Page 35

chapter thirty-five

The wheelbarrow wheel fell silent, and Gabriella stopped dead.

Either the killer was taking a rest, or he’d reached his destination.

She waited, unsure how far behind him she was. Her feet were icy, and she wished she could put her slippers back on. She lifted a foot, pressed it against her flannel pants, and then did the same with the other while she considered her options.

The rattle of a lock made her flinch, and then she heard the high screech of rusted hinges.

There was a sudden silence, and she imagined the killer was wincing, listening for any reaction to the noise. After a minute, the screech came again and then the squeak squeak of the wheelbarrow told her he was back on the move.

Gabriella tiptoed forward and almost walked face first into an old wooden door set in a high stone wall. It stood open—the killer had not risked closing it after the high-pitched screech it had made before—and she moved around it and looked into an overgrown garden.

She hesitated, torn.

She still didn’t know where Harborne Close was. It had to be near, but the fog had her turned around, and James could be anywhere.

Should she wander around and look for him, or follow after the killer and at least see what he was up to, first?

The wheelbarrow had gone silent again, and in the sudden quiet, Gabriella heard a low moan.

Her heart felt like it was about to leap out of her chest.

Was the victim still alive?

Unable to do anything else, she stepped through the gate.

The grass was long, and what little of the paved pathway she could make out in the fog had weeds growing through the cracks. She could see where the wheelbarrow wheel had crushed them.

Her feet were almost numb with cold, now, and she took a moment to put her slippers back on.

A light shone from the house, from a ground floor room, and as the fog swirled away, she caught a glimpse of a decrepit mansion. She also saw the killer, just for a moment, his back turned to her, as he moved toward what looked like a tarp-covered frame.

The wheelbarrow stopped again, and then she heard another moan.

A man’s voice swore softly, and adrenalin tingled in her arms.

The victim was definitely alive.

She began to edge to the right, away from the killer, because in the brief glimpse she’d gotten, she realized they’d entered the property through the rear garden.

If James had the correct house, he could be waiting, on watch, in the front. Just yards away.

She needed to get around the side of the house, go through the front garden, and find him.

Right now.

The killer coughed, and as she moved away, she kept looking in his direction. He had left the wheelbarrow and was moving to the tarp-covered shed.

As she reached the corner of the house, she caught a glimpse of him coming back, carrying a shovel.

She couldn’t stand the thought of running for James while he either buried his victim alive or hit her with the shovel to make sure she was dead.

She couldn’t do it.

“Stop!” She shouted it as loudly as she could. “Put down the shovel.”

The killer’s head came up. She could barely make out his face but he was wearing what looked like a tweed coat under an open trench coat.

What did she do now? She hovered at the corner of the house, then turned her head toward the front. “James,” she called out. “Come right now.”

When she turned back, the killer had taken a step toward her.

That was good, she assured herself. She was distracting him from his plans. She took a step back herself, then glanced down the side of the house again, hoping James was coming.

Hoping that he’d heard her.

The back door of the mansion suddenly opened, and a man stood in the doorway, shining a torch out into the garden.

He was in a red brocade dressing gown, a shock of white hair standing up around his head. “What’s going on?” His voice was annoyed and a little creaky with age. “Who’re you?” The light from his torch landed on the killer, and for a moment, before the fog shifted and hid him, she saw the killer’s face clearly for the first time.

She didn’t know him.

He was thin almost to the point of being gaunt, his nose a sharp blade in his unremarkable face. He turned toward the old man, shovel shifting in his hands in a way that spoke of violence.

“Get back in the house,” Gabriella shouted to the old man. “Phone the police.”

She spun and ran through weeds and long grass growing down the side of the house, into the front garden. “James!”

She heard the sound of running behind her, and glanced back.

It was a mistake.

She tripped over something and cried out as pain shot up her leg. She went down, banging her knee as she did on whatever it was she’d run into.

She sprawled face down, and then rolled over onto her back, feeling lightheaded with the white hot agony in her shin and foot.

The killer slowed, swinging the shovel up onto his shoulder as he stalked forward.

“What have we here?” His voice was what she thought of as BBC lite. Someone trying hard to sound like they grew up on an estate with a butler, and just not quite meeting the mark.

“That’s what I want to know.”

Gabriella twisted around as James stepped out of the fog.

She took the opportunity, while the killer was distracted, to push herself up, get her feet under her, and stand.

As she straightened, the front door opened, and the same old man in the dressing gown stepped out, this time with an ancient shotgun in his hands. In fact, it looked more like a blunderbuss.

“Now see here, I’ve called the police, and I want you off my property.”

“That’s very good, sir,” James called back. “Did they say how quickly they can be here?”

The old man seemed to blink in surprise. “Why? Do you need to know how quickly you need to get out of here?”

“No, sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Archer with the Metropolitan Police, and I would be grateful for some assistance from fellow officers.”

“Oh.” The old man disappeared inside, and with a sinking heart, Gabriella guessed he hadn’t actually called the police.

At least it seemed he was going to do so now.

She wondered where Hartridge was. It was possible he was still on his way, given the mayhem the fog was causing to traffic.

The killer turned to look at the still-open door thoughtfully, and began to back away.

“Harold Blythe, I presume?” James asked. “Or do you go by Linaker now?”

The shock on the killer’s face as he stumbled to a stop told Gabriella James had struck a direct hit.

“Why are you here, Gabriella?” James didn’t look at her, his focus was on Blythe, but she could hear the frustration in his voice.

“Tanner attacked me when I came out of the bathroom,” she said. “I thought I’d run to you, but then on the way, I heard the wheelbarrow, and followed him into the back garden.” She pointed down the side of the house. “The woman is still alive. I heard her groaning.”

Blythe took another few steps backward, spun, and ran toward the house. When he reached the door, he slammed it shut behind him.

James ran after him, fetching up against the door and yanking the handle. “Locked. The old man must have left the key in the door.” He banged his fist against it.

“Let’s go around the back.” Gabriella took a step and then stopped, taking in a deep breath to manage the pain.

“What is it?” James ran over and reached out to steady her.

“Banged my leg,” she said, and forced herself to start limping forward. She noticed a fallen garden statue on the ground, and realized she’d been tripped up by some sculptor’s rendition of either Eros or Cupid, complete with bow and arrow. She resisted the strong urge to kick it as she passed. “We need to hurry.”

“When I heard you shouting for me . . .” James shook his head as he helped her move a little faster.

“Sorry, but when I heard the wheelbarrow, I thought I had to follow it to find out where he was going, and when I heard the woman moan, I had to call out to you to distract Blythe, because he was coming toward her with a shovel.”

“He’s got a hammer somewhere on him, too,” James said, voice grim as they rounded the corner. “And now he’s in the house with the old man.”

The fog seemed to be thicker in the back, and there were no useful streetlights to diffuse the darkness. The downstairs light was still on, though, and that helped a little.

“The backdoor might be open,” Gabriella said quietly. “That’s where the old man first came out.”

James left her and ran toward it. As he put his hand on the handle it swung open, and Blythe exploded out, shovel half raised.

James jerked back, and Blythe misjudged his swing, missing James and staggering forward.

He didn’t see the two short steps down into the garden, and he tripped. As he fell, the shovel flew from his hand, and he rolled twice before he got up on his hands and knees.

James ran to stand over him, leaning down to grab one of his wrists, handcuffs in one hand. Blythe threw himself backward, trying to hit James in the face with the back of his head, and suddenly the two men were rolling around, grappling with each other.

Gabriella grabbed up the shovel, watching carefully for any sign of the hammer James had spoken about, but if he had it on him, Blythe was too busy wrestling with James to get it out.

She held the shovel handle two handed, looking for a chance to hit Blythe with it.

Blythe was shorter than James, but he was clearly strong, and fighting for his life.

From behind her, she heard the woman moaning again. She needed help as quickly as possible, and so did the old man, because Blythe had most likely attacked him, too.

She turned the shovel around, and brought the end of the handle down hard on Blythe’s leg, scared the shovel head might hurt James by mistake. She began to circle the two men, jabbing Blythe whenever she could.

James finally got him face down, one wrist in his hand, but Blythe twisted up, elbow slamming into James’s stomach.

James briefly lost his hold, rearing up and away, and Gabriella spun the shovel the other way round and brought the blade down hard on Blythe’s head.

He fell forward, and James grabbed his wrist again, snapped on the handcuffs, and wrenched his other arm back.

When he was finally secured, James leaned back on his heels, breathing hard.

“Thanks,” he managed.

Gabriella dropped the shovel and ran toward the wheelbarrow, and as she reached it, she heard the first wail of sirens in the background.