Death Sentence (27 page)

But that, Matthew was aware, wasn’t Sullivan’s intention. His preference had always been to torture his victims slowly, make them beg, watch them suffer. Swallowing back his fury, Matthew made his way back across the field and headed towards his house. She was here, somewhere. He could feel it.

Why he’d chosen here, Matthew couldn’t fathom. Possibly because it was the last place he’d think of, but more likely because he was desperate, making him more dangerous. Sullivan would know Matthew would make investigations, question people he had business dealings with, staff and clientele at
Seventh Heaven
, check out his local haunts
.
He’d banked on Matthew not calling it in, but secluded himself out here just in case, probably getting a kick out of Matthew finally realising. Had he called it in, Sullivan would also know coppers going door-to-door would question the usual suspects. The last place they’d look was right here, under Matthew’s nose. But
where?

Dragging his collar loose, he looked to the horseshoe arrangement of properties around his own, most half renovated, some barely started. Their house, his and Becky’s house, had been the only one near completion. They’d debated whether to sink funds into it, paying the workmen money in hand to get the place finished, wondered if there would come a day they might rue their decision. It was supposed to have been their dream house, their family home. They’d just finished decorating the nursery when …

Pausing at the front door, Matthew gulped back the tightness in his throat and prayed silently, hopelessly. He had no idea what his next move was. What Sullivan’s might be. He would use Becky. That much he did know. A pawn in his perverted game, he would use her to hurt him, hurt her to hurt him. How could any kind of God let that happen, knowing what she’d already suffered, knowing that Matthew would sacrifice his life in an instant to keep her safe? She’d done nothing to deserve any of this.
Nothing.
And Ashley?
She’s just a child, for Christ’s sake!

Pushing his key angrily into the lock, Matthew rammed the front door open.

‘Ashley?’ he called, though he knew she wasn’t there. She had been. Matthew didn’t need the open toilet window to tell him that. Her text had been cut short. Matthew prayed again. Despite his biting cynicism, he begged that her life wouldn’t be cut cruelly short too.

****

Ashley watched quietly, as the twisted freak prised a wooden plank from the window, making a gap just wide enough to peer through with his binoculars. He was wrong. Matthew did care about her. He’d wanted to take her back to keep her safe, not to get shot of her. She tried to quash the insistent nagging voice in her head.

But he wouldn’t save you, would he?
Emily chuntered on, just like she always did, always there, always haunting her.
If he could only save one of you, it makes sense he would save Becky. She’s having his baby.

Shut up! Ashley mentally tuned out, turning her attention back to the freak.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she plucked up courage to ask him, as he took up his position at the window.

His back still to her, he shrugged. ‘Because …’

Ashley took the opportunity to survey her surroundings, a chill running down her spine as she noted the twisted rope hanging from the beam above her head. There were two windows, one each side of the front door, both boarded. A canvas bag was stashed against the left-hand side wall, bottled water standing next to it. A door behind her, she noticed, shut and bolted. Was Becky in there?

‘Is it because Matthew punched you?’ She turned back to him, noting the shotgun now leaning against the wall next to him. He’d checked it, before he’d turned his attention to the window. When he’d finished checking it, he’d aimed it at her.

‘Pop,’ he’d said, a sadistic smirk on his face. He was mad, madder than she could ever be, even with Emma whispering away in her head. He was going to shoot Matthew, Ashley felt sure. The thought filled her with panic. The thought that Matthew might be forced to make a choice, made her feel sick. She wouldn’t throw up though, she wouldn’t give that maniac the satisfaction, unless she was close enough to throw up over the fancy shoes he’d attempted to scrape the mud from, cursing as he did, muttering on about them being designer, and that it was all Adams’ fault. He was loco, that’s what he was, a complete psycho.

Still looking out of the window, he answered her, finally. ‘Let’s just say it’s payback time, sweetheart, and leave it at that.’

‘Is Becky all right?’ she ventured again.

Lowering his binoculars, he sighed audibly.

‘Did I say you could speak?’ He glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Assessing his tone not to be quite so aggressive, Ashley decided to push it a bit further. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and then coughed, demonstrably, and then coughed again hard.

Ashley watched him as he shot her another glance over his shoulder, clearly irritated, then she pressed her hand to her mouth and emitted another throaty cough.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ He whirled around, glaring at her, his flat grey eyes as hard as flint. ‘Have you got a death wish, or what?’

‘No!’ Ashley spluttered. ‘I’ve got a cough.’ Proving which, she coughed heartily again.

‘
You,
’ he growled, stepping towards her, ‘are seriously trying my patience.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it,’ Ashley said, a hand now pressed to her chest.

‘Cough one more time and you will be sorry,’ he warned her, his eyes now drilling pointedly into hers. ‘Very.’

‘A drink of water might help,’ Ashley croaked, her gaze gliding towards the bottles.

‘
Christ Al-bloody-mighty
.’ He drew in an affronted breath and snorted it out through his nostrils. ‘She’ll be asking for room service next.’

Looking her over derisorily, he shook his head, and then grudgingly turned to fetch one of the bottles of water—and Ashley took her chance. Needing no bidding from Emily, who was urging her,
Now, now,
Ashley launched herself from the box, as he bent to pick up the bottle. She seized the gun, curled her fingers around the cold steel barrel of it, picked it up, and felt his loathsome hands on her, clutching at the back of her top, pulling it tight around her neck, his arm sliding around her, pressing hard against her throat.

Ashley’s head reeled, her heart thrummed wildly against her chest. She kicked out, ineffectually. His other hand snaked around her, closed around the gun.

‘Let it go,’ he rasped, so near to her ear, she could feel his breath on her face, smell it, smell him, a cloying musky aftershave masking underlying body odour.

‘Let. It. Go,’ he repeated, increasing the pressure around her neck, forcing her head upwards, backwards into his shoulder.

‘When I snap your spine, you’ll hear it, sweetheart; gristle, bone and sinew grinding and then,
crrrrack.
’ He gave her head another jerk upwards, lifted her until her toes scraped the floor.

‘Not a pleasant way to go. Have you ever seen a bird with its neck wrung?’

Ashley clawed against his restricting hold, one hand, hopelessly trying to pull his arm away. Two hands. She let go. She let go of the gun, but still he wouldn’t let go of her.

‘Their eyes are vacant,’ he said, and paused as if reminiscing. ‘Wide open. In surprise, I used to think. My old man kept pigeons. Racing pigeons. I hated the fucking things, cooing and clucking and shitting all over the place. He loved ‘em though. Told ‘em he loved them. Kissed the bloody things, I swear to God he did. And then, if they didn’t fly right … click, clack, crack, dead pigeon. He made me do it once. Said it would toughen me up. I puked up afterwards, but the old bastard was right. I have no problem now breaking scrawny little birds’
necks
.’

The last was sneered in her ear as he dropped her, and then shoved her away from him.

She landed hard, on all fours, heaving her little guts up and gagging for breath. Served her right. Patrick ran the back of his hand across his face, his fury escalating as he realised there was a gob of spittle at his mouth. He ought to do it, break her back and hear it crack. Trying to pull a fast one on him, lying to him, testing his patience to the limit, who did she think she was? Defiant little cow.

Wiping his mouth again, Patrick left her where she was and fetched the bottle. She wanted water, she could have water. Removing the cap, Patrick poured, watched it trickle and splosh into her pretty, silken hair, and felt his temper cool to a slow simmer. He hadn’t finished with her yet, but … later, he decided. Right now, he had more important things to attend to.

‘Get up,’ he instructed, turning away, confident that she wouldn’t try anything else just then. ‘Go over there, sit on your box like a good little girl and don’t utter a word. If you do, I’ll bite your fucking tongue off, I swear.’

So said, Patrick took out his phone and watched, reasonably satisfied, as the girl stifled a whimper, pulled herself up from the floor, dragged her damp hair from her face, and did as she was told.
That’s more like it
, he thought, placing his call. He didn’t mind demure, much preferred them that way, as long as it wasn’t contrived to manipulate him, as if he was so stupid he couldn’t see right through it. Did any of them ever stop to think how hurtful that was? You give them everything they want, treat them with respect, and still they can’t offer a bit of honest affection. Yes, he was a hard bastard. He had to be. But it didn’t mean he didn’t have feelings.

‘Ah, Detective Adams,’ he said into his phone, smiling at the girl, whose eyes grew wide when she heard mention of her supposed superhero.

‘I bet you were wondering where I was. I’ve been a bit busy. Feisty little thing, isn’t she, your niece?’ He stopped and listened, quite enjoying the copper’s valiant attempt not to react.

****

Closing his eyes, Matthew called on every ounce of his willpower to stay calm, to not feed the animal the ammunition he wanted.

‘Do you have the account details?’ he asked him, trying to sound neutral, unaffected, desperately struggling for detachment.

Silence on the other end, Matthew waited, his heart-rate ratcheting up as he did.

‘All in good time,’ Sullivan spoke, eventually. ‘I see you managed to work out where we are. Brilliant detective work, Adams. Congratulations. Pity the girl had to suffer for helping you with your enquiries, isn’t it? Not very caring, is it, allowing her to wander around, getting herself into dangerous situations? Do you care about her, Adams? Or do you just want to fuck her?’

Matthew clenched his jaw hard.

‘She’s worth it,’ Sullivan went on, having his own perverse brand of fun. ‘Put’s up a bit of a fight, but then, that always makes it more interesting, don’t y’think?’

Bastard.
Matthew’s gut twisted inside him.

‘Did you realise you were looking right at me?’ Sullivan asked him, and paused. ‘That was a question, Detective Inspector.’

Matthew swallowed back his burning fury. ‘I guessed I might be,’ he answered tightly.

‘So let’s cut the crap, hey, Matthew? You know where I am. I know where you are. Come on over and we’ll make sure the transaction goes through smoothly together. I’ll have a nice little reception waiting for you. What d’y’say?’

Matthew dragged in a breath. ‘You’re a sick animal, Sullivan,’ he seethed throatily. ‘You need help.’

‘Your police chums are not invited, by the way,’ Sullivan ignored him. ‘It’s a private party, so don’t make any calls, beforehand, or your little family will be life extinct,
comprendre
?’

‘If you’ve touched either one of them, Sullivan,’ Matthew could barely get the words out, ‘I swear to God—‘

‘Bear in mind I have nothing to lose now I’ve put your little lapdog down, hey, Adams?’ Sullivan said over him. ‘So don’t try anything else clever either, will you? Be here in half an hour. Precisely. Make sure you’re on time and visible.’

Matthew’s heart plummeted, as he heard Ashley in the background.

‘He has a gun!’ she shouted. The following shrill scream, cut short as the call ended, pierced Matthew’s very soul.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘You just had to go and make me do that, didn’t you?’ Patrick dragged his gun-free hand across his mouth, as the girl recoiled. He was spitting with fury, he really was. What was it with these women? Could none of them follow a basic instruction?

‘What did you expect me to do!?’ She glared at him, a hand pressed to her flaming cheek and her eyes burning with hatred. ‘I wasn’t just gonna sit here, was I!? Would you have done?’

No, Patrick thought, his fury dissipating a little as he conceded that fact. She’d want to warn him about the gun, he supposed, though Patrick was buggered if he knew why, considering Adams’ motives regarding her were suspect, to say the least.
Oh, great.
Now she was going to cry. Patrick noted the tears brimming in her eyes and felt disconcertingly guilty. He wouldn’t normally turn a hair, women only ever cried crocodile tears to tug at men’s heartstrings, his father had reminded him of that often, but this one … Did she have to look quite so much like his daughter?

‘You know, you baffle me, you really do.’ He cocked his head to one side, looking her over. ‘Haven’t you stopped to wonder why a thirty-odd year old bloke would be interested in having you around?’

She looked at him, clueless, obviously, for a second, before the penny dropped, then, ‘He’s not like that.’ The scowl was back. ‘He cares about me. He said—’

‘Sweetheart, all he cares about is getting into your knickers,’ Patrick cut her short. ‘He likes ‘em young. Trust me, I know,’ he went on, figuring if he didn’t have anything else to gain, her uncertainty might mean she was more compliant.

The furrow in her pretty little brow deepened. ‘How do you know?’ She scanned his eyes. The look in hers was curious, but alarmed, Patrick detected.
Interesting.

He studied her carefully, noting the lowered eyes, the coy blush to her cheeks. ‘Why? Fancy him, do you?’

‘No!’ she refuted, way too quickly.