Up in the yard in front of the house there was another horror waiting for them: Trix was laid out on the ground, her throat slit open.
‘Oh no,’ moaned Belle, staggering to a halt.
‘More guts than sense, that dog. I always said it,’ said Jack, but his tone was gentle. But when Belle went to kneel down beside Trix, he shook his head. ‘No. Inside.’
Back in the kitchen, Belle slumped down into a chair. Jack locked the front door and went through and made sure the back was secure. Then he reloaded the shotgun and put it down beside the table. He went to the pantry and came back with brandy in a glass for her. ‘Drink it up, it’ll steady you,’ he said.
Belle took a hefty swig of the brandy. It scorched all the way down, but then its warmth spread out and she started to feel a little better. If he hadn’t come back when he did . . .
‘You came back early,’ she said. Her voice shook.
‘Saw a car along the lane. It’s been here before. Recognized the reg number.’ Now he was at the back door. He turned and looked at her. ‘Got to clean this mess up. Stay in here and don’t answer the door to anyone. I’ll be as quick as I can. The gun’s there, loaded. Use it if you have to.’
Belle nodded. She felt woozy, which she guessed was part aftershock and part strong brandy. But she looked at him steadily. The way he’d reacted in that situation. The cold-blooded taking of two human lives. There was something military in the way he’d moved around out there. He didn’t look shaken; in fact, he didn’t look affected in any way.
‘Jack?’ she said.
He lifted his head. What?
‘What the fuck are you? Really?’
But he didn’t answer. He just left.