trying to hide his identity from her, make out there was some mechanical fault and he couldn’t get his bike moving.
She paused in her walking, looked at him. ‘Trouble with your bike?’ she said.
He looked up, couldn’t avoid it. He had the visor of his helmet up. She saw his face and he saw hers. She was wary of him, suspicious even. He had to do something to counteract that, prove he was no threat. Act.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m camping down the road, I just came for a ride, was looking for shops, stopped for the view . . .’ He gestured over the bay where the sun was rising. He shrugged. ‘Then this happened. Must be the cold, or something.’
‘Right,’ Lila said. Her voice still unsure but giving his story the benefit of the doubt. ‘You want to give it another go?
‘Yeah,’ he said. He took her in from the corner of his eye. Dressed in a parka and boots, a bag slung over one shoulder, files and books poking from the corner. College. Another quick glance round showed him the stepped footpath, cut into the side of the rock, the lonely looking bus stop she was headed to. ‘I’ll just . . .’
He put his foot down. Hard. The bike sprang into life.
‘There you go,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’ He smiled.
She didn’t move.
‘I’ll be off, then.’
‘Right.’ She still hadn’t moved.
He put the bike into gear, rode away.
Down the road, deserted at this hour, he glanced behind in the wing mirror.
She was still standing there. Watching him go.