Animal Instinct

by Animal Instinct (retail) (epub)

  ‘What was wrong with me?’

  The only sound was the wind in the trees. Then came Isobel’s reply.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Liam blinked.

  ‘Nothing?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘You were perfect.’

  He blinked again.

  ‘Then why…?’

  He tailed off, too choked to continue.

  Silence fell.

  Joe felt like an outsider intruding upon private grief. But he had a part to play.

  ‘He needs to know,’ he said, meeting Isobel’s stare. ‘Tell him or I will.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Tell me what?’ said Liam.

  He turned. The shotgun was pointed straight at Joe’s head.

  A deep breath.

  ‘Adam wasn’t your father,’ said Joe. ‘Isobel was raped.’ He turned to study the woman’s face. ‘Am I right?’

  Her jaw tightened but she said nothing. Joe pressed the point. He had to be sure.

  ‘Was it the Salamander?’

  Then he saw it, a flicker in her eye. It told him all he needed to know. But still she maintained her silence.

  Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must remain silent.

  The baby began to cry. Joe let the seconds tick by then turned to Liam.

  ‘Let Saffron have her daughter.’

  Saffron shook her head. ‘I don’t want her.’

  Isobel shot her daughter a look filled with pain and understanding. She turned to Liam, gesturing towards the baby.

  ‘Give her to me.’

  For several seconds, the Irishman didn’t react, blinking hard. Then he called out to the women framed by the Doric columns.

  ‘You people think you own the world. Well, you don’t own me.’ He turned towards the baby in the basket. ‘Or her.’ He gazed at his daughter. ‘There has to be something normal in this shitty world. Something good and—’

  They were his last words.

  Joe cried out. Too late. Isobel raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The sound of the blast filled the night air, igniting another tumult of animal cries. Liam fell to the ground, blood gushing from a wound that had taken away half his head.

  Saffron screamed. The animal uproar intensified.

  But the baby fell silent.

  Joe felt a rush of blood coursing through his veins. He approached Liam’s lifeless body. The fall onto the gravel had scraped the nicotine patch from the back of the dead man’s hand, revealing a tattoo.

  A spider.

  Joe straightened up. He met Isobel’s gaze.

  Loosening her grip on the shotgun, allowing it to fall to the ground, she seemed calm. No sign of agitation. No indication anything out of the ordinary had happened. Nothing to suggest she had shot her own son.

  Turning, Joe saw two police cars rounding the corner, blue lights flashing. He stared at Isobel. His voice took on fresh urgency.

  ‘Did Liam threaten you?’

  The words didn’t seem to register. He tried again.

  ‘Were you in fear for your life?’

  No response. Saffron turned to her mother.

  ‘He’s trying to help you.’

  Joe grasped Isobel’s shoulders.

  ‘Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in prison, answer me. Did you kill Liam in self-defence?’

  Finally, his words seemed to penetrate the fog in the woman’s brain. Her voice was a whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  She bent down to the basket, lifted the baby into her arms and sat on the steps of Pennefeather Hall. Joe held Saffron’s gaze, his eyes probing hers. She nodded, tacitly acknowledging a pact that would bind them together for ever. He took a breath then turned to greet two familiar figures as they stepped from the lead police car.

  ‘Hello, Bryan,’ he said. ‘Hello, Hugh.’

  * * *

  Dawn was breaking by the time they allowed him to go home.

  ‘What did you see?’

  Messenger must have asked the question four times, maybe more. Joe stuck to his story.

  ‘Isobel acted in self-defence. Liam threatened Saffron with the shotgun. The baby was in danger.’

  Messenger exchanged a sceptical look with Duffy. He glanced at the wound to Joe’s head.

  ‘You’d better get to hospital.’

  ‘He doesn’t need a hospital,’ said Duffy. ‘Just a bag of peas.’

  Joe met the DS’s eyes then he turned and walked towards his car.

  Steering the MGB through the gates of Pennefeather Hall, he saw Chrissie among the throng of reporters. He allowed the engine to idle and rolled down his window.

  ‘Is it over?’ Her smile was at odds with the heaviness in Joe’s heart.

  ‘Not for Isobel or Saffron.’

  Chrissie frowned, not understanding.

  ‘Can I talk to you, Joe? Can I buy you breakfast?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  The reporter brought her face closer to his. He could smell her perfume. ‘Just give me a steer,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘If I take the line that this was self-defence, not murder, would I be barking up the wrong tree?’

  Joe chose his words with care. ‘Not necessarily.’

  The journalist smiled. She caught sight of the blood on Joe’s head.

  ‘Did Liam do that?’

  He nodded.

  Chrissie reached into her handbag. She handed a cookbook through the window. Two’s Company. ‘I got you a present. Maybe we could experiment this weekend?’

  She was still smiling but the light had gone out of her eyes. He could see her interest waning, switching to another car as it emerged from the estate.

  Hugh Duffy was at the wheel. In the back Bryan Messenger sat next to Isobel Pennefeather.

  Joe’s foot hovered over the accelerator. He watched the reporter join the rest of the pack crowding around the police car. Then he tossed the cookbook onto the passenger seat and put his foot down, heading for home.

  35

  Joe followed the recipe to the letter. He chopped the onions then crushed two cloves of garlic and fried them in olive oil until they were soft. He lobbed in two tins of tomatoes, seasoned the mixture with salt and pepper and left it to simmer for twelve minutes before taking the pan off the heat. He stirred in the mascarpone and a handful of fresh basil then heated two tablespoons of olive oil and fried the chicken breasts until they were golden. Finally, he transferred the chicken and the sauce into the baking dish and put it in the oven. He would add the black olives later. The penne would take nine minutes, once the casserole was cooked.

  He closed the cookbook and checked his watch. Nearly eight o’clock. He uncorked a bottle of Rioja then laid two places at the table. The shack was tidy and the buckets that caught drips from the ceiling had been returned to their rightful place under the sink. Joe had spent the afternoon on the roof, patching up the leaks with bitumen. It wasn’t a permanent solution but, like the shack itself, it would do for now.

  He took a shower and scraped a razor across his face. Then he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, poured a glass of wine and settled down to wait.

  There had been no contact with Isobel or Saffron since the events of Monday night, just an email from Felix inviting Joe to lunch when things calm down.

  From what Joe could glean from the news, Messenger was working on the assumption that Isobel had shot Liam while in fear for her own life. There had been no further instances of Duffy shoving his face into the limelight; the DS no longer featured in Chrissie McBride’s articles.

  The rest of the papers, particularly the red-tops, were still splashing the story on their front pages, day after day, as increasingly lurid details about O’Mara emerged. There would be a court appearance for Isobel but Joe was relieved to see that most commentators’ sympathies lay with Adam’s widow.

  This was thanks to Chrissie. With her detailed knowledge of the Pennefeather case, the journalist had become an un
official expert on the saga, appearing regularly on TV and radio.

  Joe was relieved to see that her slant on the events of Monday night – particularly her insistence that Isobel had suffered enough – had set the tone for the rest of the coverage.

  He was pleased to have given the journalist a steer, one that had had the desired effect while allowing Isobel to preserve her secrets.

  Katie had left three messages. Apparently it was ‘time for a chat’. Joe had yet to return her calls. They would need to talk about his decision not to return to Marlowe Avenue, but most importantly, about the contents of the envelope from the Cambridge lab. This was one sleeping dog that couldn’t be allowed to lie. Luke had a right to know about a matter that might have implications for his health. Joe wasn’t being evasive in not returning Katie’s calls. He needed time to process his thoughts. But he would tell his wife what he knew and discuss the best way to break the news to their son. Life moved on. There was no going back.

  He heard a car pull up then a knock on the door.

  ‘It’s open.’

  Luke stepped inside. He was brandishing a bottle of red wine. Something about his son’s face struck Joe as odd, then he realized: the copper-coloured goatee had gone. He made no comment.

  ‘Did you borrow Mum’s car?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘I took a cab.’

  Joe heard the taxi pulling away into the night.

  ‘Good idea,’ he said, pouring Luke a glass of Rioja. ‘Or you wouldn’t be having any of this.’

  Luke took the glass. A flicker of worry crossed his face.

  ‘Mum’s trying to get hold of you.’

  Joe nodded. ‘I’ll talk to her tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens, everything will work out for the best.’

  His son gave a thumbs-up, took a sip of wine then sniffed the air. ‘Something smells good.’

  Joe walked towards the stove.

  ‘Chicken cacciatore.’

  Luke’s face fell.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ said Joe. He opened the oven and took out a baking tray. ‘I made you a veggie lasagne.’

  Luke looked impressed. ‘Cool.’

  Joe smiled. It was the ultimate compliment.

  * * *

  Later, after too much wine, Luke fell asleep on the bed. Joe stared at his son’s face for the best part of an hour. He thought of little Samson being looked after by Kashka; of Ling-Ling and her cubs – the defenceless male thriving thanks to a harmless deception.

  He left the room and made up a bed on the sofa. Then he settled on the porch with the cigarette he’d found in the glove compartment of the MGB, left over from God knows when.

  The sea was calm and the sky was spangled with stars. He could feel the letter in his pocket. He took it out and studied the Cambridge postmark, turning the envelope over in his hands. He would talk to Katie tomorrow, as promised. In the meantime, it was not the contents of the letter that mattered but the contents of the heart.

  After a moment, he struck a match and set fire to the envelope. He raised it to light his cigarette then tossed it onto the shingle. Watching the paper turn to ash, he settled down to finish his wine and keep a lookout for the three-legged dog.

  LOOK OUT FOR

  Dark Game

  After a scandal forces DI Kelly Porter out of the Met, she returns to her home turf in the Lake District. She begins work on a cold case that shocked the local community – the abduction and brutal murder of ten-year-old Lottie Davies. Behind the veneer of sleepy, touristy towns lies a dark and dangerous underworld. As Kelly threatens to expose those with much to lose, she risks paying the ultimate price to get to the truth…

  Find out more

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Canelo

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Simon Booker, 2018

  The moral right of Simon Booker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788631921

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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