Page 43 of Worse Than Murder (DCI Matilda Darke Thriller #13)

I ’m wired after all that coffee and alcohol.

I take a warm shower to freshen up and go straight to bed with a gin and tonic from the bar.

Sally has long since turned in and I can hear Philip moving around in the restaurant downstairs, cashing up and locking up.

I pull the thin sheet over me and finish my drink.

It’s a warm and muggy night. I’m tempted to leave a window open a crack, but paranoia forces me to leave it shut.

I turn over, snuggle down and close my eyes.

* * *

‘Matilda. Matilda.’

I open my eyes. The room is pitch dark. Philip is standing over me. All I can see in the darkness is the whiteness of his eyes. They’re wide and staring. Something is wrong.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ I can hear the panic in my voice.

He silences me with a hush. ‘There’s someone in the restaurant.’

‘What?’ I ask in a loud whisper, sitting up.

‘I’d just finished in the bathroom. I was about to go to bed when I heard someone downstairs.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I didn’t want to wake Sally.’

‘No.’

I throw the sheet back and swing my legs out of bed. I slip my slippers on and follow Philip out onto the landing. The single window on the far side doesn’t have a blind or curtains. The full moon shines through. I see, for the first time, Philip is holding a shotgun.

‘What the fuck is that?’ My voice is still a whisper, but with a panicked force behind it.

‘It’s a gun.’

‘I can see that. Since when did you have a gun?’

‘Since my son was kidnapped. Since he was returned to me, and his kidnappers are still out there running free. Since we moved to the middle of nowhere and live in the woods. Do you really want to get into this now?’

‘Are you licensed to have that?’

‘Of course I bloody am. What do you take me for?’

‘I can’t believe you have a gun, and you didn’t tell me.’

‘Matilda, there is someone in my restaurant. Someone has broken in. Can we talk about this some other time?’

‘Oh. Sure. Sorry,’ I can’t take my eyes from the gun. I hate guns, always have done.

The air around us is heavy with silence. Neither of us can hear a thing.

‘Are you sure you heard something?’ I ask.

‘Yes. I don’t know how they got in. Maybe they hid while I was locking up. But I heard someone walking around.’

‘Okay. I believe you. Have you called the police?’

‘You are the police.’

‘Not at the moment, I’m not. Also, I’m in my nightie, and I’ve been drinking.’

A noise comes from downstairs. It sounds like someone has let go of a closing door and it has banged shut.

‘You heard that?’ Philip asks.

‘Yes. I heard that.’

‘At least we know it’s not in my head.’

We edge down the stairs. Philip first, me pressed up close behind. We creep down in silence until we reach the bottom. We’re outside the back entrance to the kitchen. Philip stretches to look through the round window in the door.

‘What can you see?’ I ask.

‘Nothing.’

I shiver. ‘I suddenly feel very vulnerable in this nightie.’

‘Would you like me to wait while you run back to your room and change into army fatigues?’

‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’

‘Sorry. I’m nervous. Carl does not need this right now.’

‘No. I know.’ I place a hand on his arm and can feel him shaking.

There’s another sound. It comes from the main part of the restaurant. A chair is being moved.

‘Give me the gun.’

‘What? No. You’re not licensed.’

‘I’m not going to fire it.’

‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘I’ll hit him with it.’

‘I’m not letting you go in there on your own.’

‘And I’m not letting you go in there with a loaded gun. Hand it over. Now. Come on.’

Reluctantly, he does. I break the gun and remove the cartridges, handing them back to Philip. ‘Now, I’m tired and I’m starting to get cold. I have no intention of spending the night listening for someone to nick a few bottles of scotch.’

I push open the kitchen door and walk, confidently, inside. Philip follows. There’s nobody in here, and all the lights are off. I go to the opposite door which leads into the dining area and push it open. Light from the full moon filters through the half-closed vertical blinds.

I swing the barrel of the gun in front of me. I can’t see anyone. From somewhere deep down, I latch onto a hint of bravado.

‘Okay, whoever you are, we know you’re here. We’ve called the police and I’m holding a loaded shotgun. You either get arrested or you get a bullet in your shoulder. Your choice.’ I hardly recognise my own voice. I sound tough. If only I felt it.

A door to the corridor is pushed open. It slams against the wall and whoever is behind it, tall, dressed in dark clothing, comes charging out into the restaurant.

He barrels into me, sending me flying to the floor.

The gun is torn from my hands. I cry out in pain as my head hits the ground.

Philip calls out. The man turns on his heel, points the gun to Philip and squeezes the trigger.

Nothing happens. He swings the barrel towards him and hits him on the side of the head with it.

The sound of metal on bone echoes around the empty restaurant.

Philip falls to the floor. He’s unconscious before he hits the ground.

The intruder then drops the gun and legs it towards the exit.

I prop myself up on my elbow. My head is foggy, my vision blurred. I try to see whoever has broken in, try to find something that I can remember in the cold light of day.

‘Jack!’ I call out.

The figure pauses momentarily, before fleeing into the night.