Bam-bam.
Neat, precise, effortless.
Finished.
He’d cocked his head to one side. Narrowed his eyes. He’d seen the boy out the front door at ten p.m. Thought he’d gone home. His wife would have had a hissy fit if she’d known he’d sneaked back in. She’d have killed them herself if she’d known they were having sex, even if she had thought he was a nice lad. Witnessing that would have changed her mind.
With a mild curl of dissatisfaction, Gordon had reached down to clasp his hand around the skinny ankle of the youth to drag him from his daughter’s bedroom.
The boy, whatever his name was, Gordon couldn’t remember, he’d been unimportant. Allowed to attend the family gathering by Linda.
A quiet affair. Gordon had asked for nothing for his forty-fifth birthday. Instead, the black and gold balloons still floated above the chair backs where they’d been tied just hours earlier. A meal with his family. A late night for the young ones. An early one for him. Only he’d not gone to bed at the same time as Linda. He’d stayed downstairs with his two fingers of Balvenie Vintage Cask single malt whisky. Sipped it with the reverence it deserved. The decision already made. The plan laid down. His precious firearms already selected, cleaned, loaded.
Remorse. There was none. He’d never allow them, his family, to suffer the humiliation and rejection that was to come with the knowledge of what he’d done. What he’d been discovered to have done. He had no qualms about what he’d done, only regret that he was about to be caught.
The revelation that their advancement in society had been based not on his family’s naïve belief of his business acumen but on an enterprise he’d steeped himself in to drag himself out of the gutter too many years ago to count. His strong, respectable reputation with a chain of estate agents bearing his name that he’d taken years to build, to establish as a front to the real money-spinner. An entire criminal organisation. One that had propped up the way of life his wife and children had taken for granted. A way of life that the estate agents could never have provided for alone. But he’d nurtured the reputation, worked long hours and turned up at the offices every day in his Savile Row suits and shirts. He’d treated his staff with respect and above-average salaries which garnered him the prestige he sought.
Solid. Congenial. Dependable.
Bitterness flashed hot and brief. He’d believed he was untouchable, but no one was. In the end, not every obstacle could be removed. Not every palm greased. Certainly not the chief crown prosecutor’s, it appeared. Either that, or they hadn’t found his price before he found the link. Even if he didn’t know what he’d discovered yet. It was only a matter of time. He had all the files, he simply needed to pull the thread and wade through the paperwork.
Gordon clenched his jaw until white-hot needles of pain shot through his ear canal and he relaxed again. Resignation. There was nothing left. No other road to take.
In the deathly silence of the cool spring night, he turned his head and peered along the gloomy grey hallway of his stone built fifteenth-century hall. Home for the past six years. And during that short sprint of time, he’d enjoyed it, indulged his wife in her fantasies, bathed in the sycophantic admiration of the locals who’d previously looked down on a woman who’d been brought up in their village. They’d changed their mind about the poor little girl who’d grown up, moved out and made good. He’d seen to that. Determined no wife of his would ever be looked down on, he’d provided her with the means to rise above them. Facilitated her climb through the echelons of society.
Not through love.
He let out a delicate snort.
He’d never loved her. Never loved anyone. He witnessed it between his wife and children, but it was a foreign language to him. He didn’t love them. He possessed them. They were his and therefore their rise through the ranks was a necessity.
Of course, the old money remained unconvinced, unmoved by brash new money, but he didn’t give a fuck about them, provided his wife remained untouched by their malice.
Despite them all, he’d renovated his classic U-shaped brick-built Tudor hall, which stood in fifty acres of formal gardens and parkland. He’d greased the palms of those very same people who turned their noses up at his wife so that he could speed up the renovation processes of the Grade-I listed building. Where money had failed, he’d taken advantage of his knowledge and contacts to persuade those he couldn’t buy in other ways.
It wasn’t difficult. Everyone had a price whether it was money, security, safety of a loved one, pride, position. They could all be bought.
With a long, slow pull, Gordon filled his lungs with air and loaded the handgun for the last time. He hunkered down and paused for one brief, infinitesimal moment as blood thundered through his head to fill his ears with a dark, persistent pounding.
He reached out and sent a small lick of flame from his lighter, touching it to the thin trail of accelerant he’d laid. Irritation streaked through him as the tiny blue flame spluttered and almost died on the pure wool hallway runner, refusing to ignite until the weak, guttering flame hit the pool of accelerant on the wooden floor and leapt, zigzagging onto the antique furniture his wife had painstakingly chosen and he’d splashed fuel over. When it reached the restored, overstuffed chaise longue where the hallway opened into a wide square above the staircase, oxygen from the windows he’d cracked open wafted in to bellow the flames into a golden, flickering hue.
Fascinated, Gordon stared until his eyes stung and the dark smoke whorled around the hallway, fumes from the stuffing burning the soft tissue of his nose and throat. He yanked his burgundy, fine-knit cashmere jumper over the lower part of his face as he gave a last glance around his house.
Satisfied there was no more he could do, he raised his gun, and for the last time aimed and fired.
3
Saturday 18 April 2305 hours
On silent, naked feet, Poppy gripped her trainers in one hand and crept from the bedroom, every step a screaming nightmare of agony. With the desperate need to remain silent, she didn’t dare put her trainers on.
Each breath she took burnt the whole of the left side of her chest until she could only take small, hurried sips of air.
Her head reeled, pinpricks of light popping behind her eyes as she leaned against the door frame of her bedroom to catch her breath and listen.
She’d check on her mum, but it would be of no use. She’d have heard nothing. She never did once she’d consumed a bottle or two of red wine and a handful of sleeping pills. A regular occurrence, but with Daddy home and a party in hand, she’d excelled herself. Daddy was oblivious. He never seemed to notice. Maybe he didn’t care.
Her mum thought Poppy didn’t know, but of course she did. The amount of times Poppy had sneaked into her mum’s bedroom when Daddy had been away, into her en suite because she’d run out of sanitary towels and needed to pinch some of her mum’s. She’d seen the bottle of pills behind the mouthwash, knew how many her mum took. Knew how much her mum drank. She’d watched her earlier, weaving her way up the wide staircase, gripping onto the handrail as though it could save her life, not just steady her.
Poppy dipped her head, her world taking on a weird disconnection as she studied the dribble of blood which ran down the inside of her arm and dripped off the end of her thumb.