Stone Cold Red Hot - [59]

“And there was Roger. He doesn’t have to know?” She pleaded.

What was she asking me to do? Keep her secret? Say nothing?

“He wanted to find his sister.”

“But not this.”

“No, not this.”

“You won’t tell him?” Her voice was soft.

I couldn’t speak.

“And the police?”

She wouldn’t stand trial. She’d be dead before any case could be heard. She was no danger to anyone now. But I’d come for the truth and I couldn’t give her the assurances she demanded.

“I’m sorry,” I told her.

Her face fell, fatigue pinching at it. “Please, could you get me a glass of water?” She cleared her throat.

I went along to the kitchen, fished in the cupboards for a glass and ran the water. Outside I could see the shed, Jennifer’s tomb. How could her mother have borne the memories of her death and what followed? Keeping the body hidden from Roger while they sorted out buying the shed, digging the pit, bringing her from the house, wrapped in a sheet or a rug. Burying her. Laying the floor of the shed on top. Did they pray for her? Or was she beyond redemption? Did the sin of murder mean they could no longer offer prayers? Would their God forgive or punish? How long before they’d cleared her room? Removing her posters, the troll in the window, her make-up, her diaries, her precious mementos.

Then each time a friend rang up or a neighbour inquired the gorge of fear that must have reared up. Lisa MacNeice trying to report her missing, Mrs Clerkenwell asking about her, Roger wanting to find her. Roger who was so disappointed that he never got to wave his big sister off at the train station. No chance to say goodbye. Like the Ibrahims; sudden death, no chance to say goodbye. Tiredness rolled over me, my leg was aching again. I should go. I carried the water into the hall.

Mrs Pickering stood at the end, framed in the light from the glass in the door. She was holding a gun, one with a long barrel. It was pointing straight at me. Her finger was on the trigger…

Chapter twenty two

I had an inappropriate urge to giggle. Fear does that. The glass in my hand was shaking, water spilling over the side. Where the hell had she got a gun from? Did she know how to use it? I knew next to nothing about guns but whatever sort it was, she’d be bound to hit me at this range. She would barely need to aim the thing.

“You won’t tell Roger.”

“What you going to do, kill me too?” I said hoarsely. “If you shoot me it’ll all come out anyway.”

“Why should it?” She was hard now, the shutters clamped down on the memories I’d dug up. “You entered my house under false pretences. When you refused to leave I defended myself. I have a right to defend my property.”

“There are notes,” I said, “in my files. The police would have to investigate.”

“But you thought Frank did it.” She wasn’t stupid.

I reckoned there was about twenty feet between us. The gun was pointing at my middle. My mind was racing round hunting for a way out. The pain in my leg was smouldering again, diminishing my ability to think straight, act clever.

Unexpectedly her face creased, the colour drained swiftly away and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and upper lip as the onslaught of pain racked her. It was the first glimpse I had seen of the savagery of her disease. The barrel of the gun wavered and she fought to level it at me again.

“Another killing won’t help. It’s too late.”

“Why can’t you leave it be?” she gasped.

“Jennifer. I think she deserves it. The truth should be known.”

“What good will it do? The truth will only hurt Roger. It will destroy him.”

“I hope not.” But there were no guarantees.

The pain tore at her again. She froze, her face a mask of agony.

“Can I get you anything, tablets?” Before you kill me. She blinked a refusal.

I weighed up the possibilities of escaping from the line of fire. If I ran back into the kitchen I might be able to get out the back door, if it was open. What if it was locked, would the key be there? Or there was the back room ahead a little to my left. Then what? Break a window, clamber out. In either case she could follow and shoot me. I didn’t want her to fire the gun. I didn’t dare make any sudden moves. I’d no idea how fast her reactions would be. And I didn’t want to die. Oh, god I didn’t want to die. What about Maddie? I couldn’t leave Maddie. My knee was trembling uncontrollably, and my hands still shaking, drops of water continued to spill over the edge of the glass and drip from my hand. I’d have to talk her round.

She swayed, her arms jerking as she struggled to keep the gun steady.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Give me the gun.”

She shot me.

The noise was stupendous and the hall clouded with smoke and the smell of fireworks. I was on the floor. Smoke. I saw Carl running into the Ibrahims’ house, Mrs Ahmed clutching her baby tight, me thinking it was dead. Jennifer was dead, her baby was dead. The little boy was dead. My left arm, my shoulder were screaming in agony. Lumps of plaster littered the ground around me and dust mingled with the smoke. The sound of the shot still roared in my ears.