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“So the addresses there, they’re most likely to be single dwelling houses, not flats.” Nice, private, standalone dwellings. And it was called High House, for God’s sake. It was probably a mansion with thick walls.
He reached for the phone.
“Who are you calling?” Hartridge asked.
“Golightly.” He gave the operator instructions to find the correct number.
“You think he’ll cooperate?” Hartridge asked.
“He better,” James told him. “Or I’ll see him in hell.”
chapterforty-one
The soundof gardening started up around lunch time.
Gabriella had stood up and gone to the back wall of the pantry, in the vain hope she’d hear more, but it was just the far-off sound of a lawn mower and the odd shouted comment between at least two men.
A garden service, perhaps?
This wasn’t Mr. Knife’s house, and he wouldn’t want anyone to report a suspicious person inside, especially if they knew Devenish, so he’d need to keep quiet and go to ground.
He’d tried to batter the door to the pantry down a few times with his shoulder, but it was solid oak, and the hinges, while they groaned a little, held well enough.
They wouldn’t hold forever, but she had a temporary reprieve.
“They won’t hear you, if you’re thinking about shouting.” Mr. Knife’s voice came as a sudden, electrifying shock.
He was sitting right outside the door and she had been so intent on the gardeners, she hadn’t heard him.
She had already worked out that screaming wouldn’t do any good. She could barely hear them, and over the mowers, she wouldn’t have a chance.
But there was something in the way he spoke which made her think he was fearful, or at least uncertain, and she suddenly remembered he had said Devenish’s body was buried in the garden, where they were putting in a pond.
“Better run, hadn’t you?” she asked. “They may not hear me shout, but they’ll definitely call the police if they find Devenish’s body. And then the house will be searched.”
“They won’t find it,” he said, but she heard him move away.
Now would be the time for her to run, while he was distracted. There was help for her outside, and he would be somewhere in the house, probably upstairs, keeping watch to see if the gardeners discovered Devenish.
But he would have also probably locked all the entrances.
She wouldn’t have a way out.
There were French doors out into the garden, though. And plenty of chairs in the kitchen she could use to smash through their glass windows.
She lay on her stomach, wincing as the cut on her forearm objected to her movement, and angled her head to see under the door into the kitchen.
There was no sign of Mr. Knife, but she honestly wouldn’t put it past him to stand on the table or a chair to play games with her.
She could open up fast, check, and close again if he was there.
He wouldn’t have time to get to the door if she was focused about it.
She held the big key in a trembling hand, but before she slid it into the lock, she crouched down and looked through the keyhole.
Again, there was no one there.
She neededil coraggio—courage—and she slid the key carefully into the lock, being as silent as she could, then pulled it open in a single twist of both the key and the handle.