Shaun Hutson - Heathen/Nemesis

She recognised the dark cropped hair, the thin face and bull neck.

The image of Peter Farrell glared back at her from the photos.

Thirty

The last of the mourners left at just after six that evening and it was with something akin to relief that Donna graciously accepted the last words of comfort and bade the final farewells of the day. Those who had been friends of her husband told her to keep in touch, that they would ring her. The usual things people feel they have to say to widows. She wondered how many of them would keep their promises.

Martin Connelly was sitting in the kitchen when Donna walked in. He stopped chewing on a sandwich and smiled at her. She returned the gesture, wondering why the agent was still there.

Julie was pushing plates into the dishwasher.

Donna wondered briefly whether or not she should mention the incident with Farrell, then decided against it.

‘He had a lot of friends, Donna,’ said Connelly.

‘Did he, Martin?’ she said wearily.

Connelly looked puzzled.

‘There were lots of people at the funeral, but I’m not sure how many of them Chris would have counted as friends.’ She sighed. ‘He was popular but I don’t think he had any real friends. He couldn’t give a fuck about anyone.’

‘Come on, Donna,’ Connelly began.

‘I’m not being nasty,’ she explained. ‘I’m just telling you. People liked Chris but he rarely let anyone get close to him . People would ring him, write to him, but he hardly ever rang them back. You and a couple of others, that was it. He used to say, “If people want me bad enough they’ll call me”.’ She smiled at the recollection. ‘He was a solitary man. He liked his own company.’

And the company of Suzanne Regan.

‘I think that’s why a lot of women found him attractive,’ she continued rather sadly. ‘He genuinely didn’t give a shit.’

Connelly dropped the remains of his sandwich onto the plate, wiped crumbs from his mouth and got to his feet.

‘I think you’re being too hard on him, Donna,’ he said.

She smiled.

‘That was one of the things I loved about him,’ she said.

Connelly kissed her gently on both cheeks.

‘I’d better go, unless there’s anything I can do.’

‘We’ll be fine now, Martin. Thanks, anyway.’

He headed for the door.

‘See you, Julie,’ he said, looking at the younger woman.

She didn’t turn to face him.

‘See you,’ she said and continued loading the dishwasher.

Donna walked with Connelly out to his waiting Porsche, watching as he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the keys.

‘You’re determined to go on this trip to Dublin still?’ he asked.

She nodded.

Should she mention Farrell?

‘Humour me, Martin,’ she said as he slid behind the wheel and placed the key in the ignition.

‘Is Julie going with you?’

‘She’s going to stay and look after the house.’

Connelly tapped the wheel gently and looked up at Donna.

‘If you want company ...’

He allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘I’ll speak to you when I get back, Martin,’ she said sharply.

The agent nodded, started the engine and pressed down hard on the accelerator. The back wheels spun noisily for a second before the car pulled away.

Donna stood in the driveway, watching as the tail lights disappeared around the corner.

As she headed back to the house a cool breeze ruffled her hair and she shivered.

That involuntary movement might have been more extreme had she realized she was being watched.

It took the two women less than thirty minutes to check through the books in Chris’s office.

There were atlases, dictionaries and at least a dozen books on weapons but not one about paintings.

‘Paintings,’ muttered Donna irritably.

‘Donna, try his number,’ Julie suddenly said.

The older of the two women hurried back into the bedroom for the card the tall man had given her, then picked up the phone and jabbed out the digits. Julie wandered into the room, watching intently.

Donna heard the hiss and buzz as the number was connected, then all she heard was the single unbroken tone of a dead line.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘We should have known.’ She tried once more, got the same monotonous sound and dropped the receiver back onto the cradle.

‘His name’s probably fake, too,’ Julie offered.

‘Maybe, but he’s real enough and whoever he is he wanted something in Chris’s room.’ She looked at Julie, her brow furrowed. ‘But what was it?’

Thirty-One

The roar of the Porsche’s engine filled the garage as Martin Connelly left his foot on the accelerator a second before easing off. Through the open window he could smell the acrid stench of carbon monoxide fumes. He took his foot off the pedal and sat back, switching off the engine. It gradually died away.

Connelly rubbed both hands over his face and sighed wearily.

‘I’ll call you when I get back,’ he said, raising the pitch of his voice slightly, imitating Donna’s words. He swung himself out of the car and slammed the door hard.

Connelly walked to the garage door and pulled it down behind him, locking it from the inside. There was a connecting door through to his house; he didn’t switch on the fluorescents inside the garage as he locked up. The only light coming into the garage was from a tiny skylight window above him. Glancing up, he saw that night was now in command of the sky. The blackness outside was almost as total as that surrounding him in the garage.

He could smell the drink on his breath. He’d stopped off at a pub on the way home for a couple of vodkas. Neat. No fucking about. He promised himself a couple more when he got in. The agent selected a key on the bunch in his hand and slipped it into the lock of the door which joined the house and the garage. He stepped through into the hall.

The arm which snaked round his throat took him by surprise, both by its speed and its strength.

Connelly was practically lifted off his feet by his assailant.

He tried to cry out but a powerful forearm was wedged hard across his windpipe.

The tip of a knife was pressed against his neck just below his left earlobe.

The touch of it made him squirm; he felt his bowels loosen slightly.

‘Keep still,’ the voice behind him rasped.

In front, the shadows in the hallway seemed to be moving independently, dark shapes detaching themselves from the umbra and gliding towards him.

Two more figures stood close to him; because of the darkness he couldn’t see their faces. They stood like sadistic spectators at some violent exhibition.

‘Where’s the book?’ said one of them.

‘What book?’ Connelly managed to rasp as the arm loosed its grip slightly.

The respite was only temporary, however. The grip was re-applied with even greater ferocity.

The leading figure stepped forward a pace and drove a fist into Connelly’s stomach with incredible force. The blow tore the wind from him and left him wheezing, wanting to drop to his knees but still supported by that choking grip.

The knife was pressed slightly harder into the soft flesh beneath his ear.

‘You stupid bastard,’ said the first man contemptuously. He leaned forward so that his face was only inches from Connelly’s. The weak light coming through the hall window illuminated parts of the visages, but otherwise Peter Farrell remained bathed in shadow. ‘Do you want to play games?’ He snapped his fingers and the knife was handed to him.

He pressed the point to the tip of Connelly’s nose and pressed gently, hard enough to make an indentation but not with sufficient force to draw blood.