What Will Burn by James Oswald (latest novels to read .TXT) 📗

the police officer receives some message. Gary watches the man bend his head to his shoulder, speaking into a handset. Moments later, the officer glances once at the door he has been guarding, then hurries down the steps and along the street.

Gary waits until the officer has disappeared before emerging from the shadows. He skirts around the parked cars, across the road and then down the narrow mews entrance that will take him around the back of the terrace. There are gardens here, more trees for cover, high stone walls keeping neighbours apart. He counts back until he identifies her building. An old coach house takes up most of the space, with a wooden access gate set into the wall beside it. There is no reason it should be unlocked, and yet when he turns the handle it clicks smoothly, opens to reveal a neat path up to the back door, lit only by the glow of the city refracted through the thickening haar.

Closing the gate behind him, Gary walks up the path as if this is his own home. And why shouldn’t it be? Why should this woman, this murderous harlot, this witch, have such a place when he’s forced to live in a pigsty bedsit? He has as much right to be here as any man. More right than her.

It doesn’t strike him as odd that the back door opens to his touch. Gary is beyond noticing these things. He steps into a utility room that is small by the standards of these terrace houses, but still twice the size of his single room across town. Beyond it, the kitchen is bigger still, kitted out with sleek stainless-steel fittings, granite worktops, no expense spared. He eyes the block of knives on the counter, but he has no need of such weapons. Moves on further into the house.

The silence is so total he wonders if she has left through the front door while he’s been coming in the back. He stands in the middle of the vast central hall and listens. Even the city cannot make it inside, its never-ending murmur held back by thick stone walls and secondary glazing, muted by the mature trees that grow all around this exclusive enclave.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

The voice doesn’t startle him. Nothing can startle him any more. Gary turns slowly and sees her on the stairs, halfway down from the landing above. He moves swiftly, but not at a run. She can’t escape him and they both know it.

‘Get out.’ The words are a command, but her voice betrays her. Her gaze darts to the hall below, and he knows she has left her phone there. He smiles, says nothing as he climbs the stairs.

‘What do you want?’ And there’s the pleading, the attempt to bargain as if he couldn’t take whatever he wanted anyway. She backs away, heels uncertain against the stairs. He keeps coming, never taking his eyes off her, never giving her a moment. Flustered, she trips and falls heavily, a cry of pain as she turns an ankle. Gary can smell the fear on her now and it is wonderful.

‘You won’t get away with this.’ She lashes out at him, but he catches her by the wrist, jerks her upright so that they are close.

‘Tommy says hello,’ he says. Then punches her hard in the face.

60

‘Isn’t there supposed to be a constable on the door?’

McLean stared up at the dark facade of the terraced house, searching for any sign of life. It was late enough that most people would be home by now, but not so late they’d be in their beds. On the other hand, a lot of these big houses were empty, bought as investments or tax boltholes by wealthy bankers and foreign plutocrats. Even so, the street felt unnaturally quiet as he parked the car and climbed out, not helped by the thick haar that drifted eerily past the street lights.

‘Should be, sir. You want me to get on to Control about it?’ Harrison asked.

McLean nodded, leaving the detective sergeant to make the call as he crossed the road and approached the front door. He could see only the reflected street lamps in the glass of the windows, no lights on inside. Only the incongruously modern doorbell and intercom at the front door was illuminated. He climbed the short flight of stone steps, peering down into the light well of the basement level. Nothing obvious in the shadows below, so he pushed the button.

No answer, and no sound from within. Given the thickness of the door, and the fact there was an inner porch to further insulate any sound, it wasn’t surprising he could hear nothing, but McLean pressed the button again, straining his ears for any sound just in case.

‘Apparently there’s been a bit of a barney at one of the pubs on Brunton Street, sir. Constable Peters was on duty here, got called off to help out. Somebody must have OK’d that, I guess. Apparently patrols have been coming down here regularly just to keep an eye on things.’

That would explain it, although McLean wasn’t happy about the situation. He pressed the button again, and still there was no response.

‘Heavy sleeper?’ Harrison suggested. McLean doubted it. He pulled out his phone, found the number and dialled. A moment’s pause, and then he heard the tone through his handset.

‘Is that ringing inside?’ Harrison leaned forward, pressing her ear to the door. ‘I think I can hear a mobile ringing in the hall.’

McLean thumbed the screen to end the call.

‘Stopped now,’ Harrison confirmed. ‘That’s not good, is it?’

‘Not really, no.’ McLean tried the door, but it was locked. ‘Get on to Control again, can you? This is a rented property, so the agency should have a spare key. If they can’t get it here in fifteen minutes, we’ll use one of our own big red ones.’

‘It’s a bit late, isn’t it?’ Harrison said, but made the call anyway.

McLean pressed the doorbell again, then