The House of Killers
Samantha Lee Howe
One More Chapter
a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
* * *
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
* * *
Copyright © Samantha Lee Howe 2021
* * *
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
* * *
Samantha Lee Howe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
* * *
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
* * *
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
* * *
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
* * *
Source ISBN: 9780008444570
Ebook Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008444563
Version: 2020-11-05
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
You will also love…
About the Author
Also by Samantha Lee Howe
One More Chapter...
About the Publisher
For David, Linzi, Tracey and Andrew
‘Never hope to see heaven: I come to carry you to the other shore, into eternal darkness, into fire and ice.’
— Dante Alighieri, Inferno (tr. by A. S. Kline)
Prologue
Neva
Five years ago
When Neva wakes, she focuses on her own reflection in the skylight above her bed. She doesn’t think about her next kill.
At this time of day, the glass is a mirror; she studies her face. Youthful. Innocent, big blue eyes are framed with perfectly shaped brows. Her hair is long and golden blonde – some would call it strawberry. She’s the very picture of mental and physical health. Her bone structure is faultless, cheekbones defined to model excellence, jawline pronounced. She’s a natural beauty but she’s simple too; with the right make-up and clothing she can be instantly forgettable.
The light changes, breaking her meditation. Part of her face becomes obscured. For a moment her immaculate structure appears skull-like, then the sun breaks the spell as it rises up above her head.
She never thinks about why she is here, or how this started. The beginning was a lifetime ago. It doesn’t matter. She is a killer for hire and her reputation precedes her work. Death is simply a process by which she gets paid. It brings no delight. It gives her no emotion at all.
The burner phone by her bed pings. Neva moves from her self-imposed trance. The image of herself, transiently glimpsed, has disappeared for the day. Turning on her side, she picks up the phone. There is only one number stored. Neva reads the instructions, then she swings her long legs over the edge of the bed and stands.
There are no mirrors in the bathroom.
Neva showers and brushes her teeth. She pulls up her hair, wraps it around her head and pulls on a tight netting that flattens it to her skull. She tucks in any remaining strands with practised ease.
In the bedroom, she opens the wardrobe on the left-hand side. The outfit of the day hangs alone and will be discarded once used. Today she will be a redhead. On another day she may be a brunette. When the wig is in place, she goes to her dressing table. In the top drawer are several pairs of contact lenses, all different colours. Neva puts in a pair of brown lenses. She blinks, lets them settle in her eyes, and then applies make-up. When she’s finished, the person looking back in the mirror does not resemble the girl she saw in the skylight. This is a mature and sophisticated woman, tanned, lean, confident in red lipstick.
Neva returns to the now empty wardrobe. In the back, she opens a panel and looks at her weapons, lined up on the rear wall. She smiles at the hidden store, which she knows is a cliché. She takes her favourite blade and straps this to her wrist in an automatic holster that will release the weapon into her hand when needed. She pulls on a jacket over the skirt and blouse she’s wearing. Then she studies her guns. She takes a small pistol from its casing in the wall. After checking that the chamber is full and the safety is on, she tucks it into the back of her skirt. With some spare bullets stowed in her pocket, Neva is ready.
The gun is for any contingencies; her weapon of choice today is the blade. A blade requires close contact, but is silent. Where she plans to make the kill, any noise will be an issue. She pauses, grounding herself in the moment. Her mind goes blank and then she hears the mantra. It runs through her head like an earworm song. When the chant finishes, her head is as ready as her physical body.
Just before she leaves the room, she pulls on a pair of black court shoes and drops a scrunchie into her pocket, as well as some anonymous cash. She does not take any cards or any form of ID.
Neva’s home is in Lincolnshire, on land that sits back from a main A-road. She’s in the heart of ‘spook central’, surrounded by RAF bases – a source
of personal amusement as she hides in plain sight.
Leaving via the back of the house she crosses a field, avoiding the droppings of the family of foxes she knows live nearby. The smell of cut grass wafts across from the farm on the other side of the road as the farmer, out early, cuts and leaves it to dry in the sun. It is the height of summer, a hot one for a change, and Neva enjoys the tranquillity of living in this flat countryside.
She leaves the field and makes her way towards a large breeze-block building. She owns this storage space, but it lies empty except for the nests of spiders that inhabit the rafters of the corrugated roof. Parked there, ready for her use, is a blue Mini. She’s never been in this car; it was left here for her use for this particular job. She pulls on surgical gloves, then opens the driver’s door and climbs in. The keys are already in the ignition. She starts the engine, then drives the car away from her land.
Two hours later she is on the outskirts of London. She parks the car and leaves the keys where they are. Slamming the door shut, she glances around, then removes the gloves, stuffing them into her pocket for possible use later on. She crosses the road and heads down into the nearest tube station.
Exiting the tube at Waterloo, she glances at her watch. Not far now. Her mark will be on the Strand in an hour’s time. Neva will be there first. She walks from the station and passes over Waterloo Bridge. A group of Japanese tourists pose on the bridge with the London Eye behind them. She observes but does not engage with them, passing by unseen among the throng of people walking to and from the station. Neva is aware of the odour of pollution; exhaust fumes, the waft of urine coming up from below the bridge, and the smell of summer-hot bodies assault her in contrast to the clean and pure air of the countryside where she lives.
She reaches the Strand. Pausing as she waits to cross the road at the lights, she looks at her destination: the Savoy Hotel.
In the lobby, Neva sees her target. She has committed her face to memory. She’s mousy-looking, forgettable, but Neva observes the guile behind this nondescript disguise. The other woman, her mark, is a rival. Another of her kind. This does not concern Neva – fulfilling her contract does – but she’s aware that this will not be a simple kill.
She watches the woman cross the lobby and enter a lift. She doesn’t follow. Instead, she observes which floor her kill exits. Her codename is Ansell.
Taking the stairs, Neva goes to the third floor. As she walks along the corridor, she sees a room that is marked ‘Staff Only’. Neva quickly picks the lock and goes inside. Then she shuts the door behind her. Inside, she finds what she expected. This is a small cleaning-service room. There is a sink next to shelving that is filled with cleaning products and stacks of fresh towels. An empty laundry basket stands in the corner. Hung up on the walls are several maid uniforms, and a cleaning trolley sits in the centre of the room. Neva doesn’t use the uniform or the trolley. She doesn’t touch anything. Instead, she waits behind the door, her favoured blade now firmly in her hand.
She breathes. Focuses. She quells the rush of adrenaline that threatens her equilibrium. Her heartrate slows; she’s fully in control of all her reflexes.
A short time later, she hears the sound of someone else tampering with the lock. She presses herself back against the wall. Her mark has been given a target of her own in the hotel; Neva knew she would resort to this simple trope to gain access to his room.
Ansell pushes open the door, glances round, and then slips inside, closing it behind her. Neva’s knife cuts through the air in an arc as her target bends forward, just out of reach as she feels the shift in the atmosphere. Ansell turns to face her killer, then throws herself forward.
Neva grapevines backwards with the skill of a dancer. She feels the skim of a blade as it brushes against her jacket collar. As if in slow motion, a wisp of red hair flicks into the air. Neva swings her knife upwards. Her opponent hops backwards out of reach, but Neva only misses by a breath.
The woman is smaller in height, but she’s strong and toned. Her wig comes away in the struggle. Beneath it is a hairless, shaved scalp. She’s not young; she’s past her prime. The thought crosses Neva’s mind that perhaps this is why they want Ansell retired.
‘You!’ Ansell says. ‘I trained your generation. I know your every move.’
Neva blinks. How does Ansell know anything of Neva’s generation?
‘I’ve retired younger and stronger than you…’ Ansell spits.
Ansell’s face contorts as she throws herself onto Neva.
‘It’s not my time,’ Ansell says, swinging her knife at Neva. There is desperation in her every move.
The younger assassin loses footing and stumbles, slamming back into the door, but as Ansell falls forward, knife stabbing, weaving, and thrusting, Neva brings her blade back up between them. She is not frantic like her opponent. She is calm, controlled. She doesn’t think; she reacts. The blade hits home. Up, sharp, under the ribs and straight into Ansell’s heart.
Ansell’s face twists, her mouth falls open, and her eyes widen. The knife in her hand drops to the floor.
‘I am death…’ Neva says.
Neva turns the blade, ensuring maximum pain and certain rupture. All the time she is looking into Ansell’s eyes, she sees … fear. And something else… Is Ansell, despite her struggle to stay alive, resigned to her fate? The thought of this acquiescence sends the blood pumping through Neva’s veins and it’s uncontrolled adrenaline, emotion, she is unused to.
Ansell slumps against her. Neva pushes the body back, but holds onto her knife. There is a judder as the steel catches on a rib before it is free. Ansell’s corpse collapses to the ground, head cracking against the concrete floor. Blood pools from her chest wound and around the body.
Neva looks down at her. Her chest heaves as she catches her breath. She forces back the adrenaline once more. Ansell did not go easy.
She looks down at her skirt suit and blouse. Blood stains the fabric; her hands are smeared too.
‘What a mess,’ she says.
At the small sink she scrubs her hands. She watches the red turn to pink and then run clear. There is a slight tremor in her hand. She presses it against her chest. Steadies the shake. Frowns.
Then Neva takes the burner phone from her pocket and snaps Ansell’s picture, before sending it to its destination.
A few seconds later a text arrives.
PAYMENT MADE. CLEAN-UP ALSO REQUIRED.
This is an unusual request. She glances at the body. Ansell will never say her mantra again; Neva murmurs it, like a eulogy over the body.
She empties her jacket pocket, placing the bullets, her gun, money and the scrunchie down on the sink drainer. She strips away the skirt suit and blouse and throws them into the large washing basket.
In her underwear, Neva kneels. She lifts Ansell’s carcass into a sitting position and then hefts the body to its feet. With a twist of her body she turns and lets Ansell fall forward over the basket. Then she pushes the corpse down onto her discarded clothing.
Looking around the room, Neva assesses the damage. Using the towels from the shelf, she mops up Ansell’s blood from the floor. She throws the stained towels into the washing basket over the body. Then she pours neat bleach into the mop bucket and begins to cleanse the concrete, removing all signs of the murder.
When she’s finished, Neva returns to the sink. She washes the bucket, rinses the mop, and then thoroughly cleans herself, removing the tan make-up and the red lipstick. Any towels she uses go into the washing trolley. She wipes any surface she touches. The room is cleaner than when she arrived.
She pulls on one of the maids’ uniforms and slips her own court shoes back on. Then she removes the red wig and the netting. Neva runs her fingers through her long hair and scrapes it back and ties it with the scrunchie. Then she picks up her gun, bullets, and cash, and drops them into the uniform pocket.
Making sure the body and all soiled towels are covered, Neva wheels the washing basket out of the cleaner uti
lity room and into the corridor.
In the service lift, she takes a breath; she almost imagines Ansell swimming through the sea of towels upwards to reveal the crime of her death.
Neva shakes herself. She feels … nothing, her mind insists. Her mantra runs over and over inside her head, capping the tumble of stray, irrational thoughts and emotions that she’s unused to.
By the time the service lift reaches the ground floor, Neva is back in control of her mind and body.
Chapter One
Michael
The House of Killers, Book 1 Page 1
