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Reluctantly, Sarah Russell looked up again and considered her visitor. She had known this might come. She had talked about it with Geraldine, and they had discussed how best to handle any subsequent demands, but even so she found herself unwilling to concede. It wasn’t so much the money. She could afford it. It was more the principle of it. She didn’t like being pushed about. And besides, if she said yes, it would just happen again, wouldn’t it? And again. But if she said no, what then? Was it a bluff? That was the big question.
‘How much?’
Negotiate. That’s what they had decided she should do. As long as the demands weren’t too large, it was tolerable, because soon she would be able to say to hell with you. But right now, that would be too risky.
‘Four hundred.’
Sarah Russell rubbed her nose as she considered this. It wasn’t outrageous, but it was a hundred more than last time. Which meant that next time – for there would be a next time, she had no doubt – it might be five hundred or even more. ‘I can let you have two hundred. But that’s it. That’s an end of it. No more, ever.’
‘No it fucking isn’t! I decide when it ends. Not you!’
Sarah said nothing. She didn’t want to make things worse, but she was damned if she was going to lie down and roll over. She continued to stare at her unwelcome visitor, her face an emotionless mask (or so she hoped). She knew her position was weak, but she was damned if she was going to concede more ground than she had to.
‘I’ll call here tomorrow morning.’ Her visitor had turned back towards the door, and had taken hold of the handle. ‘Have it ready. Three hundred pounds.’
Sarah nodded briefly, and continued to watch until the door had slammed noisily shut. Three hundred pounds. No worse than last time. That was a pretty good result, she reckoned, as she returned t
o her spreadsheet.
Jack Smith heard nothing when the front door clicked shut, nothing when feet padded softly across the bare floorboards of the hall, and nothing when the kitchen door, which stood a few centimetres ajar, swung open. He didn’t even hear the unoiled upper hinge, for its squeak was swamped by the cacophony which his hammer drill was generating. Only as he retracted the drill bit from the wall and eased his finger off the trigger did something – maybe a change in the light, maybe a sixth sense, maybe mere chance – cause him to swing round and see his unexpected visitor.
‘Jesus! You made me jump.’
A laugh. ‘I thought I might find you here.’
‘You could have warned me, rather than sneaking up like that.’
A mocking gasp. ‘Oh, it’s less fun that way.’
‘I’m not interested in your warped idea of fun. Just next time, don’t bloody well creep up on me.’
‘Don’t worry, Jack, I won’t.’
‘Anyway, what is it you want?’
Jack’s visitor stepped closer to him, but he had already turned away, to place his drill on the workbench. Which is why he was only infinitesimally aware of the flash of polished metal in his visitor’s hand. His mouth opened slightly, revealing teeth yellowed by nicotine and neglect, and he gave a low grunt. And then slowly, almost in slow motion, he dropped gently on to his knees, as if overwhelmed by an all-consuming need to pray.
‘You see,’ the familiar figure was saying, by way of explanation, ‘there won’t be a next time.’ This was, strictly speaking, accurate, but unnecessary. For Jack was already dead, and so completely incapable of hearing or comprehending anything. And presumably of praying too.
CHAPTER 5
Karen Pointer had rung Susan Holden and suggested that they have supper at her flat that evening. It was, in a sense, her turn, but it was the disconcerting conversation with Geraldine that had prompted her to make the phone call. So Karen arrived home – home being a brand new flat overlooking the canal in the northwestern corner of Jericho – weighed down by two hessian bags bulging with the wherewithal to produce an easy but interesting supper, two bottles of rather expensive wine, and croissants and pain au chocolat for the next morning. She was not, she had realized, sure which of those Susan preferred. She unpacked, and made her way to the bedroom, where she began to discard her clothes in preparation for a shower. At which point, with the inevitability of Murphy’s Law, the phone rang. She was tempted to ignore it, but only briefly, for the most likely caller, surely, was Susan.
And indeed it was Susan – or rather Detective Inspector Holden, as her tone of voice quickly made clear. There was no preamble. ‘We’ve got another body, Karen.’
‘Another one?’ Pointer echoed.
‘We think it’s Jack Smith. Geraldine Payne, your dentist, found him, in a house he’s doing up for her in Brook Street. Do you know where it is?’
‘I was just about to prepare supper for you,’ Karen replied, not entirely truthfully.
‘Supper will have to wait,’ came the answer. ‘Go south over Folly Bridge, first right into Western Road, and then first right into Brook Street.’
‘I’ll be there in 20 minutes.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Love you,’ Karen replied, but the detective inspector had already hung up.
