Love at First Hate Read online

  “Mr. Roscarrock? Do you need some more pain relief?” Her voice had the patient emphasis of someone who’d said it at least once before.

  “No.” He didn’t need to be coddled.

  “Well, if you’re sure. But don’t try to move; you’ve got a couple of cracked ribs. Just try to rest now, and your sister will be here soon. Let me know if you’re too uncomfortable, and we’ll see what we can do to make you feel better.”

  Bran did as she said. It wasn’t like he had any other option. He lay there and blinked at his surroundings. A hospital room—yes, she’d said he was in hospital. At least it was a private room. Wasn’t that unusual? Perhaps Bea had insisted.

  Bea. He wanted her desperately. She’d make sense of everything. She always did.

  Bran wasn’t sure how long it was after that when Bea arrived, but at least his thoughts were no longer swimming through treacle. She looked stressed. Probably hadn’t appreciated having to drive all the way out to Truro at such a late hour. Not that Bran could see a clock, but the sky outside the window was pitch-black. He had an uneasy idea he’d lost time again.

  “Bran,” she said, then stopped, her lips tight. Her nostrils flared as she took a deep breath. “Who did this?”

  “I . . .” He was appalled to realise it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder about it. “It was an accident?”

  “They told me you were mugged. Your wallet was stolen. If you hadn’t been recognised by the people who found you . . .” She stopped again, blinking. “I wouldn’t even have known you were here.”

  “Bea?” Bran hated feeling so helpless to comfort her.

  “You’re all I have,” she said fiercely. “So we are going to find out who did this, and they’re going to pay.”

  She sat down in the chair beside the bed, and extended a cool hand to cup his face as if he were a child. The touch was unaccustomed, and he almost flinched, but stopped himself in time. It wasn’t unwelcome. Neither was seeing her so fierce on his behalf, but right now he felt completely unequal to thoughts of vengeance. His wretched uncertainty about himself, about anything, was overwhelming. “They said I had cracked ribs?”

  Bea nodded. “Broken. That’s what they told me. It means the same thing, anyway. Just that calling them cracked sounds as if it’s not so serious. They think you hit your head on the wall as you fell. And then that bastard kicked you. Do you remember any of it?”

  Bran made to shake his head, and immediately regretted it. “No.”

  “We’ll find out. Don’t you worry.”

  The policewoman who came to talk to him the next day looked around Jory’s age. Her dark, curly hair was cropped aggressively short at the sides and a little longer on top, probably an attempt to counteract the soft prettiness of her face, with her light-brown skin, large, dark eyes, and full lips. She was vaguely familiar—someone Bran had seen around town, but had never spoken to.

  Bran’s head still ached horribly, and it hurt to breathe too deeply but, his mind having cleared from the mental sludge of last night, he was by now so bored he was actually glad to see her.

  “Mr. Roscarrock? I’m Constable Sally Peters. Do you feel up to answering a few questions?” Her voice was jarring—not the warm, West Country burr he’d expected, but something more like Essex with a faint echo of Jamaica.

  “You’re not local?” he found himself asking in surprise. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry. I get that every time I open my mouth. I was born and bred in Chingford. Moved down here when I got married.”

  He glanced automatically at her left hand, which was bare.

  She caught his glance, and smiled. “Stayed when I got divorced. You know you’re the one who’s supposed to be answering the questions, right?”

  “Then you should probably ask them.” It came across as brusque, he was aware. But he already knew this was a waste of time. “Although I’ll tell you now, I can’t remember a single thing about what happened to me.”

  She pulled out a notebook and pen. “Let’s start with your movements yesterday. You live in Roscarrock House, up on the promontory at Big Guns Cove?”

  “As I’m sure you already know.”

  “Must be nice, big house on the cliffs like that.” Her tone was neutral, conversational. “So you went for a walk into town?”

  “I went to visit my nephew. Gawen Roscarrock.” An uneasy thought struck. “He’s thirteen, so I hope you won’t be bothering him about all this.”

  She ignored the implied question. “And you saw him at the house he shares with his mum . . . Kirsty Fisher? Your brother’s ex-wife?”

  “Correct.”

  “And is that a regular thing for you, going down there?”

  Bran bristled at the suggestion he might not take his responsibilities seriously. “I see him frequently, yes. He’s the heir to the estate.”

  The constable made a note in her book. “Always at his house?”

  What an odd question. “No, of course not.”

  “But when you do go down there, is it always on a Thursday night?”

  “No . . .” Bran frowned in thought, having realised what she was getting at. “Well, more often than not, I suppose. He has activities he does other evenings. And Friday nights are spent with his father. And his father’s partner,” he added, because apparently Malory Thomas was now a permanent family fixture. Bran could hardly ignore his existence, much as he was an indirect reminder of unpleasant things.

  “That’s Jory Roscarrock, your little brother?”

  Bran snorted. It hurt his chest, and his next words came out embarrassingly strangled. “Hardly little.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I’ve met him. They had me round to speak to the kids at his school. Community-relations thing. Got a crick in my neck just talking to him.”

  Bran found himself liking Constable Peters. He didn’t want to like her. He wanted to be angry and indignant, and rail at her for wasting time with trivial questions instead of getting out there to bring his assailant to justice.

  “Right. So you’d quite often be walking back through town at that time on a Thursday night?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t always stay for dinner.”

  “But most times you do?”

  Bran realised he couldn’t actually remember a time in recent months when Kirsty hadn’t offered, or he hadn’t accepted. It was unsettling, to see how much of a routine he’d fallen into without noticing. “Yes.”

  “Always the same route?”

  “Generally . . . yes. It’s the quickest way.”

  She nodded and made a note.

  “I can see where you’re going with this,” Bran said, his throat tight. “You think someone was lying in wait for me.”

  “Just exploring the possibilities, sir. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm you?”

  Bran swallowed. Since Bea had visited him, he’d been able to think of little else. “I’m sure you’re aware a man in my position must inevitably come into conflict with other local businessmen from time to time. Purely in a commercial sense, obviously.”

  “Your position as . . .?”

  Bran had a strong feeling she already knew who he was, but wanted to hear how he would phrase it. “As the major local landowner in Porthkennack,” he said, careful not to sound as though he were bragging.

  “Is there anyone in particular you’ve come into conflict with recently?”

  “The Edes. And the Andrewarthas. They’re the only ones who’ve borne a grudge.” The only ones who’d been vocal about it, at any rate.

  “What, all of them?”

  “If you’re newly arrived in Porthkennack, you may not realise how clannish it is. Family feeling runs deep.”

  She cocked her head. “I’ve lived in Porthkennack a few years now. And I’ve never seen any trouble coming from either of those families.”

  Bran snorted. “No? Perhaps you should consider that Jago Andrewartha had the nerve to run my brother ou
t of the Sea Bell last year, and tell him he was barred from going back. For no fault of Jory’s, I might add. And Jago was thick as thieves with Gerren Ede.”

  “Gerren Ede?”

  “A tenant of mine, now deceased. His family objected to my perfectly legal actions in taking back possession of the house he was renting at the time of his death. Apparently the concept of property ownership means very little to them.”

  She made another note. “Have any of them ever threatened you?”

  “No, or you’d have heard about it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. Perhaps he had been a little vehement. “And might there be anyone with a more personal motive to wish you harm?”

  “No.”

  “And . . .” She flipped a page in her notebook. “You’re single?”

  “Yes.”

  “No recent relationships that might have ended badly?”

  “No,” he said, as firmly as he could. He was uncomfortably aware of the contrast with his previous statement. It was true enough, though. Craig and he hadn’t been in a relationship. Merely an arrangement.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Christ, was she reading his mind? “Quite sure.” Bran refused to believe Craig would ever hurt him, despite the circumstances of their parting. And in any case he was miles away in Newquay.

  “And your sister?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s single too?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. But yes.”

  “Just getting the full picture.” Her smile took away his irritation at the overly intrusive questions. Not for the first time, Bran wished he was able to be attracted to someone like her. Life would have been so much simpler. Happier. Women were kinder, as a rule, weren’t they?

  An image of Bea flashed into his mind to give the lie to that generalization. He swallowed.

  “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Yes. I’m . . . just tired.” He realised how true it was as he said it, and closed his eyes.

  “I’ll let you rest, then. But if you think of anything else that might identify your attacker, give me a call, okay?”

  Sam knew it was going to be a bad day when he bumped into Maria in the corner shop.

  His eldest sister was, like all the female members of Sam’s family, a small woman, but she made up for her size with the strength of her opinions—also like the rest of them. She was seven years older than he was and, as she liked to remind him, a proper doctor, a GP in a local practice who helped real live people instead of poking her nose into the affairs of dead ones. She had three children. Her husband, Ray, a bank manager, liked to joke they’d wanted one of each: a doctor, a lawyer, and an engineer. It was only one of the reasons Sam had never got on with him.

  She had her youngest with her today. Santa was straining against the straps of her buggy—already fighting to escape her parents’ narrow view of her destiny? Her stubborn expression turned into a shy smile when she saw her uncle Sam.

  Maria’s face, by contrast, settled into grim determination. “Mum’s been asking about you. She said she hasn’t seen you for weeks.”

  Nice greeting. Well, if she was going to be rude, so was he. Sam ignored his sister and focussed on his niece. “Hey, Santa-pants.” He waggled his fingers at her, and she giggled.

  Then he turned to Maria. “Fancy meeting you here. What with you living the other side of town and all. A more suspicious bloke might think you were stalking him.”

  “Then the more suspicious bloke should start answering his phone. Not to mention his front door. I knocked three times, you know. And rang the bell. Not ten minutes before you came in here.”

  “I was out,” Sam lied, feeling guilty. He’d just assumed it was someone calling for one of his housemates.

  Or, well, someone he didn’t want to see.

  Maria looked him up and down. “Pyjama party, was it?”

  Shit. He’d known he should’ve made the effort to put his jeans on, instead of coming out in the checked flannel lounge pants Mum had given him for Christmas. But for Christ’s sake, he’d only wanted a pint of milk for his breakfast. Seeing as one of the gits he lived with had drunk all his.

  “You realise it’s nearly lunchtime.” Maria’s disapproving tone was all too familiar from when she’d tried to mother him as a child.

  “So? I didn’t get off work until gone two. I’ve gotta sleep sometime.”

  “I hope you’re planning to get properly dressed tomorrow. You are going to be there for Sunday lunch at Mum’s, aren’t you? You’ve missed at least three weeks. She’s doing roast lamb,” Maria added with a pointed look.

  “I’ll think about it, ’kay?” Mum’s roast lamb was to die for. And the whole family knew it was his favourite. “Saturday’s my worst night, though.”

  Her face softened. Very slightly. “I don’t know why you keep working there. All that education, wasted. Are you even applying for proper jobs? I don’t mean academic ones,” she said quickly. “But there must be something better you could do than clearing up after drunks.”

  “Yeah, right. Cos the interview would go so well, wouldn’t it? ‘Come in, Mr. Ferreira. Oh, it’s Dr. Ferreira, is it? Tell me, why aren’t you looking for work in your field? Failure of due diligence . . .? I see.” He could hear his voice getting louder and more bitter as he went on. “Thank you, Dr. Ferreira. That’ll be all. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.’”

  Santa started to grizzle, and he felt like a total bastard.

  Maria glared at him. “It’s like you’ve just given up.” She bent to her daughter, speaking softly and giving her a sippy cup that stemmed the tide of tears but didn’t stop those wide, sad eyes tugging on Sam’s heartstrings.

  He didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

  “Now, are you coming to lunch tomorrow or not?” Maria asked briskly, having straightened up. “Mum says she’s got a load of letters for you too. Who’s writing to you at Mum’s?”

  “Don’t know.” He could guess, though. Thank God he could trust Mum not to open his post. He crouched down to ruffle Santa’s thick black curls and, not incidentally, hide his face from his way-too-perceptive sister. “I’ll think about it,” he repeated.

  He already knew he wouldn’t go.

  He didn’t mean to, but when he got back into his room, Sam somehow found himself opening up the betting site on his mobile and having a bit of a flutter. He even won a small amount, first off. Then he lost the lot, and more. Christ, he had to stop giving in to temptation like that. It was just . . . if he got a proper win, a big one, he’d be able to wipe out all his debts. Start fresh.

  Surely one day the odds would have to work in his favour?

  Home at last. Bran climbed painfully out of the taxi and paid the driver, feeling exposed and vulnerable out in the fresh air for the first time since the . . . incident. Perhaps he should have let Bea pick him up from hospital after all—God knew she’d tried hard to persuade him to accept her offer. But it would have taken time out of one of the few days she didn’t work, and he was a grown man, not a child in need of a nanny.

  It was a warm, bright day, the sun glinting off the sea with a painful, piercing intensity. Bran closed his eyes, but the throbbing ache remained. He’d been told the headaches might linger for a while, and to consult his doctor if they hadn’t gone away after three months.

  Three months. Thank God for the peace of Roscarrock House, set high on the cliffs that bounded Mother Ivey’s Bay from Big Guns Cove, and far from the madding crowd of Porthkennack proper. At least, outside of opening hours. Bran sighed.

  As he lingered by the gate, the figure of a man appeared, walking up the cliff path towards him, and Bran drew in a sharp breath. The starburst of pain in his chest was nauseating.

  Inside. He had to get inside. With an unsteady hand, he opened the gate, wishing it were ten feet high and he could padlock it behind him. A dog barked, startling and reassuring him in one. A dog
walker. Not his mysterious assailant from the other night.

  Probably. Although it could have been anyone, couldn’t it? Bran turned to look back.

  He didn’t recognise the man with his dog. A tourist, then, in all likelihood. Not anyone he knew.

  Safe.

  Bran was still sweating, his heartbeat painfully loud in his ears, by the time he’d closed the front door behind him.

  Constable Peters had made it quite clear she doubted the attack on him was random. As if he couldn’t have told as much from his injuries. Two broken ribs from a kick when he’d already been on the ground. Already unconscious, he imagined. He could have died. If they’d kicked him harder, maybe punctured a lung . . .

  It was all strongly suggestive of either a personal grudge, or a hate crime. The theft of his wallet and phone had undoubtedly been an afterthought, a clumsy attempt to obscure motive.

  Can you think of any reason you might be targeted for a hate crime? she’d asked.

  She might as well have asked outright if he was gay. Straight white men didn’t suffer hate crimes, did they? No, he’d said.

  It was possible, he supposed. Someone might have seen him in Newquay with Craig, although even there, he’d been discreet. But why, then, come after him in Porthkennack?

  No. This was personal. Someone in Porthkennack hated him enough to physically assault him. It was horrendous. He’d spent years telling himself it didn’t matter whether he was liked or not, so long as he was respected. Now, just thinking about the sheer level of animosity this . . . person must have for him made him ill.

  He couldn’t face the stairs, so he dragged himself to his study and sank into the comfortable chair by the hearth, its familiar red leather hardly more worn now than when Father had used to sit in it. Unlike the desk chair, which he’d had reupholstered twice since then.

  Christ, he wanted a drink. But it was only midday, and he’d been told not to mix alcohol with the painkillers they’d given him. And in any case, he needed to get back to work. God knew how many emails would be in his inbox regarding the exhibition centre alone, and there was the Constantine Bay property dispute still to be dealt with.