The worktop was bare. No kettle, no toaster, nothing. She whirled around; only the kitchen table was between them. A glistening sheen was breaking out over his face and he was breathing hard. Placing something on the table, he whispered, 'Now be a good girl and take one of these.'
As soon as her eyes flicked down to the strip of pills he hurled the table aside with a roar. She screamed with terror, dodged around him and sprinted for the front door.
He was right behind her, too close for her to get it open. At the last instant she jumped to the side and ran in to the dining room. His body slammed against the door and he steadied himself, knowing she was trapped.
He could hear her sobbing, then a drawer being pulled out and clattering to the floor. He stepped through the door, saw her crouching down, scrabbling for something among the napkins strewn on the floor. She started raising her arms up, a gun gripped in both hands.
As he landed on top of her, the pistol went off with a muffled crack.
Sly and the solicitor sat in the back seat of the unmarked police car. Jon drove onto the long, straight Kingsway Road and they followed it for a mile or so before turning right towards Didsbury. When they reached the junction with Wilmslow Road, Sly got his bearings.' You need to turn right here,' he said.
Jon took the turning and Sly directed him through the rows of residential streets. When they reached Moorfield Road, Sly said, 'Down this one.'
They had driven another fifty metres when Sly said, 'That one on the left. Number sixteen.'
Jon stopped the car. It couldn't be. 'Are you sure?' He swivelled round.
Sly rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, I'm sure. He had a Porsche Boxter. I got into his garage a couple of times. Nothing inside except for a pile of that chewing gum. I took three or four boxes, to get something for my trouble, you know?'
Jon turned to Sergeant Darcourt. 'I know this guy. Used to play rugby with him for Stockport. Tom Benwell? Played fly half.'
Darcourt frowned. 'Name rings a bell. Can't picture him, though.'
'I'll give him a knock. You stay here, OK?'
Darcourt nodded. Jon climbed out of the car and walked up Tom's drive, not holding out much hope that he was going to answer his door. He waited for a few seconds after ringing the bell, then walked across the lawn and tried to peer through the net curtains into the living room. It still appeared to be stripped bare.
He walked round the house for a look through the French windows. In the back garden he saw piles of charred furniture and electrical equipment. He began to get a bad feeling about his old team mate. The French doors were slightly ajar. Easing them open with the toe of a shoe, he looked into the room. Sheets of paper were pinned to all the walls. Jon started reading the first.
And it came to pass at the seventh time, when the seven priests
blew with the seven trumpets, Joshua said unto the people,
shout; for the Lord hath given you the city. And they utterly
destroyed all that was in the city, both men and women, young
and old.
Joshua.
Jon walked quickly round the house and back to the waiting car. 'Nobby, there's something very strange going on here. Can you take these two back to the station? And get a SOCO sent round here, too.'
Sergeant Darcourt slid his chubby frame across into the driver's seat. 'How do you mean, strange?'
'Drop them off and you can come back for a look yourself,' Jon called out, heading off round the side of the house. Slipping through the French windows, he looked at the next sheet of paper. Titled 'Shakespeare', it read,
Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause. As You Like It.
Jon carried on staring at the sheet of paper for long after he'd finished reading it. Like someone in an art gallery, he began walking slowly along. Each sheet of paper he read added to his sense of trepidation. He reached the end of the wall, looked to the next one, saw more pieces of paper stretching away. Quotes from the Koran and something called Rig Veda.
From somewhere inside the house he heard a sniff. Jon remained absolutely still until he heard it again. It was coming from across the corridor.
He stepped into the dining room.
The man he remembered as Creepy George was kneeling on the floor. His shirt was off and he was trying to unbuckle his belt. Before him, stretched out on her back, was Charlotte. A rosette of blood showed on her chest and a pool of it was spreading out from below her right shoulder. On the carpet next to her was an empty drawer, a scattering of napkins and a gun.
Quickly, Jon bent down and grabbed it by the barrel. He flicked the safety on and then said with as much force as he could muster, 'Police. Move away from the woman.'
A string of drool began to drip from George's chin.
Seeing his words were having no effect, Jon stepped forwards and kicked George hard in the stomach. He keeled over onto his back, the breath driven from his lungs. Jon grabbed a wrist, snapped a cuff on it, dragged George across the room and locked him to the radiator pipe. Then he stepped over to Charlotte and felt for a pulse. It was faint, but there. As Jon started to pack napkins beneath the exit wound, George began to cough and cry behind him. He pulled out his mobile, walked into the front room and called for an ambulance and support.
Hanging up, he let out a long and shuddering sigh. Now being careful where he stepped, he looked at the pile of boxes. The lid of the first one was open and he could see stacks of X-treme gum inside. Next to them was a larger box. He lifted the flap up with the end of the gun and saw the tubes of silicon gel inside.
He looked round the rest of the room and noticed the wall above the fireplace for the first time. Row after row of much smaller pieces of paper. He stepped across for a closer look, the red lines drawn through the top row of competition entry forms catching his eye. He read the names: Polly Mather, Heather Rayne, Mary Walters, Liz Wilson, Gabrielle Harnett, Emily Sanderson.
Oh, Jesus.
Striding back into the dining room, he grabbed George by the hair. 'You sick fuck. Where's Tom?'
George's eyes were tightly shut. 'I didn't mean to hurt her.'
Jon yanked his head back. 'What have you done with Tom Benwell?'
George started crying again.
'When did you put all that stuff in there?'
'What stuff?'
'Those entry forms. The chewing gum. How long have you been living here?'
'I don't know what you mean. Tom lives here.'
Jon stood up and went back into the living room. On the small mantelpiece above the fireplace was a stack of passports. Using the barrel of the gun, he opened the uppermost one and saw the name Emily Sanderson.
He ran back into the dining room, grabbed George by his throat and rammed the end of the gun into his fat cheek. 'What the fuck is going on?'
George tried to shrink backwards, eyes still shut.
'Open your eyes!'
George did as he was told.
'Who's been living here?'
'Tom. He's always been here.' Jon could see he was telling the truth. He returned to the front room, placed the gun on the mantelpiece and scrutinized the entry forms. They were all in rows of seven. Except the uppermost one, which had only six. The killings had started six days ago, with no body turning up on the fourth day. There was no line through the fourth entry form — Liz Wilson's. And there was no seventh form, just a tiny hole in the paint where a drawing pin had been.
'Oh my fucking God, what have you done?' he whispered, reaching for his phone to ring the station. It went off.
Transferring the call to answerphone, he punched in the number for Longsight, barking out that he needed the works sent out to Sixteen Moorfield Road, Didsbury. 'Also, send a car immediately to…' he looked at Liz Wilson's entry form and read out her address. 'Also, put out a general alert on a Tom Benwell. White, mid-thirties, blond curly hair, five foot eleven, medium build. He's probably wearing a light green Armani suit and carrying a briefcase. I think he's currently en route to his next victim's house.'