him, ‘“Helly”.’
The effect on Probert was immediate. His charm was gone, seemingly chewed away by the snarl that suddenly appeared on his face. ‘Never call me that,’ he said, ‘or I will ruin you, regardless of what happens tonight. Understand?’
‘Oh yes,’ John replied, ‘we’re all frightened of something or someone, I understand that well enough.’
The police arrived quietly. Though whether this was at the insistence of Lord Probert or the acknowledgement that there was little left to do but mop up John couldn’t tell.
The deferential manner of the chief investigating officer was all the proof needed that Probert had matters comfortably sewn up. That wasn’t to say that the night passed quickly or easily – John was still awake four hours later, sat in a plastic bucket seat at the police station awaiting yet another interview – but he had little doubt the results of the investigation would be a foregone conclusion.
By the time he eventually returned home, stumbling past the front door at gone three in the morning, he was dead on his feet.
He dumped the keys on the small table in the hall and shuffled through into the kitchen, desperate for a glass of water before he shed his clothes and fell into bed for a few hours’ sleep.
Toby Dammit gave him a disapproving glare then curled back up on one of the dining chairs and pretended not to have been disturbed by the return of his owner.
Filling a glass straight from the tap, John drained half in one go and then stared at his impoverished reflection in the glass of the kitchen window. He saw nothing to be proud of tonight. Nothing at all.
He was taking another mouthful when a creaking of the floorboards upstairs unnerved him.
Not now, he thought, my night has been too long as it is. Can’t she at least leave me alone for one night?
Slowly, footsteps came down the stairs and John placed the glass on the sideboard. He wanted something more aggressive in his hand, something that might make him feel a bit safer. Not that there was much chance of fighting off a spirit, he admitted, grabbing a kitchen knife not unlike the one that had opened Father Goss’s throat a few hours earlier. You couldn’t kill the dead after all, though he wasn’t sure the same could be said in reverse.
‘What do you want?’ he asked as the footsteps came along the hall.
There was a knock on his front door, startled he dropped the knife and it clattered onto the laminate floor.
He stared into the darkness of the hall, assuring himself that it must be empty.
The knock came again.
He drew a deep breath and walked into the hall, marching up to the front door and opening it.
The first words that came to him were the last he had spoken.
‘What do you want?’
‘Somewhere to hide,’ admitted Sandy Thompson, ‘please …’
Six
The Haunted
SANDY SAT AT the kitchen table while John made them both a drink.
‘I heard you give your address to the duty officer,’ she said, ‘and I honestly didn’t know where else I could go.’
‘Home?’
‘I live with her,’ she didn’t have to say the name, John knew it was Aida Golding she was referring to, ‘and she’s who I’m running away from.’
‘You live with her? Why?’
‘Because I have nowhere else to go and, believe me, however bad you think she is she’s much worse. Aida Golding is a woman you don’t refuse.’
This was the second time that had been said, John realised.
‘What hold does she have over you?’
Sandy stared at him for a moment, clearly uncertain whether to answer.
‘Look, Sandy,’ insisted John, ‘you can’t just turn up on my doorstep asking for help and then not be willing to talk. Sorry, but it’s all or nothing. I’ll help you if I can but you need to be straight with me first.’
‘My name’s not Sandy.’
‘You don’t surprise me.’
‘It’s Anna.’
‘Anna what?’
‘Anna Golding.’
‘Oh …’
‘She adopted me when I was four. There have been years
The effect on Probert was immediate. His charm was gone, seemingly chewed away by the snarl that suddenly appeared on his face. ‘Never call me that,’ he said, ‘or I will ruin you, regardless of what happens tonight. Understand?’
‘Oh yes,’ John replied, ‘we’re all frightened of something or someone, I understand that well enough.’
The police arrived quietly. Though whether this was at the insistence of Lord Probert or the acknowledgement that there was little left to do but mop up John couldn’t tell.
The deferential manner of the chief investigating officer was all the proof needed that Probert had matters comfortably sewn up. That wasn’t to say that the night passed quickly or easily – John was still awake four hours later, sat in a plastic bucket seat at the police station awaiting yet another interview – but he had little doubt the results of the investigation would be a foregone conclusion.
By the time he eventually returned home, stumbling past the front door at gone three in the morning, he was dead on his feet.
He dumped the keys on the small table in the hall and shuffled through into the kitchen, desperate for a glass of water before he shed his clothes and fell into bed for a few hours’ sleep.
Toby Dammit gave him a disapproving glare then curled back up on one of the dining chairs and pretended not to have been disturbed by the return of his owner.
Filling a glass straight from the tap, John drained half in one go and then stared at his impoverished reflection in the glass of the kitchen window. He saw nothing to be proud of tonight. Nothing at all.
He was taking another mouthful when a creaking of the floorboards upstairs unnerved him.
Not now, he thought, my night has been too long as it is. Can’t she at least leave me alone for one night?
Slowly, footsteps came down the stairs and John placed the glass on the sideboard. He wanted something more aggressive in his hand, something that might make him feel a bit safer. Not that there was much chance of fighting off a spirit, he admitted, grabbing a kitchen knife not unlike the one that had opened Father Goss’s throat a few hours earlier. You couldn’t kill the dead after all, though he wasn’t sure the same could be said in reverse.
‘What do you want?’ he asked as the footsteps came along the hall.
There was a knock on his front door, startled he dropped the knife and it clattered onto the laminate floor.
He stared into the darkness of the hall, assuring himself that it must be empty.
The knock came again.
He drew a deep breath and walked into the hall, marching up to the front door and opening it.
The first words that came to him were the last he had spoken.
‘What do you want?’
‘Somewhere to hide,’ admitted Sandy Thompson, ‘please …’
Six
The Haunted
SANDY SAT AT the kitchen table while John made them both a drink.
‘I heard you give your address to the duty officer,’ she said, ‘and I honestly didn’t know where else I could go.’
‘Home?’
‘I live with her,’ she didn’t have to say the name, John knew it was Aida Golding she was referring to, ‘and she’s who I’m running away from.’
‘You live with her? Why?’
‘Because I have nowhere else to go and, believe me, however bad you think she is she’s much worse. Aida Golding is a woman you don’t refuse.’
This was the second time that had been said, John realised.
‘What hold does she have over you?’
Sandy stared at him for a moment, clearly uncertain whether to answer.
‘Look, Sandy,’ insisted John, ‘you can’t just turn up on my doorstep asking for help and then not be willing to talk. Sorry, but it’s all or nothing. I’ll help you if I can but you need to be straight with me first.’
‘My name’s not Sandy.’
‘You don’t surprise me.’
‘It’s Anna.’
‘Anna what?’
‘Anna Golding.’
‘Oh …’
‘She adopted me when I was four. There have been years
Similar Books
