him. Taking care not to fall, she took off first one of the high-heeled shoes, then the other. He took a stride forward, and she threw one of the shoes at him. It struck him on the forearm, a glancing blow thatdidn’t hurt but took him by surprise. As he hesitated, she spun round and raced off barefoot, up to the third bedroom. Not moving a muscle, he listened to her fiddling with the key in the lock.
‘Bitch,’ he mumbled.
That was it, then. He’d tried everything, now he’d run out of options. Nobody could blame him for what happened next.
For a long time, he sat in the armchair in his study, endlessly polishing the barrel of the Winchester. His mood was almost serene, thanks to the Chivas Regal. The long struggle was over, the uncertainty at an end. Once hope died, it was easy to move forward, and do what had to be done.
He heard a noise. Lysette, unlocking the bedroom door? She’d thought better of her defiance, perhaps, and wanted to talk. Too late, too fucking late. He sat very still, straining his ears. The soft sounds could only be Lysette’s footsteps, as she inched down the staircase, desperate not to disturb him. So she’d decided not to wait until tomorrow after all. She’d probably been listening out, waiting to see if he went up to bed, and left the coast clear. Hoping that drink or pills or exhaustion had knocked him out.
Quiet as a ghost, he picked up the rifle. Energy surged through him. He was about to seize control of his life again.
The study door was ajar. Nudging it open with the butt of the Winchester, he waited for Lysette to appear in his line of vision.
Yes, here she came, in tee shirt and jeans, a zipped and bulging airline bag in her hand. All ready for a quick getaway.
But if he couldn’t have her, no one else would.
As he lifted the rifle, something caught his eye through the window, from the darkness of the garden. A gleam of light, coming from the summer house. Another malfunction in that extortionately pricey lighting system? No, the summer house wasn’t connected up yet. Was someone out there? No, it was impossible.
He heard Lysette gasp, and realised she’d seen him. And she’d seen the Winchester. Now he’d reached the point of no return, he felt drained of energy. All he wanted was for it to be over.
‘Malcolm, no!’
He took a pace forward. Another stride would take her within arm’s reach. Not that she needed to be so close. The Winchester would do colossal damage at this range. Upstairs a door opened. Was that Amber? He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted.
His eyes met Lysette’s. He saw no sign of contempt or hatred now. Only terror.
‘Put that thing down!’
Her voice was a cracked whisper. Probably she was calculating whether she dared make a dash for the door. But it was too late.
NOW
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Heard the news?’
Les Bryant didn’t wait for an invitation to sit down at the table where Hannah Scarlett was chatting to DC Maggie Eyre. One beefy hand held a mug of strong coffee, the other a half-eaten Cumberland sausage in a bap, dripping brown sauce on to the tiled floor of the cafeteria. He curled his lip at the sight of Hannah’s lentil soup and Maggie’s tuna rice salad.
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ Hannah said. ‘New research has revealed that meat eaters’ life expectancy is longer than previously thought. They are now expected to survive until their sixtieth birthday.’
‘You’re a cruel and heartless woman, DCI Scarlett.’ Les was just three weeks away from his sixtieth. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a born survivor.’
True enough, Hannah supposed. It wasn’t merely that, years after retiring from West Yorkshire Police, anddespite occasional health scares, Les still worked as hard as detectives half his age. He was on contract as a consultant to Cumbria’s Cold Case Review Team, and somehow his post had survived the scything-down of jobs conducted by the grim reapers of Finance and
‘Bitch,’ he mumbled.
That was it, then. He’d tried everything, now he’d run out of options. Nobody could blame him for what happened next.
For a long time, he sat in the armchair in his study, endlessly polishing the barrel of the Winchester. His mood was almost serene, thanks to the Chivas Regal. The long struggle was over, the uncertainty at an end. Once hope died, it was easy to move forward, and do what had to be done.
He heard a noise. Lysette, unlocking the bedroom door? She’d thought better of her defiance, perhaps, and wanted to talk. Too late, too fucking late. He sat very still, straining his ears. The soft sounds could only be Lysette’s footsteps, as she inched down the staircase, desperate not to disturb him. So she’d decided not to wait until tomorrow after all. She’d probably been listening out, waiting to see if he went up to bed, and left the coast clear. Hoping that drink or pills or exhaustion had knocked him out.
Quiet as a ghost, he picked up the rifle. Energy surged through him. He was about to seize control of his life again.
The study door was ajar. Nudging it open with the butt of the Winchester, he waited for Lysette to appear in his line of vision.
Yes, here she came, in tee shirt and jeans, a zipped and bulging airline bag in her hand. All ready for a quick getaway.
But if he couldn’t have her, no one else would.
As he lifted the rifle, something caught his eye through the window, from the darkness of the garden. A gleam of light, coming from the summer house. Another malfunction in that extortionately pricey lighting system? No, the summer house wasn’t connected up yet. Was someone out there? No, it was impossible.
He heard Lysette gasp, and realised she’d seen him. And she’d seen the Winchester. Now he’d reached the point of no return, he felt drained of energy. All he wanted was for it to be over.
‘Malcolm, no!’
He took a pace forward. Another stride would take her within arm’s reach. Not that she needed to be so close. The Winchester would do colossal damage at this range. Upstairs a door opened. Was that Amber? He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted.
His eyes met Lysette’s. He saw no sign of contempt or hatred now. Only terror.
‘Put that thing down!’
Her voice was a cracked whisper. Probably she was calculating whether she dared make a dash for the door. But it was too late.
NOW
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Heard the news?’
Les Bryant didn’t wait for an invitation to sit down at the table where Hannah Scarlett was chatting to DC Maggie Eyre. One beefy hand held a mug of strong coffee, the other a half-eaten Cumberland sausage in a bap, dripping brown sauce on to the tiled floor of the cafeteria. He curled his lip at the sight of Hannah’s lentil soup and Maggie’s tuna rice salad.
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ Hannah said. ‘New research has revealed that meat eaters’ life expectancy is longer than previously thought. They are now expected to survive until their sixtieth birthday.’
‘You’re a cruel and heartless woman, DCI Scarlett.’ Les was just three weeks away from his sixtieth. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a born survivor.’
True enough, Hannah supposed. It wasn’t merely that, years after retiring from West Yorkshire Police, anddespite occasional health scares, Les still worked as hard as detectives half his age. He was on contract as a consultant to Cumbria’s Cold Case Review Team, and somehow his post had survived the scything-down of jobs conducted by the grim reapers of Finance and
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