Parallel Life by Ruth Hamilton Page B

down and allow him back into her life?
    No, she was carrying on. He folded his arms and suffered the barrage of words that poured from her.
    She threw herself into a chair near the window. ‘So this is where you brought your bit of stuff while your mam was away, eh? I’m sure old Freda will be delighted to know you found a use for her bed. She never did like waste, your mam.’
    â€˜It’s over,’ he shouted. ‘The affair, such as it was, is over.’
    â€˜I agree. It’s definitely bloody over. I’m having the house – you can sign it over to me. It’ll likely have to be sold, but me and the kids need money.’
    Jimmy’s jaw dropped. ‘I was brought up in that house, Annie. Mam sold it to us cheap – it’s my home.’
    â€˜We’ll see.’ Annie tapped an angry toe against floral carpet. ‘Cops are after you for all the stuff that’s gone missing from places where you put alarms in. The private detective told me that. He’s a retired sergeant, and he still has mates in the force. You’d better make yourself scarce. In fact, you’d be safest going for total invisibility – try Alaska and wear white.’
    He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Bugger,’ he cursed.
    â€˜You can add an “off” to that,’ said Annie, her tone quieter. ‘And then, you can take your own advice and bugger off for good.’
    The front door swung inward, and a new voice reached their ears. ‘Pull me in backwards,’ ordered an off-stage woman. ‘You’ll have me spread out on this dreadful carpet like a sheepskin rug. We should have brought Eileen. She’s adequate when it comes to the handling of a wheelchair.’
    â€˜Sorry, Mother,’ came the reply.
    Jimmy’s skin blanched. Lisa was here, as was some female sergeant major in a bad mood. Wasn’t Annie enough?
    A wheelchair entered the arena. Jimmy saw a striking woman – grey hair, good clothes, severe expression. Lisa, in charge of steering, followed Hermione into the room. ‘This is Annie Nuttall,’ she announced. ‘And that is Jimmy . . . or Alec – depending on the day of the week, I suppose.’ She parked the wheelchair next to Annie. ‘Mrs Hermione Compton-Milne,’ she added. ‘My mother-in-law.’
    A deafening silence followed. Hermione eyed the cluttered decor, sniffed, patted Annie’s arm, then stared hard at the man. He had a weak chin and very nervous hands. He was plucking away at a folkweave throw on the arms of his mother’s chair. Terror showed in the darting movements of eyes set rather too close together. Lisa had very poor taste in men, it seemed. ‘Annie?’
    â€˜Yes?’ Even Annie seemed slightly cowed by the visitor.
    â€˜Get your gun?’
    Annie nodded. ‘Yes, I got my gun, Mrs Compton-Milne.’
    Jimmy sank lower in his mother’s best armchair. Twin spots of colour glowed in ashen cheeks, and his heartbeat quickened, seeming to sound in his ears like the threatening drum of some Native-American tribe. Yes, this was a war dance, and he was the intended target.
    Several seconds passed before Hermione went in for the kill. In clipped tones, she delivered his sentence. ‘We know about Birmingham,’ she stated plainly. ‘Your wife has found a tidy sum in the eaves of your house. While searching, in order to pay bills and feed your children, Annie also discovered the weapon. Tax avoidance is one thing; the crippling of a security guard is another matter altogether.’
    Jimmy opened his mouth, but delivered not a single syllable. He sat as still as stone, jaw hanging while he took in the implications of what he had just heard. He had hidden the damned thing well, had removed all ammunition and had given the item no thought in months. They held him by the throat, and they knew it.
    â€˜The gun is safe,’ said the old woman. ‘It