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      Hot Pursuit

      By

      ANNE MATHER says: “I’ve always wanted to write – which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I wrote only for my own pleasure, and it wasn’t until my husband suggested that I ought to send one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, more than a hundred and fifty books later, I’m literally – excuse the pun – staggered by what happened.

      I had written all through my infant and junior years, and on into my teens. The trouble was, I never used to finish any of the stories, and Caroline, my first published book, was the first book I’d actually completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby. It was quite a job, juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can see, but that’s the way it was.

      I now have two grown-up children, a son and daughter, and two adorable grandchildren, Abigail and Ben. My e-mail address is: [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my readers.”

      Chapter One

      ‘WE’RE going to be late, Daddy.’

      ‘I know that.’

      Matt Seton managed not to sound as frustrated as he felt. It wasn’t Rosie’s fault that he’d overslept on the very morning that Mrs Webb wasn’t here, or that his head was still buzzing with the effort of falling out of bed just a couple of hours after he’d flaked out.

      ‘Mrs Sanders says that there’s no excuse for sleeping in these days,’ continued Rosie primly, and Matt could hear the echo of his ex-wife Carol’s peevish tones in his daughter’s voice.

      ‘I know. I know. I’m sorry.’ Clenching his teeth, Matt tightened his hands on the wheel of the powerful Range Rover. The temptation was to step down hard on the accelerator, but he didn’t think that risking another ticket for speeding would improve his standing with Mrs Sanders either.

      ‘So who’s going to pick me up this afternoon?’ Rosie asked, a little anxiously now, and Matt turned to give his daughter a reassuring look.

      ‘I will,’ he told the seven-year-old firmly. ‘And if I can’t make it I’ll ask Auntie Emma to collect you. How’s that?’

      Rosie seemed slightly mollified, but as her small hands curved around the bag containing her pencil case and schoolbooks she cast her father an appealing look. ‘You won’t forget, will you, Daddy? I don’t like having to ask Mrs Sanders to ring you.’

      Matt expelled a long sigh. ‘You’ve only had to do that once, Rosie,’ he protested. And then, because it was obviously a cause of some concern to the child, his lean mouth parted in a rueful grin. ‘I’ll be there,’ he promised. ‘I can’t have my best girl waiting around in the playground.’

      ‘Mrs Sanders doesn’t let us wait in the playground,’ Rosie told him pedantically. ‘We have to stay in school if our Mummys or Daddys aren’t there when school’s over.’

      ‘Right.’ Matt’s mouth compressed. ‘Well, as I say, I won’t let you down. Okay?’

      ‘Okay!’

      Rosie’s eyes brightened in anticipation and Matt felt a heel for even comparing her to her mother. Rosemary was nothing like Carol, thank God, and it was up to him to organise a more stable structure in his daughter’s life.

      And he was trying, goodness knew. Since ill-health had forced Rosie’s original nanny to retire he had interviewed a number of applicants for the position without any lasting success. Few younger women wanted to live in a remote area of Northumbria, far from the nearest town, and the older nannies who’d applied had, for the most part, appeared far too strict for his taste. He didn’t want Rosie’s confidence, already fragile because of her mother’s abandonment, shattered by some fire-breathing dragon who saw the unconventionality of Matt’s lifestyle as an opportunity to terrorise the little girl.

      In consequence, he was seriously considering contacting an agency in London, in the hope that someone there might be professional enough about their career not to care about living in such rural surroundings. Saviour’s Bay wasn’t the back of beyond, after all. It was a wild and beautiful area of the Northumbrian coast, whose history was as turbulent as the seas that lashed the rocks below the cliffs. Its moors and hamlets were the haunt of archaeologists and naturalists, and from Matt’s point of view it was the ideal place to escape the demands that being a successful writer had put on him. Few people knew where he lived these days, and that suited him very well.

      But it didn’t suit everyone, he acknowledged, and until the day came when he was forced to consider sending Rosie away to school he had to persist in his search for a suitable replacement for the woman who had virtually brought her up.

      Not her mother, needless to say, he added to himself. Carol’s indifference, not just to him but also to their daughter, had long since lost its power to hurt him. There were times when he wondered why they’d ever married at all, but Carol had given him Rosie, and he could never regret that. He adored his small daughter and he’d do whatever it took to keep her with him.

      Matt appreciated that his success had given him certain advantages. When Carol had left him for another man he’d been the author of two moderately successful novels, but that was all. It was his third book that had hit the big time, and his fourth and fifth novels had sold in their millions. Subsequent sales of screen rights to a hotshot Hollywood director had helped, and these days he could virtually name his price.

      But being photographed wherever he went, having his picture exhibited in magazines and periodicals, being invited onto television talk shows and the like, was not what he’d had in mind when he’d written his first book. As a doctor, specialising in psychology, he knew exactly what other people thought he’d expected from his change of career. The truth was, he had never been interested in becoming famous. And these days he just wanted to be left alone to get on with his next manuscript.

      Which was why he’d bought Seadrift, the sprawling house overlooking the bay that he’d fallen in love with the first time he’d seen it. It served the dual purpose of giving him the peace he needed to work and the opportunity to put several hundred miles between him and the London media.

      The gates of St Winifred’s Primary

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