Simon Crawford had allowed himself to sleep late again on Boxing Day. Strictly speaking, he supposed it was a working day. Christmas Day had fallen on a Friday this year so the Boxing Day holiday was on Monday. Today was just another Saturday and Crawford expected to work on Saturdays. His decision this year to force himself to rest over Christmas had been a conscious effort to break his workaholic routine, but he was already beginning to regret it.
He wasn’t cut out for resting. It made him tense and irritable. He needed to feel he was doing something. If he was honest with himself, he needed to feel he was making money.
He climbed out of bed, showered, dressed and headed downstairs. More snow had fallen overnight, and the main road was still largely covered, although a handful of tyre tracks indicated that some vehicles had passed that morning. He had no plans to go anywhere today and, if necessary, didn’t need to leave the house for several days at least.
As he made coffee, he checked his phone and groaned. Three more missed calls from Gordon fucking Prebble, along with a voicemail. He clicked the voicemail and listened. ‘Where the hell are you, Crawford? I expect more prompt service than this.’
Expect away, then, Crawford thought. He was gradually coming to the conclusion that Prebble was more trouble than he was worth, particularly if he was on the way out in any case.
‘Further change of plan since we spoke,’ Prebble went on. ‘I want to stick a rocket up everything, get it fucking moving. I want all this sorted PDQ. Call back.’
Fuck that, Crawford thought. Fuck that for a fucking game of fucking soldiers. He prided himself on the quality and promptness of service he provided to his clients. Sometimes, especially when dealing with the likes of Gordon Prebble, he wondered why he bothered. It wasn’t as if they could go anywhere else to obtain the services he provided. And there were limits, which Gordon Prebble managed to exceed on almost every occasion. Crawford was damned if he was going to jump at Prebble’s say-so to cater to whatever whim might have suddenly popped into his head.
He was tempted simply to ignore Prebble’s calls, but he knew Prebble would just keep on calling. Crawford took a preparatory sip of his coffee and called Prebble’s number, but it rang out to voicemail. ‘Gordon, it’s Simon Crawford here. Sorry I missed you earlier. Call me back when you’re able.’
Despite his original intention of taking the day off, Crawford spent much of the morning working. At around 1pm, he broke for lunch and tried Prebble again. Prebble would at least see that Crawford had made an effort to get hold of him, even if Crawford was reaching the point where he didn’t much care what Prebble thought. Again, the call cut to voicemail. This time, Crawford didn’t bother leaving a message. Most likely, for all the supposed urgency of his earlier message, Prebble’s attention had already moved on to something else.
Crawford made his way downstairs with the intention of making himself a light lunch. He had a pan of soup simmering on the cooker and was halfway through making a cheese and pickle sandwich when the front doorbell rang.
He had very few visitors here at any time, other than the occasional client or friend who came by prior arrangement. Puzzled, he made his way to the front door and peered through the spyhole. He’d long been cautious about security up here. Even based on his legitimate income, Crawford was a wealthy man who lived in a well-appointed but remote house.
There was a figure standing on the doorstep, standing too close to the spyhole for Crawford to be able to make out any details. He couldn’t even tell whether the figure was male or female.
The doorbell rang again. He couldn’t really even pretend not to be at home. He had lights on in several of the ground floor rooms as well as in his office upstairs, all shining out through uncurtained windows.
Even so, there was no reason to answer the door, he told himself. Whoever the visitor was, it was unlikely to be anyone he wanted to see. It probably was some passer-by – someone who’d broken down or become stuck in the snow. If so, that was unfortunate but it wasn’t his problem. He had work to do and didn’t need to be disturbed.
The doorbell rang for a third time, and then the figure knocked on the door beside Crawford, startling him. The doorbell rang once more. Almost immediately, Crawford was startled a second time, this time by a single buzz from the phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the screen. A text. It read: ‘It’s me, Jo. I’m outside. Are you going to let me in. It’s bloody freezing out here.’
Jo? Who the hell was Jo? He didn’t know anyone called Jo. Certainly not anyone he knew well enough for them to turn up unannounced on his doorstep. He racked his brains for any friends or acquaintances or business associates called Jo, but could think of no one.
The only possibility was that this mysterious Jo had come to the wrong house. He couldn’t immediately think of anywhere else in the area that might fit the bill instead. There was no other house for a mile or so in either direction, and there was nowhere that remotely resembled this place. Even so, it seemed the only plausible explanation.
Except, of course, it didn’t explain how this person had his mobile number.
He pressed his eye to the spyhole again, hoping the figure might have moved, but all he could see was a fuzzy greyness, as if the figure was standing immediately next to the lens.
The phone buzzed again. Another text. ‘FFS, Simon. I know you’re in there. Stop buggering about and let me in. It’s bloody freezing.’
Whoever Jo was, she was behaving as if she knew him well. Was it possible he knew her by a different name?
There was another hammering at the door, much louder and more vehement. He could hear someone shouting outside, though the door was too thick for him to hear what was being said.
He didn’t have any choice. Checking that the heavy chain was securely in place, he unlocked the deadlock and slowly eased it open, peering out into the daylight.
His unexpected visitor was a young woman, probably barely out of her teens.
‘About bloody time. What the hell are you playing at, Simon?’
He stared at her. ‘I’m sorry…?’
‘For Christ’s sake, just let me in. It feels like I’ve been standing here for hours.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know–’
‘Stop pissing about, Simon. I don’t know if you think this is funny, but I really am freezing to death.’
His brain was frantically trying to place her. Her face maybe looked vaguely familiar, he thought, but he couldn’t work out where he might have seen it before. He had a vague idea that she’d had a different look – different hair or different glasses, perhaps. Today she looked like a serious student, with dark brown hair tied back and a pair of heavy-framed glasses through which she stared at him impatiently. She did look cold, he thought. She was dressed only in a thin jacket over a T-shirt and jeans, her arms wrapped around her body.
Whoever she might turn out to be, he couldn’t just leave her out there. The best bet was to get her inside, give her a coffee, and then come clean about not having a clue who she was. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘You don’t have to be like that, Simon. I know you weren’t expecting me today, but I thought you’d be pleased to see me.’
He couldn’t think of an immediate response. He closed the door sufficiently to allow him to remove the chain and then opened it to admit her.
He never knew what happened after that. The door was forced inwards and he was thrown back into the hallway, stumbling before losing his footing. Something was thrown over his head and he felt a cord pulled tightly around his neck. He struggled briefly, kicking out with his feet, but felt something being pressed down on his face cutting off his breath.
He knew it was already too late. The person holding him down was too strong for him, and he could feel his consciousness slipping away. He kicked out once more, his foot connecting with nothing, and then, moments later, he was still.