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“Soon.”
Sergei’s paymaster clapped his hands. Two armed heavies burst into the room. Sergei mewled like a terrified kitten.
“Please! You’ll get it! Very soon,” he begged.
“I’m sure I will, Mr. Milescu. My security will show you out.”
Chapter Thirty
Marjorie Pilcher slipped off her quilted Husky jacket as she cleared the brow of the hill that led down onto the Kingsmere Manor estate. As so often on her afternoon walks, Marjorie reflected on the beauty of the West Oxfordshire countryside and how privileged she was to live here. As chairwoman of the Kingsmere and Cotterill Women’s Initiative, Marjorie Pilcher liked to think of herself as a pivotal figure in the local community. It was Marjorie who had persuaded Teddy De Vere, the biggest local landowner, to allow “respectful” walkers through his land, even though there was no official right of way on the manor estate. Watching her springer spaniel, Freckles, lollop down the hillside now, with the De Veres’ idyllic house on her right and the ancient woodlands stretching out in front of her like a Narnian forest, Marjorie Pilcher enjoyed a warm sensation of triumph. Even the vicar, Reverend Gray, had been impressed by the way Marjorie had talked Teddy De Vere around.
“I can’t think how you managed to charm him, Mrs. Pilcher,” Reverend Gray had told Marjorie over a large plate of buttered scones at the vicarage. “But thank heavens you did. Generations of villagers will be in your debt, dear lady.”
Marjorie Pilcher liked the idea of generations of villagers being in her debt. And to think her late husband, Frank (the bastard), thought she’d never amount to anything.
Oh Lord. What is that ridiculous dog doing now?
“Freckles! Here, boy. Come away.”
Teddy De Vere’s one stipulation had been that walkers and their animals must stick to the path through the parkland and woods and not stray into the private Kingsmere gardens. And now here was Marjorie Pilcher’s own unruly animal rolling under the fence in clear violation of this sacrosanct rule, worrying away at the ground that had been cemented over for the proposed new pagoda.
“Freckles!”
Ignoring his mistress utterly, the springer spaniel continued to dig, his brown-and-white-flecked tail wagging excitedly as he worked.
“Freckles! Come here at once!”
Gingerly, Marjorie Pilcher picked her way over the nettles and through the thorny briars that formed a natural boundary between the parkland and the formal landscaped grounds of the manor house. Like most local people, Marjorie had deplored the idea of a pagoda on the Kingsmere estate, considering it “flash” and vulgar. But she hadn’t objected formally for fear of irritating Teddy De Vere and losing her hard-won walkers’ rights. As it turned out, it was the right decision. The ghastly thing had yet to be built and probably never would be now, what with the De Veres’ son having that dreadful motorcycle accident, and now Mrs. De Vere being shot by a deranged taxi driver. Awful business. All that remained of Teddy’s grand plans was an ugly concrete-filled hole, but that would soon be grown over. Although not soon enough for the errant Freckles. Marjorie Pilcher watched despairingly as the dog scrabbled around the perimeter of the slab, digging with a desperation she’d never seen in him before.
“What are you doing, you stupid dog?” Ripping one of her favorite tweed skirts as she hiked first one leg, then the other, over the dilapidated barbed-wire fence, Marjorie eased herself down into the estate gardens. She’d never hear the end of it at the WI if one of the Kingsmere groundsmen caught her trespassing, albeit in a good cause.
Oh God. She sighed. He’s got something in his mouth.
That was all Marjorie needed, some half-dead stoat or weasel that she’d have to finish off with a spade or the heel of her bo
ot. Truth be told, there wasn’t much that Marjorie missed about the dearly departed Frank Pilcher, her husband of almost fifty years. She mostly remembered Frank for his phlegmy cough that used to set her teeth on edge and his irritating habit of asking her questions in the middle of her favorite radio show, Gardeners’ Question Time. Beneath the muted disguise of her mourning clothes, Marjorie Pilcher had embraced widowhood with all the enthusiasm of a young girl in the flush of her first affair. But Frank had been handy when it came to killing animals. It might be a kindness, but Marjorie could never get used to the idea of walloping a living creature over the head. It just didn’t feel right, especially when their bones made that dreadful cracking, crunching sound . . .
The dog came bounding toward her, its “gift” clamped between its jaws.
“Ugh, Freckles.” Marjorie’s lip curled. “What disgusting offering have you brought me this time?”
Tail still wagging, the springer leaped up at his mistress.
Marjorie Pilcher’s scream could be heard all the way back in the village.
Hanging grotesquely from the dog’s drooling mouth was a decomposing human hand.
Reporters were swarming over the De Vere estate like vermin. The police, also at Kingsmere in force, seemed powerless to control them.
“This is ridiculous,” Teddy grumbled as his Bentley swept through the gates, past the flashing cameras and thrust-out microphones. “Haven’t they anything better to do?”
Alexia, straight-backed and rigid-jawed in the passenger seat, said nothing. Beneath her crisp white shirt, her entire left side was swathed in bandages. The doctors had prescribed Percocet for the pain, but the pills made her feel groggy, so she’d stopped taking them. As a result she winced every time the car turned a corner. The speed bumps were pure agony.
Worse than the physical pain was the anxiety she felt oozing back into her chest like water into a leaky ship.
That’s what I am—a leaky ship.
A sinking ship.
