‘I didn’t do it,’ Razor yelled and rammed through a cluster of customers who’d hurried from the bar to see what all the fuss was about. He dodged a half-hearted grab and made it into the car park.
A woman shouted, ‘Look out!’
Distracted by the voice, Razor didn’t see the reversing Mercedes until it knocked him to the ground. Before it had stopped, he was up and running. He kept going until his already depleted muscles ran completely out of fuel. No one had followed him and with any luck, no one had recognised him—Tom and Serena hadn’t been sure and the regulars wouldn’t—he’d not visited the Watermill since long before Flit’s death.
As he caught his breath behind an old tree, blood dripped from a graze on his forehead and pain caught up with him. Dizzy and with the world feeling distant, it took a few minutes to realise that primeval instinct had directed his feet to the lane outside Riverside Cottage. He hobbled up the path to the front door, desperate to escape the cold wind nipping at his ears and nose, his hands automatically searching pockets for keys his brain already knew weren’t there.
Ingenuity was needed. It was the one thing he lacked. Other than the key.
Not expecting anything, he jiggled the front door. It was locked. So were the windows. Perhaps he’d have more luck at the rear, but the back garden gate was bolted. Although this might have daunted a lesser man, Razor took a short run up, jumped, grabbed the top of the gate and hauled himself over. He dropped into the back garden with all the finesse of a sack of bricks and might have hurt himself had he not landed on the stinking pile of rubbish bags he’d still not carried out for collection. It was no surprise to find the back door and windows were also locked.
No cunning plan formed in his tired brain. Putting his hope in brute force, he prised a lump of limestone from Flit’s ornamental rockery. Staggering under the weight, he lugged it towards the cottage and launched it at the kitchen window.
It bounced off and only a desperate hop saved him from a crushed foot. The window, other than a circle of white crazing, remained intact and he blamed Flit for insisting they had triple-glazed security glass fitted after a spate of burglaries in the village. With night falling, the temperature dropping and the wind getting up, his situation was becoming critical. Picking up the rock in both hands, he pounded at the windows and door, but his efforts caused only superficial damage.
He saw red. Blood was dripping into his eyes.
Defeated by his own home, his exhausted body collapsed onto the lawn and sought refuge in oblivion.
The sheets smelled clean and fresh, and the bedside light cast a soft glow. A mug of cocoa steamed on the night table at his side. He was in his own bed, wearing fresh pyjamas—the silk ones Flit had bought him in Thailand. It felt good to be home again. He raised a hand to a painful area on his head and touched a large sticking plaster. The clock radio indicated the time was approaching nine o’clock in the evening. Razor suspected Kev of coming to his rescue again, which raised the question of who was the real hero, as well as why the little guy kept turning up. It also increased Razor’s chance of eating.
He returned to full wakefulness, sat up and sipped the cocoa. It was warm and perhaps a little too sweet, but it dulled the edge of his hunger even as he failed to fill a void in his memory between trying to break in and ending up in bed. When he’d finished his drink, he checked his feet and was amazed to see little evidence of the cuts—Rocky’s treatment of them had been little short of miraculous. Razor got out of bed, wrapped his battered carcass in a bath robe and limped downstairs to look for food and answers.
There were no cooking aromas, just a lingering reminder of decay and dust that made him resolve to look after the place—after he’d sorted things out with Alex. Perhaps he’d get the decorators in and make the house his own, rather than it being a constant reminder of his dead wife. In the shadows at the back of his mind lurked a shocking question—could he build a new relationship with a woman, and could that woman be Miranda?
On reaching the bottom of the stairs, he could almost believe he’d caught a faint whiff of her sweet flowery scent, though that was impossible. Or was it? After all, she had his keys, though how would she have known he’d be in trouble again? How had she known before? How had Kev known? Neither she nor Kev even had mobiles. Perhaps there was a psychic link—Razor had heard of such things, but had always dismissed such fancies as poppycock.
Another thought came to mind—might there be a chance that she really was interested in him? He shook his head—he was nothing special. Besides, she already knew what a bad husband he’d been. Still, just thinking about her made him smile and there was no longer any guilt. Only hope.
The kitchen was empty though a saucepan and teaspoon draining by the sink was evidence of recent occupation. ‘Hello,’ he called, ‘is anybody here?’
Silence.
Though he went from room to room, it soon became clear that he was alone and that the front and back doors were locked. Was he a prisoner in his own home? The idea didn’t make him panic though—he lacked the energy.
Returning to the kitchen, he opened the fridge. It contained a loaf of sliced bread, cheese and butter, as well as a carton of milk. At least he wouldn’t starve and, luckily, he could rise to making grilled cheese on toast. He put his knowledge into action and had soon wolfed down two slices. When he’d finished, he repeated the procedure twice more until hunger was defeated and he felt human again.
As his energy reserves replenished, his brain resumed normal operations and he remembered Flit insisting on placing duplicate keys close to all the burglar-proof doors and windows in case of fire. They were still in place, except for the one for the back door. Was that the one Alex had taken?
Of course, Razor’s reason for returning to Willoton had been to learn about Alex—about Flit and Alex. But was ten o’clock in the evening too late for a social call? Did it matter? What if Kane was still around? In fact, why had Kane been in the village in the first place? How did Alex know such a thug and for what had he used him? Despite his need for answers, Razor dithered.
At last, he dragged himself upstairs and put on one of the sharp suits he used to wear at work, when he’d hoped they would give him an air of authority and professionalism—it had appeared to work for many of the other team managers at Burke and Coe, no matter how incompetent they’d been. Once dressed, a glance in the mirror made him wish he’d thought to shave first—the stubble on his chin and scalp, not to mention the collection of bumps, bruises and scrapes, gave him a thuggish look not quite in keeping with his suit. Would it be better to question Alex in the morning when he’d had time to think, or was delay just another symptom of his cowardice? He didn’t need Kev to remind him that he who hesitates is lost. It was time to go.
After heading downstairs, he put on an old coat and a pair of wellington boots and stuck his nose out the front door. A chill wind was wuthering round the house and, although the rain had stopped, a heaviness in the air suggested it might kick off again at the slightest provocation. The moonless night was as dark as a cavern, other than a faint glimmer from the village. Once upon a time, he’d delighted in the lack of light pollution, enjoying the clear nights when myriad stars glittered in a black desert only disturbed by passing aircraft, orbiting satellites and the occasional shooting star. Now the darkness was a curse—reaching Alex’s would be tricky and dangerous, without a torch, and his was rolling in the murky depths of the Severn Wharves.
But a hero is not easily deterred and, despite a residual headache, a solution came to mind—Flit had always loved candles. He looked in the kitchen cupboard and found hundreds of them in all sizes, colours and scents beneath a bag of garden cable ties. Much better, though, was an old-fashioned rubber torch. It gave out a bright beam as he set out for the confrontation.
Despite stiffness and aching muscles, he marched at a brisk pace, heading down the lane and turning into the shortcut, a narrow path like a tunnel beneath a dense canopy of conifers. It was squelchy and puddled underfoot, but no problem to a man such as him. Mud spattered up his expensive trousers with every step and it was a surprise how little it bothered him. He had no plan for when he confronted Alex, only a vague hope that the right questions would spring to mind and that Alex would give him the answers he craved.
The path took him out onto the road next to Willoton Hall. Letting himself into the grounds via the gate, he strode down the long gravel driveway, pleased to see Alex’s white Lexus in its allocated spot. The hall’s front door was locked as he’d expected, but all the doorbells in the porch were lit and labelled. Mr Alexander Bond lived in Apartment 3. Razor pressed the button and waited. There was no response. He rang again and again. It was only just past ten o’clock. Had Alex turned in for the night so early? Or was he still at the Watermill? Plenty of other options crossed his mind, but only one thing mattered—Razor’s mission had failed. He might as well go home.
As he retraced his steps, frustration and anger boiled through his veins. Halfway along the shortcut, seeing an empty cola can lying in his path, he swung a furious kick at it. His standing foot skidded, he flung his arms out for balance and the torch broke from his hand. It flew like a low-flying comet and smashed into a tree trunk. The light went out, leaving him in utter darkness. He stood still, not daring to move, hoping his vision would adjust. It didn’t, so with no other option, he shuffled forward, arms outstretched like a zombie in a bad horror film, feeling his way. The first few steps went well, and his confidence and speed rose together. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad after all. Next step, took him calf-deep into oozing mud, with a stagnant stench rising and making him gag. He’d stumbled into the ditch.
As he flailed around for solid ground, thorny branches tore his hands until he found the bank and dragged himself free of the sucking ooze. His boots stayed where they were, and unable to find them, he crawled along the path until it joined the lane where he could just about see enough to walk.
As Razor reached the path to his front door, a light came on upstairs. His spirits leapt. Kev was back… or Miranda. The burly silhouette of a man appearing in the window disappointed him. A burglary was in process and, although a few days earlier it might not have bothered him much, knowing an intruder was violating space that had been sacred to Flit caused his rage to erupt.
Heedless of his unshod feet, he raced to the front door. It was open though he knew he’d locked it. He paused a moment, channelling feelings of outrage into righteous fury. Somebody was going to get hurt. He even considered taking a big knife from the kitchen until the squeamish part of his nature revolted. Instead, treading softly, every step squelching, he sneaked into the sitting room and grabbed the poker from the fireplace. The solid, heavy iron was the perfect implement for whacking burglars.
As he started up the staircase, a step creaked.
‘What was that?’ asked the voice of Kane Cullum.
Someone replied. Razor didn’t catch the words, but it meant there were two burglars—or at least two, and he knew the type of thug Kane hung out with.
‘I’ll look,’ said Kane.
Although Razor considered a tactical withdrawal, his blood was up. Besides, there was no time. He charged, brandishing the poker like a mace, intending to crack skulls and extract bloody revenge for the invasion. His damp socks slipped on the varnished wood as he reached the landing. Losing his footing, his momentum launched him into a forward dive just as Kane emerged from the spare room. Razor’s head smacked into Kane’s shins. Then came blackness.
When Razor came to, his head was thumping and covered by a hood. He couldn’t move his arms and legs, but it took a few moments to realise someone had tied him to the chair. He struggled.
‘I’m glad you’re back,’ said a muffled male voice. ‘It’s about time.’
‘Where am I?’ asked Razor.
‘You’re in your house.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was rather hoping you might enlighten me.’
‘Right… er,’ said Razor, trying to piece together events in his head.
‘Who are you with?’ the man asked.
‘No one,’ said Razor, shaking his head and feeling sick.
‘Are you sure? I thought for a moment… but never mind. Perhaps you’d be so good as to tell me how you came to be lying unconscious on the landing while my… assistant is at the bottom of the stairs with a poker through his neck.’
‘Is he alright?’
‘He’s fine—other than being dead.’
‘Oh,’ said Razor, barely containing his stomach. ‘Did I do that? I don’t remember. I’m sorry he’s dead, but he was burgling my house. Presumably that’s why you’re here.’
‘Possibly.’
‘What are you going to do with me?’ asked Razor.
‘Now, there you have me. I only came here to pick up something I need. I never intended anyone to get hurt, let alone killed, but you’ve put me in a rather delicate situation and I’m yet to decide what to do.’
‘How’s that?’ Razor’s nose was tickling. He would have given anything for a free finger to scratch it. ‘Why can’t you release me and walk away?’
The man laughed. ‘You’re joking, right? You think I’m going to give you an opportunity to kill me too?’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘Possibly not, but I don’t trust you. Why should I? After all, it’s not the first time you’ve been responsible for a death, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Razor, panic shooting through his nerves.
‘I think you know.’
‘No.’ Razor shook his head, though he thought he knew what the burglar meant, even though it was impossible.
‘You do, but that’s beside the point. I have a few problems. Firstly, I haven’t found what I’m looking for. Secondly, you have brutally killed my assistant…’
‘It was an accident… I think. I don’t remember.’
‘… and, thirdly, you are a witness.’
‘To what? I didn’t really see anything. Honest. What are you looking for? Perhaps I can help. There’s no money in the house.’
‘I don’t want your money.’
‘There’s my wife’s jewellery. Let me go, and I’ll show you where it is. I have no need for it.’
‘You seem very willing to give away your late wife’s treasured possessions. But why not? They probably remind you of your guilt.’
‘It wasn’t my fault… there was this mugger…’
‘Really?’ said the burglar. ‘Then why do you still blame yourself?’
‘Who are you?’ asked Razor. His head, though still aching, was a little less fuzzy, and he was certain he should know.
‘Just a random caller.’
‘Who happens to know about Flit’s death.’
‘She preferred Felicity.’
‘How would you know?’ Razor, the itch on his nose driving him wild, fought against the ropes, anger taking over from fear.
‘I know a great deal. For instance, taking her to the cinema that night was your pathetic effort to win back her affection after years of neglect.’
‘I didn’t neglect her.’
‘You were never home, except to eat and sleep. Can you deny it?’
‘Of course I can. Let me go!’ Razor’s fury was reaching critical and the only way to release the pressure was to swear, which he did in bucket loads, until his throat dried up, reducing the torrent of cursing to a hoarse trickle.
‘When you’ve quite finished. I didn’t come here to upset you.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘That would be telling… which may not matter. You have really given me a problem.’
‘Good,’ said Razor. ‘But why?’
‘I don’t want a witness…’
‘But I can’t see anything and I don’t know anything!’
‘… and, finally, I need something to explain Kane’s death. I’ve thought about it and the fact is, and I deeply regret it, that I may not allow you to live. I can see a scenario that should work. It goes something like this. Kane breaks into your house, you confront him and in the ensuing fracas you are both tragically killed. If I set things up in the right way, I’m sure the cops will buy it. Why should they doubt it, Raymondo?’
Slow wheels turned in Razor’s brain and something clicked into place. Who knew Flit was Felicity? Who called him Raymondo? Who, according to Kev, had already tried to burgle his house? Who’d been with Kane at the pub? ‘Ingenious, Alex,’ he said, gratified to hear a sharp intake of breath. ‘But, since I’m going to die, can you explain why your voice sounds so funny… I mean the voice you are using now, not your normal one.’
There was a brief pause and Alex spoke, sounding like himself. ‘If you must know, I’d stuffed a handkerchief in my mouth. I thought it was working. How did you know it was me?’
‘I saw you and Kane at the Watermill… and you just called me Raymondo.’
‘That was foolish of me and even more foolish of you to reveal it, since I now have no other option than to kill you.’
‘How are you going to do it?’ asked Razor, trying to keep his voice calm.
Alex sighed. ‘I don’t know—I’ve never done this sort of thing before. Do you have any ideas? Something quick and painless?’
Razor shook his head. He was unsure whether he would still welcome death now there was a faint inkling of hope in his life.
The front doorbell rang.