Dead Man's Gift 01 - Yesterday Read Free Page A

would you like, rich boy? Some caviar or something?’
    ‘No, anything… Please.’
    ‘Fuck you,’ she said, feeling a twinge of pleasure at the power she had over him, and roughly replaced the duct tape over his mouth, resisting the urge to smack him hard round the face.
    She left the room, locking the door behind her. Shoving a cigarette in her mouth, she stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror. She was still good-looking, her pale blue eyes just as enticing as they’d ever been; but at thirty the years hadn’t been kind to her, and her face was taking on a gaunt, haunted look, the lines on her forehead etching ever deeper. It didn’t matter. She was being paid thirty grand for this job, enough to give her a new start somewhere warm and all the plastic surgery she could ever need. Maybe even a decent boob job.
    She stepped onto the front porch to smoke her cigarette. Phil had banned her from smoking in the house. He said it was something to do with DNA, but she knew that was bullshit. He just didn’t like the smell. She looked out across the front garden to the line of trees beyond the gate. They were right out in the country here, miles from anywhere, which made her uncomfortable. She liked the city with its lights and noise. Not this place, where you couldn’t hear anything at night.
    She didn’t see the old woman passing the front gate until it was too late. She knew the rules. Avoid being seen by any of the other locals, not that there were any round here. The nearest house was a hundred yards away. She stepped into the shadows but it was too late. The old bitch was waving and walking up the driveway, dressed in a tweed suit like Miss fucking Marple, only ten yards away now.
    Celia knew she had no choice but to say hello, so, dropping the cigarette on the ground out of sight, she put on her best face and walked up to the woman.
    ‘You must be the new tenant,’ said the old bitch, shaking her hand. ‘I’m your landlady, Mrs Bates. I live just down the lane.’
    ‘Hiya, I’m Roxy,’ said Celia, using her old streetwalker name because she couldn’t think of a better one off the top of her head.
    ‘Are you going to be living here, Roxy?’
    Celia wasn’t sure what to say. She hadn’t planned for this. ‘Yeah, sort of. For a bit at least.’ She was conscious of the old bitch carefully appraising her as she spoke, as if she didn’t think that someone like Celia was good enough to be living in her draughty little cottage in the middle of nowhere. Celia felt like giving her a slap but instead kept up her smile, looking the old bitch right in the eye.
    ‘Well, it was nice to meet you. I always like to meet my tenants. I hope you’re happy here.’
    Celia grunted something as the old bitch turned away, and watched as she walked back out of the gate and out of sight. Phil had made a mistake when he’d rented this place off Miss Marple. The last thing they needed was her sniffing around, not that Celia was panicking. Phil had said that if they had to do the kid, they’d do it somewhere else anyway, so the old bitch would never be able to connect them to the murder.
    Even so, she was going to have to be careful. She thought about saying something to Phil but knew he’d only have a go at her for being spotted in the first place.
    Far easier just to keep her mouth shut – a lesson she’d learned a long time ago.

4
    The shrill ringing of the landline roused Tim and Diane Horton from the dark thoughts enveloping them both.
    Tim was the first to reach across the dining-room table for the phone.
    ‘Put the phone on loud speaker,’ ordered the man who’d kidnapped their son. ‘I want your wife to hear this.’
    Tim did as he was told. He could hear his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Diane sat opposite him, staring straight ahead, her face wet and flushed from crying. For the last hour they’d stayed in this room- scene of so many happy moments in the earlier days of their marriage – dinner