What Doesn't Kill You Read online

  He was certain this was the dog who’d sprinted towards the cliffs earlier.

  Starting at the rocks below Hope Cove Castle, where he’d last seen the woman, Griff scanned the length of the beach. Other than a dozen cars parked outside the Harbour Inn, the place was empty. Not soulless. Just empty.

  Puzzled, Griff gave both dogs a firm pat on their sides. ‘Definitely saw someone with you, Honey. The woman in pink.’

  He checked the flipside of Honey’s disc to find a crudely etched mobile number. Fishing his phone from his back pocket, he keyed in the digits and listened, not to the dialling tone, but to the surrounding noise. If Honey’s owner was nearby, there was a chance Griff would hear her phone. He strained to single out a mechanical tune, but the thunderous wind and the rattle of the pebbles as they were seduced back into the icy depths of the sea made it impossible.

  When the phone requested he left a message after the beep, he cast his concern and vexation down the line.

  ‘My name’s Hendry. I have Honey. If I don’t see you by the rocks in the next five minutes, I’m taking her—’ The phone went dead mid-sentence, and Griff checked the signal. That too was dead. ‘Man!’ His voicemail sounded more like a ransom demand than a rescue mission. ‘Where the hell is your owner?’

  He headed for the car, hopeful that retracing his steps would jog his memory – perhaps he’d seen more than his eyes had led him to believe. He was more hopeful Honey would pick up the woman’s scent.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, with his door open and his eyes trained on the rocks, Griff ran through the sequence of events that resulted in the Labrador flying past the window. He tried to visualise the figure that had followed the dog. Definitely female. Petite. What was her hair like? No hair on show. She was using the hood of her shocking pink rain mac.

  He raised a hand to a halt position. ‘There was a black flower on the back of her coat. A poppy.’ If she had fallen, at least she’d be easy to spot. ‘Purple waterproofs,’ he muttered, ‘with the black boots.’ He hadn’t consciously tracked her, but the more he delved into his subconscious, the more the scene played out. She’d disappeared over the rocks in the direction of Preacher Cove, chasing after Honey. A section of the path had collapsed in recent weeks following the storms, but the cove was still accessible if trodden with care. It was a worry. It was possible the woman had slipped and fallen, twisted her ankle or knocked herself unconscious.

  Griff leapt out of the car, slammed the door shut, and sprinted to the end of the beach, the dogs galloping behind. The white Portland boulders hampered his progress, but he wasn’t about to give up. He clambered over the first, battling with two excitable dogs for adequate footholds, but when he lost traction on the second rock, thanks to Ozzy using Griff’s hand for purchase, the situation became intolerable.

  Honey was more interested in snapping at the sea spray than sniffing for a trail, and Ozzy was yo-yoing back and forth like an overgrown puppy.

  An alternative course of action was required, before all three of them ended up stranded and broken on the rocks.

  With no signal to his mobile, Griff needed to call backup from a landline.

  Shepherding the dogs back onto the pebbles, the pack made their way to Chiswell Craft Centre and piled into Olivia’s shop. The door and the howling gale attacked the bell, and it rang with fury.

  ‘Everything all right?’ With her ankle-length skirt flapping against the edge of the display shelves, Olivia approached the dogs and bent to stroke Honey. ‘Are you sure now is the right time to adopt a second one?’

  ‘I’ve not adopted her,’ Griff said. ‘I’m trying to find her owner. There’s a chance she’s gone over near Preacher’s Cove.’ He instructed Ozzy to sit. ‘I need to use your phone.’ A forceful gust rattled the shop. ‘Scratch that. Call the coastguard, tell them a woman, five-foot-four, in a pink raincoat with a black poppy on the back, is suspected missing on the path to the cove. I’m going back there. She’s been gone long enough.’ He opened the door, sending the bell into another frenzy. ‘Can I leave the dogs with you?’ Seeing Olivia nod, he turned to run out of the shop, and collided with a fast-moving pink creature half his width.

  Undeterred, the woman shoved Griff from her path and ran straight at Honey.

  ‘There you are!’ She cradled the dog’s neck, kissed the top of its head and ran a cursory check over the body and legs. ‘Oh, Honey. I was so worried. I thought something awful had happened to you.’

  ‘Shut the door, Griff, will you? The wind’s tangling my dreamcatchers.’ Olivia stretched up to steady her feathery sales goods.

  Griff pushed the door shut. The pink creature still had her back to him, the black poppy on full display. Nice to know he’d not imagined it. ‘Glad you’re safe. Nearly had the coastguard searching for you. What do you think you were doing, tackling the path to Preacher’s Cove on a day like this?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ The woman’s tone and the sudden stiffening of her shoulders said more than her words.

  Griff caught sight of Olivia pulling a you’re for it face and he shook his head. He wanted to see who had been careless enough to try and walk a dog in a known danger spot. He stared at the back of the hooded figure. ‘You put yourself at risk. Not only that, but if we’d called out the coastguard, you’d have put them and others at risk.’ With the warmth of being inside and the heat of irritation rising, Griff ripped open his coat and threw it off. As it landed on the floor, Ozzy nuzzled it, stomped on it and settled down, clearly preferring his master’s soft coat to Olivia’s hard floor. ‘It was irresponsible.’

  ‘Irresponsible? Who the hell do you think you are?’ The woman sprung up, reeled on the spot and glared at Griff. A look of astonishment replaced the scowl. It was short-lived. The woman’s mouth went from a perfect circle to a tight and hard rectangle. ‘Should have known,’ she said, releasing her hold of Honey. ‘You just can’t keep out of my business can you?’

  The Labrador took advantage of her new freedom and joined Ozzy on Griff’s coat.

  Olivia, amusement plucking at her lips, settled on the shop’s counter, crossed her ankles and leaned forward. ‘You two know each other?’

  ‘Hard to tell. My eyes haven’t recovered from the garish pink of the coat.’ Griff blinked several times for effect.

  ‘And I’ve never recovered from the way you gatecrashed my twenty-first birthday, you arrogant arsehole.’

  ‘Oh, Griff. You didn’t?’ Olivia’s legs were swinging, and with every backward sway her heels clonked at the veneer of the counter. ‘That’s not very gallant.’

  Griff glanced at Olivia, acknowledged her reprimand, and then directed a stare at the pink, hooded figure. He’d only bulldozed his way into one party, and that was Imogen Joliffe’s. He ducked his head to see under the brim of the hood. A pair of bright, too-blue eyes glowered back. Imogen’s eyes were always too blue. Had Griff not known her since she was a scrap of a girl, he’d have sworn she wore contact lenses.

  He pulled at his collar. ‘Efficient heating in here, Olivia.’ Still trying to determine the stranger’s identity, his peripheral vision caught Olivia waving a hand, a second before she spoke.

  ‘That’s your conscience providing the heat, not my boiler,’ she said.

  As always, Olivia had assessed the situation with alarming accuracy. Her no-nonsense, straight-talking approach appealed to Griff. The sixty- … seventy-year-old woman was never afraid to speak her mind, and she was in control of her own destiny – a quality Griff respected and one to which he responded well.

  He opened the top two buttons of his shirt and considered his current predicament. He wasn’t about to reveal he’d been speaking of Imogen today – that would suggest he thought of her often. He conceded he frequently remembered her brother and then, by association, Imogen, but to blurt out he’d mentioned her in passing to the dog … He regarded the two animals. They were snuggled side-by-side, as comfortable as an old married couple. Honey’s tail quivered in a tiny wag of
contentment. It really was a dog’s life. If only Griff’s was as simple.

  Returning his attention to Imogen, if indeed it was she hiding in the pink monstrosity, Griff decided it was more than a coincidence she’d shown up. Somewhere in his subconscious he must have known it was her as she’d run past the Land Rover, and that was the reason she’d come to mind.

  The woman folded down her hood, and fluffed her hair free from her coat. Long and blonde, it tumbled the length of her body, coming to rest at her hips. Her perfectly-made-up face, with cheeks as rosy as her rain mac, was exposed in the full light of the grey day.

  Years had passed since Griff had last seen Imogen, but there was no mistaking the look of loathing levelled at him – it was identical to the one he’d received from her when he’d crashed her party; the same her mother had used the last time he’d called at the Joliffe’s house. ‘Imogen.’ He raised a brow in salutation. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What do you think you were doing kidnapping my dog?’ She pointed at Honey.

  ‘You got my phone message, then.’

  ‘What phone message?’ Imogen reached into her coat pocket, retrieved her mobile, and checked the screen. ‘Looks like I missed a voicemail,’ she muttered, preparing to play it back.

  Resigned to the moment, Griff waited in silence as Imogen listened to her phone. Her eyebrow’s relayed her feelings in a clear and concise manner.

  She swiped her thumb across the bottom of the display. ‘What was next? Honey’s whisker in the post? A ransom note?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Uh! I haven’t finished. Where do you get off stealing my dog? Is this another clumsy attempt to get me alone, so you can explain yourself? Plead forgiveness? There was no party to crash, so you thought you’d stalk me on the beach and take my dog.’

  Griff winced at the rise in pitch and incredulity, but Imogen was in full flow.

  ‘You can’t keep doing this to me … It’s like … It’s like you have an uncontrollable surge of conscience every ten years.’

  ‘It was fourteen years this time. And I didn’t stalk you. You came to the beach.’

  ‘Griff. Hush.’ Olivia hopped down from the counter and approached Imogen. ‘Having a conscience is a positive attribute, young lady. Losing your temper is not.’ She took hold of the woman’s free hand. ‘I’m Olivia DeVere, proprietor of Chiswell Craft Centre.’

  Peace was instant and a welcome relief to Griff.

  ‘Imogen Joliffe. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘I’m not upset.’ Olivia patted Imogen’s arm. ‘But I want to share something with you. In my experience, shouting doesn’t get you heard, especially where men are concerned.’ She leaned in closer. ‘It’s just noise to them.’ Peering over her shoulder, she then addressed Griff. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘It depends.’ He was going to expand on his answer, but Olivia waded in again.

  ‘Whatever this is …’ she wafted the air around her ‘… it’s none of my business. But if you want to keep history from repeating itself, you need to deal with the present, and unless you’re in a hurry to get swept away outside, here and now seems like an excellent place to start. Face the storm inside, or deal with the one brewing over the Channel. I’ll go and put the kettle on and fetch a bowl of water for the dogs.’

  Olivia disappeared through a door to the rear of the shop.

  ‘She’s an ex-school teacher.’ Despite welcoming the silence, Griff deemed an explanation of Olivia’s behaviour necessary. To the uninitiated, at least. ‘I take it you’ve not been in here before?’

  ‘No reason to.’ Imogen scanned the four walls of the interior. ‘Looks like a tourist tat shop.’ She flicked the dreamcatcher dangling above her head. ‘I’m only here now because I caught you bringing Honey in.’

  ‘Caught? I was making sure she was safe so I could search for you.’

  ‘I was right behind you, screaming my head off and, as usual, you ignored me, and carried on doing your own thing.’

  The woman may have advanced in years, but her petulance and hot-headedness hadn’t improved. Age suited her looks, though.

  ‘I didn’t hear you,’ Griff said, making his way to the shop counter. ‘If I had, I wouldn’t be standing here now, taking your insults on the chin. I’d be having a pleasant chat with Olivia, and admiring her skilful work.’ Tat, indeed. Olivia would have something to say about that.

  He pulled a tall stool out from behind the desk and offered it to Imogen. She folded her arms in response. ‘Olivia makes most of this herself.’ He sat down.

  ‘I can tell.’

  ‘You’re very rude. My teenage daughter has better manners.’

  ‘Do you know what, Griff? I’ve seen enough in the papers over the years to know you’re the perfect hero. I don’t need to know the details of your perfect life, too.’

  Interesting. Imogen had been keeping tabs on him, although it was a few months ago the local press last deemed him newsworthy, and he doubted the Somerset papers would have run the story. Imogen must have read it on the internet. Griff’s life had changed considerably since then, and not all of it for the better. ‘It’s hardly perfect.’ That slipped out. He glanced at Imogen to gauge her reaction. To his dismay, his statement appeared to have spiked her curiosity.

  She tilted her head to the side. ‘Some would say that’s karma.’

  ‘Some would say I’ve spoken out of turn. My mistake.’

  ‘Is that how you get by in life? You reason your way through your titanic cock-ups by thinking that admitting to them will bring forgiveness?’ Imogen marched across the shop floor, and confronted Griff face-on. ‘Is that how you live with yourself? Is that how you deal with Kieran’s death?’

  The attack, along with the first mention of his friend’s name knocked Griff sideways. He took a moment to recover before countering. ‘Until you agree to talk to me about it, I can’t deal with Kieran’s death. And I don’t believe you can, either.’ He studied her, keeping his eyes locked on hers, giving her nowhere to go but straight back to him.

  She retaliated instantly. ‘He was my brother. Of course I’ll never deal with it. I’ve carried it around for twenty-four years and not a day has passed when I haven’t thought about him. It destroyed my parents.’ There was a shift in her body language as her entire frame went from rigid to defeated. ‘You know about Mum?’

  Griff hopped from the stool and carried it across to Imogen. ‘Sit. I insist.’ He wasn’t happy at the speed with which her rosy cheeks had blanched. She hitched herself up and issued a nod of thanks before lowering her head. Griff continued. ‘I tried to contact you as soon as I heard. I sent a wreath to the crematorium.’ Imogen must have known that. ‘And a card.’ He watched her shoulders rise and drop.

  ‘I didn’t want anything from you. Or your family.’ Another draw of air. ‘You know what happened?’

  Griff crouched at the foot of the stool, inclining his head to see Imogen. ‘It was a car accident.’

  ‘No.’ Imogen looked at Griff. Her eyes had lost none of their colour. ‘It was no accident.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Evie

  The uneasy ceasefire between Evie and Logan did little to reassure her of his supposed change of heart. It was almost a month since she’d exposed every distressing detail of the state of her marriage, and although he’d promised to give serious thought to receiving outside care, nothing had happened.

  He’d not even looked through the brochures Evie had supplied.

  She picked up the pile from the coffee table and held them out. ‘All three companies were recommended,’ she said, hoping to spike Logan’s interest.

  ‘And what does Griff think about it?’ Using both thumbs, Logan pressed a button on the grey remote on his lap. The foot of his armchair extended out, lifting his legs level to his hips. He winced.

  Evie perched on the corner of the table and filtered off the top booklet. ‘I haven’t consulted him. This has to be your decis
ion.’

  Logan stretched out a shaky hand, indicating for Evie to place the book on his lap. She obliged, despite recent experience teaching her this meant nothing. That particular brochure had spent many quiet, untouched hours in Logan’s company. Dylan had shown more interest in it on their last visit, fascinated by its glossy cover.

  ‘You need your glasses.’ She wasn’t falling for that excuse again. ‘Are they upstairs?’

  ‘They’re in the kitchen. They were filthy. I tried washing them. Made no difference. I have no push. I couldn’t satisfy an itch on a bloody flea.’

  His grumble was understandable. To have so little strength that he couldn’t wipe the lenses on his spectacles was upsetting. For Logan, it must have been frustrating – soul-destroying to a man of his intelligence, whose professional life had depended on faultless dexterity and pin-point accuracy.

  Evie returned the remaining books to the coffee table, gave Logan’s knee a gentle rub, and excused herself from the room. ‘Tea?’

  She filled the kettle to the max line, bedded it in its cradle and flicked the switch down. The only hot drinks Logan had were those made by visitors. His mealtimes were at others’ mercy, too, as were his rising and retiring times.

  Others? There were no others. There was Evie.

  She continued to think on the problem as she picked up the spectacles from the draining board. Her life was similar. The needs and wants of a toddler and, to a large degree, Logan dictated her coming and going.

  As she pulled out a soft cloth from the under-sink cupboard, she chided herself. That was an uncharitable and mean-spirited thought. Her life was nothing like Logan’s. At any given moment she could stand up and walk away. Not that she would, but having the ability … having the choice … gave her a sense of independence. And often guilt.

  She eased up on herself. Feelings of guilt were normal at times like this. She’d read that somewhere. Or maybe someone had said it to her on the one occasion she attended a carers meeting. She’d not gone again due to her commitments. Irony at its best.