What Happens At Christmas...

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_f93455c4-a255-56f1-ac95-fe9843b25cdc)

‘So why did your dad choose to come and live all the way out here? It’s very pretty and all that, but, let’s face it, it’s the back of beyond.’

Five minutes earlier, they had turned off the busy A38 trunk road and now found themselves plunged into a totally different world of narrow winding lanes, woodland, rivers and hills. So far the only other vehicle they had seen had been an ancient tractor pulling a trailer full of sheep.

Holly shook her head in annoyance and glanced across at Julia. ‘I wish I knew for sure. It’s like I’ve been telling you, I know virtually nothing about my dad at all. Mum refused to talk about him. The news that he’d died was the first I’d heard of him for over twenty-five years.’

Julia still couldn’t get her head round that. ‘But surely you must have known if he was dead or alive?’

Holly shook her head. ‘No idea at all. I haven’t seen or heard from him since he left. And, don’t forget, I was only seven when that happened. I barely remember him at all. He could have been anywhere, alive or dead.’

Still puzzled, Julia arched her back and did her best to straighten her legs. ‘I love your car to bits, Hol, but bloody hell, it’s uncomfortable. I feel as if my backbone’s about to come out through the top of my skull. Any chance of stretching my legs? Apart from anything else, I’m dying for a pee.’

They had been driving non-stop for over four hours. Holly pressed back against the steering wheel and stretched her back. ‘Now that’s a thought, Jules. And a hot drink would be a good idea too. The next service station I find, I’ll pull over. Coffee and a comfort break coming up.’

Twenty minutes later, they still hadn’t found a petrol station. Holly’s old Porsche was loving the twisting, turning road that snaked up and down like a rollercoaster through an ever changing patchwork of fields, woods and open moorland. The road was getting steadily narrower and the warning light on the dashboard was now reminding Holly that it might have been prudent to fill up with fuel before heading out into the wilds of Dartmoor. Beside her, Julia was squirming around in the passenger seat. ‘Do something, Hol, I’m really getting desperate now.’

Then, miraculously, they came down a steep hill to a ridiculously narrow humpbacked granite bridge and spotted a sign on the right advertising, Last fuel before the Moor. Holly pulled in and drew up in front of one of only two pumps. As a gesture towards the festive season, a Christmas tree had been planted rather incongruously in a rusty oil can. The wind had removed most of the decorations, but a lone glass ball remained lodged in the middle of it, looking rather forlorn. Holly climbed out of the car, feeling a frozen blast of air on her neck as she did so. She reached back inside and grabbed a coat. She was zipping it up when an old man appeared. He was wearing ancient overalls, apparently held together by the oil and paint stains that covered them like camouflage, the military impression heightened by the khaki-coloured woolly hat on his head. He limped across to her, his eyes alternating between the bright red car and her long legs. Clearly, he was fascinated by what he saw.

‘Morning, miss. Come far, have us?’ His accent was deepest Devonshire and the wind whipping round her ears didn’t help comprehension, but Holly nodded and grunted, and he appeared satisfied. He ran his hand along the sleek wing of the car, nodding quietly to himself, before looking up. ‘Fill her up for you, my sweetheart?’

‘Yes, please, and is there a toilet we could use? And maybe somewhere we could get a cup of coffee?’

‘No coffee, I’m afraid, my lover, but you’ve got the Fisherman’s Rest two miles up the road. They’ll give you coffee. The toilet’s round the side of the building.’ He pointed vaguely behind him and left it to Julia to locate what proved to be an unexpectedly modern loo.

While the old man filled the car with fuel, Holly flicked the engine cover up and checked the coolant level. It was reassuringly normal and there were no unexpected oil leaks to be seen either. Her hard work the previous evening had clearly been worthwhile to ensure the thirty-year-old car made it all the way to Devon without mishap.

‘Do you want me to do that for you, sweetheart?’ The old man had finished refuelling and was hovering alongside her, clearly fascinated to see a girl looking at an engine. Holly, reassured that all was well, stood up and slammed the cover shut, wiping her hands on a tissue.

‘No, thanks. I thought I might have a coolant leak last week and I was just checking. But it all looks fine.’

‘You know your way round cars, then?’

Holly grinned at him. ‘I’m an engineer. Classic cars are my hobby.’

‘Well I never.’ He was still standing there looking awestruck when she emerged from the loo in her turn. By now, Holly had got over this almost inevitable reaction from most people she met when she told them what she did. In fact, she worked in insurance, but her engineering degree was essential for the type of work she did, and the old Porsche was her pride and joy.

The Fisherman’s Rest was just over another quaint little bridge, before the road started to climb steeply out of the trees towards the barren moorland. It was a long white building, with a grey slate roof. Picnic tables dotted the garden that sloped gently down to the edge of the fast-running moorland river, no doubt teeming with trout. Holly shivered. Today was certainly no day for sitting around in the garden. She checked her watch as she pulled into the car park. They had made a very early start from London, in the vain hope of getting round the South Circular before the worst of the traffic, and it was now eleven-thirty. A sign outside the pub indicated that it was open all day but, nevertheless, the door was locked and they had to bang on the heavy knocker for some time before a man appeared. He was lanky, stooped, and gloomy-looking, and he bore an uncommon resemblance to Boris Karloff.

‘Hello, any chance of a coffee?’ The man’s initially uncommunicative face turned to a welcoming, if slightly creepy, smile when he saw Holly’s long blonde hair and the length of Julia’s skirt. He stepped to one side and they both felt his eyes on them as they filed in.

Holly waited until he had disappeared behind the bar. ‘What’s that film? Deliverance? He’s a bit creepy, don’t you think, Jules?’ She picked a table near the door just in case.

‘Not really.’ Julia sounded quite relaxed. ‘The Docklands Light Railway on a Monday morning’s full of far more sinister characters than him.’ She looked around at the selection of stuffed trout, horse brasses, pewter tankards and framed prints of animals that dotted the walls. ‘The décor’s a bit different, though. I’ll give you that.’ Fairy lights and fake snow on the windows did their best to give the place a Christmassy feel, although the overall impression was still rather depressing. In a way, this suited Holly’s mood. As if sensing how she felt, Julia returned to the topic they had been kicking around for the past three days, ever since Holly had got the letter from the solicitor.

‘And this house he’s left you; was that where he was living?’

Holly shrugged her shoulders. ‘I imagine so, but I really don’t know. All I can remember was my mum telling me he’d gone to Australia. Presumably he came back.’

‘Yes, but why come back here to Dartmoor?’ Julia was still puzzled.

Holly had been thinking hard about this. ‘I’ve got a feeling the house was in his family – you know, passed down from generation to generation. I’ve got a few childhood memories of coming to Dartmoor for holidays with my mum and dad when I was a little kid and I can vaguely remember us staying in a sort of L-shaped house, but maybe I dreamt it. I may be totally wrong, but I seem to recall a house with a stream going past it, and ducks wandering about, but who knows?’ Her eyes focused on a very dusty stuffed duck, incongruously sitting on a shelf beside the dartboard. From the state of its feathers, it was clear that it, too, had often been a target.

‘And your mum didn’t talk about him at all?’

‘I told you; his name was never mentioned. And I mean never.’

Julia shook her head in disbelief and pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders. The fire in the fireplace was smoking, but no flames could be seen and it was decidedly chilly in the pub. Fortunately at that moment the lugubrious barman arrived with their coffee and, unexpectedly, two slices of fruit cake. As he set the tray down, he mumbled, ‘Christmas special,’ before wandering off. The two girls looked at each other and did their best not to burst out laughing.

After a while, Julia tried again. ‘Surely you could have asked her when you were grown up?’

Holly tasted the coffee and found it very hot and remarkably good. ‘I know, and I should have done. Anyway, I kept putting off asking her and then, of course, she died and that was that. For all I knew, I’d lost both my parents.’ She took another sip of the hot coffee. ‘Now, I know I have.’

She picked up a piece of cake and studied it suspiciously. It was solid and heavy, a deep brown colour, and studded with black bits, presumably raisins. She risked a bite. Despite appearances, it was excellent, but it didn’t cheer her up.

Julia did her best to lighten the mood. ‘Do you think the landlord’s put the drugs in the coffee or the cake? Maybe I should wait until you’ve eaten yours before I have mine.’

There was a draught of cold wind as the front door opened. A tall man came in, ducking his head as he did so, turning to push the door closed behind him. He glanced across at their table, hesitated, and then went over to the bar, where the Boris Karloff look-alike was stacking glasses on the shelves. The two men exchanged a few words and then Holly saw the barman point a finger in their direction.

Holly winked across the table at Julia and set down her coffee. ‘We’ve got company.’

The newcomer approached with a smile on his face. He was a good-looking man, probably a few years older than them, probably in his mid-thirties, maybe even nudging forty. He had a fine head of thick brown hair that parted in the middle of his forehead and he was dressed immaculately in a dark suit, white shirt and what might have been a regimental tie.

‘Good morning, ladies. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I was wondering if you’re the owners of the red 911 outside?’

Julia motioned across the table with her thumb. ‘She is.’

Holly looked up. ‘Yes, the car’s mine. Is there a problem?’ She had a sudden horrible thought that he had come in to say he’d scratched it. She had bought the Porsche three years earlier as a very extravagant thirtieth birthday present to herself and she absolutely loved it, but matching the paint on a car almost as old as she was wasn’t going to be easy.

‘No, not at all; well, at least, not for you. For me, maybe.’ Seeing her expression he went on to explain. ‘It’s a Carrera Coupé, isn’t it? With the 3.2 litre engine?’

‘Built in 1984 and only done fifty thousand miles. Never raced or rallied. One careful lady owner for the last three years.’ Holly gave him a smile. ‘Why, do you want to buy her? If so, I’m afraid the answer’s no. Greta’s not for sale.’

His face fell. ‘Oh well, it was worth a try. I’ve been looking for a good one for quite a while now, but they’re like hens’ teeth.’ Remembering his manners, he introduced himself. ‘I’m sorry, my name’s Justin Grosvenor. I live just a bit further up on the moor from here.’ He reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Would you mind awfully if I left you my card. Just in case you ever change your mind?’

Holly took the card from him and smiled back. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have a very long wait, Mr Grosvenor.’

‘Well, nothing ventured as they say. Now, do please excuse me for bothering you, and enjoy the rest of your day.’ He smiled at them both and went back out through the door.

‘Forget everything I’ve ever said about you being a petrolhead and car nerd. That is one handsome looking man.’ Julia was impressed. She glanced out of the window just in time to see him reversing out of the car park. ‘And that’s quite some car he’s driving.’ Holly followed her gaze and just caught a glimpse of the glossy silver shape as it accelerated away.

‘A brand new Range Rover, no less. A bit too big for my taste, but rather nice all the same – and useful up here when it snows.’ Holly was impressed as well, but she felt pretty sure it was for the car. Julia had no such illusions.

‘And I was criticising you for wasting your bonus money on a lump of tin. Clearly, that’s what I’ve got to do – save like hell until I can buy a flashy car, and then gorgeous looking men like him will be giving me their phone numbers all the time.’

Holly gave her a grin. ‘To be honest, he’s the first half-decent looking man who’s ever come up to me to talk about cars. Mostly, it’s chaps like our friend back at the petrol station, but with a bit less charisma. Here, do you want this one’s card?’ Absently, she studied it. ‘Grosvenor Financial Services. That sounds about right. You don’t get a lot of teachers or nurses driving new Range Rovers.’ She read his name and address and did a double-take. ‘That’s spooky. His address is Brookford. The Grange, Brookford.’ She looked up in surprise. ‘That’s where we’re going, Jules. That’s where my dad’s house is.’