Lamb to the Slaughter Read Free Page A

pub, no doubt. He’d claim he hadn’t noticed the time, like he always did. Romy suspected that he never wore a watch just so he had that excuse.
    Why on earth had she put up with him all these years? Eight of them, last time she counted, including two when he’d been behind bars and at least wasn’t giving trouble then. If she had the sense of a dim-witted amoeba, she’d have thrown the useless bugger out years ago, with his ‘deals’ and his ‘projects’ which never seemed to work out. God knew she’d thought of it often enough, yet he’d only to look at her with those dark, dark blue eyes and that crooked smile, and her resolve would crumble. Her artistic soul loved beauty, and he was beautiful.
    He was also a professional conman, with the record to prove it, and Romy was his most consistent victim. She had no illusions. He didn’t fool her – yet always she chose to swallow the latest lie. The only way she’d ever get rid of him was if he decided to go, and then she’d die of grief.
    There were more people coming in, a steady trickle, and she half-turned in her chair to assess the strength of the opposition. There was MacLaren the butcher, with his wife and a posse of friends: he’d be happy enough to trouser what he could get and retire. And Senga Blair – her fancy goods shop had been struggling for years, and when she caught Romy’s eye she quickly looked away again. That was a bad sign. It was becoming clear that Gloag had managed to pack the hall with his supporters.
    Andrew Carmichael hadn’t arrived yet. She hoped he wouldn’t be late: she was wanting a word with him to discuss tactics. If he told them outright he wasn’t prepared to sell, things could get ugly.
    But Ellie Burnett had appeared. Romy waved, gesturing to her to come forward, but Ellie didn’t seem to notice, making for a seat in the middle of the hall as she greeted acquaintances with her sweet, vague smile.
    As the mother of a teenage son, she had to be well on in her thirties, but she looked ten years younger than that, wearing a long flowered skirt with a ruffled white cotton shirt, her fair hair all pre-Raphaelite waves and tiny ringlets round that Madonna face. She was very pale, though, and there were blue marks like bruises showing through the delicate skin under her eyes, an indication of the stress she was under. She was looking utterly exhausted too.
    They were all under stress, especially since that disgusting business with the dead sheep earlier this week – intimidation from ALCO or their chums, no doubt. It was just that in some people stress didn’t make you look so rose-petal fragile that men fell over themselves to pat your hand and ask tenderly how you were, like they were doing to Ellie now. But then, men always made fools of themselves over Ellie. When she did one of her folk-song nights in the Cutty Sark pub, they sat about drooling in a way that put you off your beer.
    Romy’s tensions showed in the deepening lines between her dark eyes and around her wide mouth; she’d accumulated a crop of angry spots on her chin, too – not a pretty sight. Unconsciously she touched them with her short, square fingers, scarred with calluses and burns from years of working with silver.
    And here, at last, was Pete, chatting his way down between the chairs, scattering his famous smile like largesse to the punters as he passed. Seeing her, he waved and came to sit down, breathing beer and charming apologies at her.
    ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, babe,’ he murmured. ‘I had an idea about that project I needed to discuss with Dan and then I was late leaving him.’
    ‘So you didn’t have time for more than a couple of pints on the way home.’ Romy’s voice was tart.
    Pete grinned, unabashed. ‘You know me too well. Forgive me?’
    He took her rough hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb, and as always at his touch, a thrill ran down her spine.
    ‘One day I won’t,’ she warned.
    Pete didn’t even