Andy McNab - Dark winter

I was feeling surprisingly good on not very much sleep as I reached Bromley high street. I'd shoved my clothes in the washer-dryer at the flat while I'd showered, and even my Caterpillars felt OK.

I didn't know why, but I always felt depressed as I entered the prim and proper road they lived on, with its miles of neat hedges and bungalows with shiny Nissan Micras and six-year-old Jags that got the good news with Turtle wax every Sunday. It was probably the thought of people being retired that did my head in. I'd rather be dead than land up trimming hedges and pruning roses. Or, even more depressing, maybe I'd get to like it.

I turned into the engineered-brick drive and stopped in front of the red garage door that Jimmy had had to repaint recently because the coat underneath hadn't been quite shiny enough for Carmen. I got out and hit the bell push. A nice traditional bing-bong echoed from the hall.

No answer. I tried again, then fished into the shrub pot just to the left of the double-glazed PVC door and pulled out the key. People never learn.

I bing-bonged a few more times as I turned the handle. 'Hello? It's me – anyone home?' I was hit by the smell of polish and plug-in air-fresheners, and a lot of silence.

They couldn't still be in bed, because Jimmy deadlocked the front door every night. Maybe they'd left early: the way Jimmy drove, eleven would have been cutting it a bit fine.

It was shit, but not a big problem. I'd call the American desk at Heathrow and say there was some family drama and Carmen needed to call the house.

I went into the kitchen and was surprised to see the table still laid for breakfast. Carmen put the things out every night before bed, and whisked them away the moment the meal was over – sometimes even before. If the multi-grain toast was getting the better of Jimmy's teeth and she was anxious to get on with the Hoovering, that was just tough shit.

I grabbed a handful of Mini Shreddies, Kelly's favourite, and tipped them into my mouth. I could see my two brown Jiffy-bags on top of the fridge-freezer, where all the mail was kept. I picked up the phone and got the dual tone. Why couldn't they just check the thing now and again? It would have made life so much easier.

Chomping away, I dialled 1571 and wedged the receiver between my shoulder and ear. BT told me there were two messages. I grabbed the first envelope, gripped the top of it in my teeth and started to tear it open, showering myself with bits of Shreddies. It felt quite good getting my life back, no matter how fucked up it was, as I listened to myself waffle away to the answering service.

I glanced into the hallway. From this angle I could see that the door into the garage wasn't quite closed. That Jimmy had dared leave a door ajar was strange enough, but I could also see a highly polished section of his Rover still sitting there.

Shit.

The envelope and phone went down slowly on to the kitchen worktop and the last bits of cereal fell from my mouth as I let my jaw drop. Stretching out my hand, I grasped the handle of the cutlery drawer and eased it open. Everything was in its place: potato peeler, bread-knife, forks and spoons. I pulled out two vegetable knives, one for each hand, and moved into the hallway, placing my feet carefully on the Amtico tiles so the Caterpillars didn't squeak.

Throat constricted, I checked the corridor and turned right.

No sign of forced entry anywhere. The only ambient light came from the kitchen and the half-glazed front door.

The door to the living room was only about three paces to my right. The place was empty: everything where it should be, magazines tidied, cushions still puffed up and curtains opened from when she'd gone to bed. All I could hear was the grandfather clock, ticking away in the corner.

I moved back into the hall, closing the garage door and locking it before I headed past the bathroom. There were no signs of morning life in there, no condensation on the mirrors or windows, no smell of soap or deodorant. The shower tray was dry, and so was the bath. Dry towels were folded neatly over the radiator rail.

I came out into the hall again and turned left towards the bedrooms. The next door down on the right was Carmen and Jimmy's bedroom, and the one beyond that was Kelly's. Both were ajar.

I gave the first a gentle push, stepping back out of the way, not wanting to present myself as a target.

The room was in darkness, just a few slivers of light fighting their way past Carmen's immaculately interlined curtains. But I didn't need to see that they were in there: I could smell them.

The metallic tang of blood. The cloying stink of shit.

There was a heavy pounding in my chest.

Oh, shit, no. Not again…

I ran down to the next door, my feet unable to cover the six or seven paces as quickly as my head needed them to, wanting to get into her room before the video started up.

Not bothering to check before bursting in, I hit the light switch.

The room was empty.

I checked under the bed, checked the wardrobe. Nothing.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck!' I screamed it over and over inside my head as I ran back into Carmen and Jimmy's room. I had to make sure she wasn't there. I switched on the bedside light and pulled back the duvet. They looked like they'd been in a road accident. Jimmy had shit himself, and he and Carmen had both been stabbed and slashed far more times than it must have taken to kill them. Carmen's eyes were still open, dull and glassed over like a fish too long on a slab. She had a curious half-smile, exposing toothless gums, and blood had dried in the deep lines in her face that even Lorraine Kelly hadn't been able to make disappear.

I looked under the bed: just slippers. Maybe she was hiding? I opened the wardrobes, but everything was still perfectly in place, nothing had been touched.

My own voice screamed inside my head. 'Not again… this can't be happening to us again.'

Disneyland.

I ran back to the garage, the same terrible feeling clawing at me that I'd had being chased by my stepfather as a kid.

I fumbled with the lock.

'Kelly? Kelly?' I pulled it open. 'Kelly, it's me! It's Nick!'

I let the knives clatter to the concrete floor as I dropped on to my stomach and checked under the car. I even opened the deep-freeze. She wasn't there.

Feeling like a six-year-old lost in a supermarket, I ran back into her bedroom, a sinking feeling in my gut. There was no sign of a struggle. Her duvet was pulled back neatly. The bedside lamp was upright. Her suitcase and shoulder-bag were packed and by the door. My own black leather bag was stuck in the corner.

I emptied her shoulder-bag on to the floor and her passport fell out with her ticket, some coins, her CD player and an envelope. The only thing missing was the Old Navy T-shirt she always slept in. I looked under the bed again: I didn't know why, I could already see there was nothing and nobody there.

My stomach was jumping all over the place, my throat so dry it ached. I sank on to the carpet, dropping my head into my hands. This had to be connected with the job. Shit, it could even be the Yes Man – maybe I'd asked one question too many last night and Sundance and Trainers had been sent to tidy things up.

I had to shout at myself to cut away. 'Stop! For fuck's sake, stop!' Flapping wasn't going to help me – or her.

I had to secure this place. Nobody must know what had happened here – not yet, anyway.

Did they have milk delivered? I wasn't sure. Fuck, I should know these things.

I got up, feeling a little better now I was doing something. I didn't know what, but that didn't matter. I opened the front door. No milk on the doorstep. I went back in and checked the fridge, found a litre plastic bottle from Safeway.

What about post? The top half of the door was frosted glass, so no one was going to see letters stacking up on the carpet, and I knew they didn't have a paper delivered. Jimmy walked to buy one, taking his time, for some peace and quiet.