They left Mrs McAllister in the kitchen. The trapdoor was bolted shut and she was strong enough to shove a largish butcher’s block across the kitchen door when they’d gone back out into the corridor, so she would be out of danger there.
Wish we were out of bloody danger, thought Annie as they went on along the corridor, Tony and Steve throwing open doors on either side of it, stepping in, stepping back out. The silence in here was eerie. And now they were fast approaching the hall where Constantine had wined and dined her over the years – and an assortment of high-priced hookers too – while he still had wits left to do it.
She hoped Constantine wouldn’t be in there. She didn’t think he would be, but if he was, then Max would shoot him, beat Redmond to the draw. Once, she had hoped that Max could have let it go, the animosity he felt over her relationship with Constantine; now she knew he never would.
Steve was reaching for the door handle, and Annie’s stomach was crawling with dread. Don’t be in there, please don’t be in there . . .
Steve opened the door, dived inside. Tony followed, then Max, then she walked in too – and there he was.
The breath caught in her throat.
Constantine, sharp-suited, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered, wearing the silver-grey suit to match his silver hair. He was standing in front of the roaring fire, facing away from them, staring into the flames.
Then she turned and saw the gun in Max’s hand.