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Paid to Kill: A HOLIDAY CAN BE MURDER (The Dead Speak Book 5)

Page 6

by Emmy Ellis


  But she hadn’t expected one of Matilda’s grandchildren to turn up over the road while Nellie had been booking the gays in. When the men had left and she’d looked out of the window and had seen the bike, she’d known her plans had gone wrong. No one usually visited Matilda until after eight at night, to check and ensure she was okay. So why had that grandson arrived? Was Matilda even dead? Had she managed to come back to life and phone for help?

  I’ll be caught.

  Nellie’s stomach churned. The last thing she needed was to spend the rest of her life in prison. That would be typical, too—nothing had gone the way it should have for her, so why would now be any different?

  She watched as another police car turned up. Two men got out, one in uniform, the other in a suit. The suited one went into Matilda’s house then came out again and headed towards Nellie’s pub.

  Matilda’s told them it was me. She’s alive.

  A streak of fear went through her so quickly and violently she staggered a bit and gripped the windowsill. The man turned and called out to the other officer, who followed him. Knowing what she had to do, Nellie dashed downstairs as fast as she was able and went through the pub lounge.

  “What’s the hurry?” Leonard leant forward to place his pint glass on the table.

  “Shut your bloody face,” she said. “Be quiet—and I mean quiet. Silent.”

  She strode to the front door, locked it, then rushed to close all the curtains. Once done, she went out the back to secure the door there. She stared at the strawberry patch through the glass.

  “This is all your fault,” she said, narrowing her eyes and homing in on a shrivelled piece of fruit sitting on top of a withered, yellowing leaf. “You didn’t bring us up properly, and now look what’s occurred. I have to do things a person shouldn’t be doing, and it’s sinning, me doing them. Sinning.”

  She snapped the blind closed and returned to the lounge, out of breath, her heart hammering far too madly. Deep breath taken, she collected a roll of duct tape from the drawer beneath the bar and popped it into the pocket on the front of her apron. One of the twigs crackled in the grate, and she took it as a sign that she needed to get a move on. She may not have done what she wanted with her life, but it was clear she was being directed. Small signs like that twig popping had guided her all along, she just hadn’t acknowledged their importance until now.

  Patting her apron pocket, she went around the other side of the bar and walked to the fire. Picked the poker up. It was heavy, a nice, nerve-steadying kind of weight, and she prodded the embers, hoping they’d heat the metal to a satisfying degree. She rested the poker on the grate, the tip still in the orange glow, and went to sit beside Leonard.

  “Remember what I said.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Be quiet.”

  Someone pushed at the front door. Nellie held her breath, feeling as if she could be seen even though she’d closed the curtains. Her blood ran cold through fear of being stopped before she could start what she needed to finish.

  Go away. Just for a little while.

  A loud rap on the door almost had her shrieking with anger, but she held it in. She didn’t dare look at Leonard, who, in her peripheral vision, stared at her, whittling his shirt collar with his spindly little fingers. How she hated those fingers, those knuckles. They were twinned in her mind with donkeys and women of the night. Leonard was no better than those gays, what with him loving to watch that nasty sex business.

  The door was banged again.

  Half an hour, that’s all I need, then you can come in.

  Nellie sat in silence beside Leonard for five minutes, then got up to push one of the curtains aside and peer out. The policemen had gone, and she peered over at Matilda’s to see what was what there. Another police car had arrived. Crime scene tape had been attached to the fence. It flapped in the breeze where it hung from the hedge. Happy the police were busy, she let the curtain fall back into place and bustled over to the fire.

  “You know, Leonard,” she said, picking up the poker and making sure it was firm in her grip, “I did what you suggested earlier, and it went wrong. I knew I should have ignored you, but I went out to speak to Mum and Dad and got myself all annoyed. I visited Matilda, thinking that if she was gone I could then sort the rest of her family out and we’d get all the business again—and it would have worked, too, if it wasn’t for that grandson of hers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She moved to stand in front of him, flexing her fingers around the poker handle. “What do I mean? I sent her off to the Pearly Gates, didn’t I, and her grandson came to see her early. The police are there. Matilda can’t have died—she must have telephoned for help. Told them what I’d done.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “What? Are you thick? I thought I’d killed her, Leonard. Strangled her. Except I obviously didn’t strangle her for long enough. Those people who knocked on the door? Police, that’s who they were.” She leant forward for emphasis. “Coming to get us. Get me, then get you when they discover the strawberry patch.”

  Leonard lifted his hands to cover his ears. “Stop it, Nellie. I don’t want to hear things like that. What will we do?”

  “I don’t know what we’ll do, but I know what I’m going to do. Hold this for me.”

  She thrust the poker towards him. He took it, and she removed the duct tape from her pocket. Pulled a strip free then bit a piece off. Threw the roll to the floor. Leonard stared at her, clearly puzzled as to what she was doing, but his expression held no fear. She slapped the tape across his mouth. Snatched the poker. She raised it then brought it crashing down on his white-haired head with massive force. A thud and a crack sounded simultaneously, followed by a wet thwack. Leonard screamed, the noise muffled, and she hit him again and again.

  She couldn’t have him telling them what she’d done to their parents and Matilda. To anyone who had pissed her off over the years. Guests or passersby who had popped in for directions. She’d taken all her anger out on them. Anger over Matilda living the life Nellie had wanted. Anger that life was so sodding unfair.

  Covered in blood spatter, she dropped the poker to the floor and made her way upstairs. In her bathroom, she unscrewed the cap of a tablet bottle and stuffed the contents in her mouth. Swallowed them down with water from the tap, annoyed that they’d decided to create what felt like a ball in her windpipe. At her bedside cabinet, she opened the drawer and took out a bottle of gin, staring down at it and anticipating the taste.

  She wandered down the landing until she reached her parents’ old room. Opened the door. Stood and stared. Everything was the same as it had been all those years ago. The bed. The flowery cover on it. The wardrobe. And that was where she would go now, that wardrobe. She’d sit inside it and drink the gin, then wait until she fell asleep for the last time.

  Yes, that was what she’d do.

  And maybe she’d think about Colin and what could have been while she was at it.

  * * * *

  Colin couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that had come over him since he’d listened at Randall’s office door. Something was off, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it at the moment. But it didn’t matter. Whatever it was would disappear along with them when he served their dinner.

  He left his room and went into the kitchen to stir the meal he’d left braising in the slow cooker. He didn’t care whether the bald gentleman liked stewed beef—that was what Colin and Randall would have had if Jackson hadn’t turned up, so that was what they’d be having now. The food looked sufficiently tender, so he popped some new potatoes and carrots on the hob then walked over to the window while they came to the boil. Beside the window stood an old-fashioned cabinet, a Welsh dresser that had been there for as long as he could remember.

  Back in the days when he’d first started work here, he’d been in charge of cleaning the pots. A deep white sink had been below the window then, the dresser beside it, and he’d stared across the fields as he’
d washed up and thought of Nellie. It was strange how life worked out. He’d planned to marry her, to set up home and live happily ever after, get her a job in this house. But he’d gone to war and returned to hear from Matilda that Nellie wasn’t one for marriage, that she’d pledged to spend her life helping her mum and dad manage The Running Hare.

  Colin had been upset, of course he had, but hadn’t wanted anyone else. He’d resigned himself to always working in the house, and when his original masters had passed away and their children had employed him, he’d known he wouldn’t go anywhere else. The children, as he still thought of them, had sold up, and Colin had worried about where he would go. But Randall had bought the place and kept him on—the sole employee who ran the house like clockwork.

  He wondered whether Nellie ever thought of him. Perhaps he’d go down to the village tomorrow, after everything here had been settled, maybe visit with her for an hour or two before he jetted off into the sun. Who knew, perhaps she’d like to go with him. They could live the life they’d been denied.

  Water sizzled on the hob, and he rushed over to turn down the heat. He tugged the bell cord dangling beside the cooker to let Randall know dinner would be ready in a bit. While he waited for the vegetables to cook, he returned to the dresser and took out some red wine. He uncorked it and reached deep into the dresser for a smaller bottle at the back. A few teaspoons of the contents poured into the wine would do the trick and, satisfied all was in order, he shuffled into the dining room to set the table.

  A table for two.

  Colin would eat in the kitchen, as he always did. He’d give it until he’d eaten his meal then go and investigate in the dining room. Things should have gone to plan nicely by that time. After that, the world would be his oyster.

  Chapter Eleven

  The butler had brought in an uncorked bottle of wine, but Randall had ignored it, saying they’d be better off sticking to water, considering what they’d be doing later. It wouldn’t do them any good to be half cut from alcohol. Jackson had agreed.

  “So, the deal with the butler?” Jackson pushed his plate aside and planted his elbows on the table. He laced his fingers and waited for Randall’s response.

  “Accident.” He tapped beside his eye. “Protecting me.”

  “Ah, right. So he’s always been protective, has he?”

  “Just a bit.” Randall smiled a tad. “He’s been with me for a long time. Came with the house. Thinks he needs to take care of everything in it, even though he’s thin and looks like he couldn’t fight off a kid.”

  Randall rose then pushed his chair beneath the table. Jackson stood. He moved to collect the plates.

  “The butler will do that.” Randall nodded at the table.

  “Right.”

  “Come on. I want to show you something.” Randall moved to the door.

  He led Jackson out of the dining room and upstairs, along the left-hand side of the veranda then through the third door into another hallway lined with doors. They walked down it, and right at the end was an ancient narrow staircase, bare stone walls either side. Frowning, because this hadn’t been on the plans of the house he’d studied, Jackson trailed Randall upwards until they reached another door. Steel, which looked out of place in such a grand home.

  Randall took a plastic card from his pocket and slid it down the middle of a black box on the jamb. The loud click of bolts drawing across echoed in the small space and gave Jackson a momentary chill. It smelled funny up here—of years gone by, dust, and mould.

  Randall pushed the door open to reveal a large circular room.

  Jackson stepped inside. Going by what he could see, it was situated at the back of the house.

  Windows, much like those in the control room of a lighthouse, allowed a bird’s-eye view of the outside surroundings. Although the day had almost switched to night out there, Jackson could see well enough. If anyone came across those lawns they’d be spotted.

  Opposite, below two of the windows, a bank of electronic paraphernalia with knobs, sliders, and lights drew his eye. It reminded him of music recording gear. It didn’t fit here, was surreal and odd, and he frowned again, wondering what the hell tied this to Randall. Was the man some kind of performing artist?

  Computer monitors—some square, black eyes of deadness, others alive and bright with streams of data rising from bottom to top—gave him pause. There was more to this man than he’d realised. More than Sid would have told him if he’d pushed for background information. All Jackson had thought was that this bloke had inherited this mansion, rattled around in it, wasting his days and playing about in life. First impressions had definitely been wrong on this occasion.

  “What the hell is this room?” Jackson turned.

  Randall closed the door and pressed a code into another keypad. “This is where I work. Where I come when I want to do a final check of the grounds at night. You’ll note you can see in every direction.”

  “This doesn’t do you any fucking good.” Jackson lifted his hands then slapped them onto his outer thighs. “This room. It shows you sod all unless someone’s on the grounds—someone you can see out of the windows. By the time you’ve made it downstairs, they could have got into the house and be waiting.”

  Randall jabbed another button. The sound of metal scraping metal clunked, much as it had when Randall had released the door locks.

  “But they can’t get in here.” Randall smiled. “This could be classed as my panic room.”

  Jackson nodded. “You used it before for that purpose?”

  “Yes. The last time someone came, I was in here for… I was in here.”

  “The butler didn’t make it up here in time then. What’s his name anyway?”

  “Colin. I told him we had to come up here because I’d been alerted to someone being on the grounds. He said he could deal with it, and I believed him. He had a gun, after all. Had been in the army. I didn’t want him to deal with it, wanted him to come up here with me so I could…sort things…but there was stuff I still needed to test in here, and it reminded me I couldn’t afford to be killed.”

  What the hell do you do? Why couldn’t you afford to be killed?

  “What happened?” Jackson stared at a computer that bleeped an erratic, high-pitched alarm.

  Randall frowned and walked over to it. He leant forward, pressed his hands to the desk, and studied the monitor, then pushed a button on the keyboard. A green image came up, similar to viewing something through night-vision goggles. A shape, dark and swiftly moving, was heading from the distance and into the foreground.

  “Oh, some man stabbed Colin in the eye.” Randall bit his bottom lip until it blanched white.

  “And?” Jackson flicked his gaze from the screen to Randall then back again.

  The shape had become the outline of a deer.

  “And Colin killed him.” Randall stared briefly at the ceiling as though offering up a prayer, then touched another button on the keyboard.

  The deer buckled and fell to the ground.

  He looked at Jackson. “That was a deer, and it was just inside the perimeter of my property. It worked. It bloody worked!” Randall raised his hands to his head and gripped his hair. He laughed a bit nutterishly then lowered his arms. “So your mention of this room doing no fucking good…”

  “It alerted you to the deer when it had breached some sort of line?”

  “Yes. And it was eliminated.”

  The deer was still on the ground. Unmoving.

  “So this is some form of security as well as a killer of animals,” Jackson said sarcastically, nodding at the computer.

  “Yes. And before you ask, there are hidden screens in every room that I can access to check data like this as soon as my system spots it. That’s how I knew the other person sent to kill me was on the property. I actually watched him run across the grounds and attempt to break into the east wing.”

  “That puts paid to me needing to give you a lecture on having gates and walls constructed the
n.”

  Randall smiled. “It does a bit, doesn’t it? Of course, this alarm, for want of a better word, is still in the testing phase at the moment, but now it’s killed something… Christ, I didn’t think I’d crack it. My alarm, it isn’t just an alarm.”

  I can fucking see that. Dread pooled in Jackson’s belly. “So what is it?”

  Randall chewed the inside of his cheek. “Something you really don’t need to know about.” He moved from the computers to a window that overlooked the rear of the house. “There had been information on the man who came for me, you know. In his pocket. A phone with contacts in it. A memory stick with data on it. Which is how I knew someone would be arriving tonight to finish off what they’d started—several future dates if that first one didn’t work. It was all there. The dates and times of ‘jobs’, much like Sid has, I suspect.”

  Jackson nodded. “You’d have thought whoever it was would have known to change those dates and times once they’d realised their man and their information wasn’t coming back.” He joined Randall at the window, wondering where the hell the man was who’d come to kill Randall last time. Had Colin disposed of the body?

  “You would think that, yes.” Randall stared out of one of the windows. “But the person who wants me killed hadn’t banked on Colin dragging the dead man into his car and delivering the body back to him. Or onto the property of his private residence, anyway. Complete with data, as though we hadn’t even seen it.”

  “So I take it you copied it then?” Colin? Dragging a bloke? With one of his eyes hanging out? He couldn’t imagine, wiry and weak-looking as the man was, that he’d been able to do what he had. He must have been in some considerable pain. Maybe Colin had got rid of him the next day. Maybe… Don’t ask about it. Just don’t ask.

 

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