Page 94 of Worse Than Murder

Adele unlocks the front door and turns off the alarm with the fob on the keyring. She closes the door behind her and walks into the living room, flicking on the lights, wincing at the brightness.

‘Welcome home,’ she says to herself.

The room is cold. The fire hasn’t been lit for some time and the air is stale. She slumps onto the chesterfield sofa. On the coffee table is Matilda’s iPhone. She picks it up and tries to turn it on, but the battery is flat. Matilda must have been seriously in a state to leave her mobile behind. She thinks about Penny, Matilda’s mother. She was a good woman, slightly nosy and a tad neurotic when it came to Matilda’s job, but she was always up for a laugh and a long conversation, especially if alcohol was involved. Then there were her nephews, Nathan and Joseph, two teenagers making their way in the world. It was cruel the way some people felt they could kill simply for their own sick pleasures. How would they feel if someone wiped out their family?

Adele searches her pockets for her own mobile and scrolls through the contacts. She lands on Harriet’s number. Should she call or send a text? What would she say? She decides against doing anything and continues scrolling until she lands on Sally Meagan’s number. She’s about to call, then thinks better of it. Sally might tell Matilda that Adele has phoned and is on her way. Matilda has left her mobile behind. She obviously doesn’t want to be contacted. Would she run again?

Adele looks around her at the expansive space of the living room. She and Matilda have had many a fun night in here, drinking until the small hours, watching Marvel films and debating whether Thor was hotter with short hair or long hair. Would those times ever return? She thinks about that question for a moment, and seriously doubts they ever will.

She pulls herself up from the sofa and staggers to the stairs. A long, hot shower, a change of clothes, a cup of tea and something to eat, then she’ll book a hire car and plot a course for the Lake District.

Igrab a tablecloth from the nearest table and stumble over to Philip. While I’m covering him to keep him warm and checking his airways to make sure there are no obstructions, Sally bursts into the restaurant, soon followed by Carl and the two dogs who immediately make a fuss. I shout to Sally to call for an ambulance, then I put Philip into the recovery position. I can feel a pair of eyes burning into me. I look up and there’s Carl standing in the doorway. His face is ashen, his eyes wide and staring.

‘It’s happening again,’ he says.

‘It’s not, Carl. It’s not. I promise you,’ I say as I cradle his father.

‘You can’t promise that.’ A tear runs down his face, lit up by the moonlight.

‘The ambulance is on its way,’ Sally says, returning to the restaurant. ‘I gave Inspector Forsyth a ring, too. She’s coming straight over. Is he going to be all right?’ Sally asks with a tearful voice, looking down at her husband.

‘Sally, it might be best if Carl went upstairs.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he says, defiantly.

* * *

I’m treated at the scene. I tell the paramedics I hadn’t lost consciousness, and they believe me. Truth be told, I’ve no idea if I did lose consciousness. Philip is placed onto a stretcher complete with neck brace to keep him secure. He’s then taken, by Air Ambulance, to Penrith Hospital. Sally and Carl go upstairs to change and follow in the car.

Gill Forsyth arrives at the same time as the ambulance. Her appearance looks softer out of uniform. Her hair is pulled back into an unruly ponytail, and she’s quickly dressed in jeans and a jumper and battered North Face walking boots. With two uniformed officers dusting the doors and bar for prints as well as checking the floor for fibres and hairs, I take Gill upstairs and make us both a mug of tea. As much as I want alcohol, I decide against it following a bang on the head. See, I’m not totally reckless.

‘What happened here tonight?’ Gill asks once we’re both seated in the living room.

I tell her as much as I can remember. Philip had been going to bed, the last one, as usual, when he heard a noise downstairs. Rather than wake Sally, he sought my help instead. He wanted to protect his wife and son as much as possible. Understandable.

‘He has a gun. Do you know he has a gun?’ I ask.

‘Yes. It’s registered and perfectly legal.’

‘I hate guns,’ I say, gripping the mug with both hands.

‘I’m not a fan either.’

‘I took it from him. I broke it and took the cartridges out. Whoever broke in, they grabbed it from me and aimed it at Philip. They pulled the trigger. They didn’t even think twice about it. They just pointed it at him. They would have…’

‘You saved his life,’ Gill says.

‘But did I put it in danger in the first place?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘These attempted break-ins only started when I arrived. Sally and Philip have put it down to chancers wanting to steal a few bottles of whisky. Tonight has shown how far whoever is doing this is prepared to go. They didn’t know the gun wasn’t loaded. They would have shot and killed Philip.’

‘You think this serial killer who has been emailing you has followed you from Sheffield?’

‘I… It looks like it.’

But then again, I can’t help but think about the man pausing as I called out ‘Jack’. Is Jack Pemberton still alive? Has he broken into the restaurant? If so, why? Does he want food and drink, or is there more to it than mere survival?