Truth or Dare

by M.J. Arlidge

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

EVERY CRIME IS CONNECTED.
BUT WHO IS PULLING THE STRINGS?

THE CHILLING THRILLER FROM THE MIND OF MILLION-COPY BESTSELLER M. J. ARLIDGE

A crimewave sweeps through the city and no-one is safe. An arson at the docks. A carjacking gone wrong. A murder in a country park. What connects all these crimes without causes, which leave no clues?

Detective Inspector Helen Grace faces the rising tide of cases which threatens to drown the city. But each crime is just a piece of a puzzle which is falling into place.

And when it becomes clear just how twisted and ingenious this web of crime is, D.I. Grace will realise that it may be impossible to stop it . . .

A RELENTLESS, NAIL-BITING MYSTERY FROM THE MASTER OF THE KILLER THRILLER.

* * * * *

PRAISE FOR M. J. ARLIDGE AND THE HELEN GRACE THRILLERS

'Chilling' THE TIMES

'Gripping' SUNDAY MIRROR

'Addictive' EXPRESS

'Truly excellent' THE SUN

'Amazing' RICHARD MADELEY

'Mesmerizing' LISA GARDNER

'Chills to the bone' DAILY MAIL

'This is going to be as big as Jo Nesbo' JUDY FINNIGAN

'Helen Grace is one of the greatest heroes to come along in years' JEFFERY DEAVER

Release date: June 24, 2021

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter 1

He didn’t want to move, but he knew he had to. He had come too far, risked too much, to back out now. Steeling himself, he crept forward, his eyes scanning the gloomy yard. If there was any movement, any possibility of being detected, then he would turn and run without a second thought. But there was nothing, no sign of life at all, so he pressed on.

The Portakabin lay directly in front of him, lonely and isolated in the darkness. A dull glow crept from beneath the blinds, the sole indication that it was inhabited. Anyone stumbling upon this yard might easily have missed the anomaly – this was a place where things came to rot and die; a dumping ground for abandoned cars and household junk. Curiosity was not encouraged, the entrance gates were chained and, though he had snapped the padlock easily, he was sure no one else had been tempted to try. You wouldn’t set foot in this place unless you had to, nor would you assume that a treasure trove of secrets lay just beyond the stained door of the Portakabin.

The ground was littered with rusting exhaust pipes, empty packing cases and abandoned white goods. It would be easy to kick something in the darkness, alerting his victim, so he moved forward carefully, teasing his way through the detritus. In the distance, a siren wailed, startling a bird which took flight, squawking loudly, but he ignored it, grimly focused on the task in hand.

Reaching the Portakabin, he paused, pressing himself up against its filthy carapace, craning around to peer through the window. The glass was grimy, coated in bird mess and dirt, so his view was blurred, yet he could still make out the figure inside. Overweight, sprawling, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s clamped in his hand, Declan McManus slumbered on a tired sofa. McManus looked totally out of it, utterly at peace with the world, which seemed profoundly odd given the grave danger he was in. Surely he wouldn’t have been so relaxed had he known that his hiding place had been discovered, that someone else knew his secret?

He counted silently to ten, wanting to be sure that McManus was asleep, then quietly stepped up to the door. Still there was no sound within, so reaching out a gloved hand, he turned the handle. His heart was thumping, his hand shaking, as he teased it downwards. This was the point of maximum risk, when his approach was most likely to be detected, but the handle slid down easily. Cautiously, he eased the door open, preparing to cross the threshold. As he did so, however, the aged hinge started to protest, screaming out in alarm. Horrified, the intruder froze, uncertain what to do, then acting on instinct, he yanked the door fully open. The hinge squeaked briefly, then was silent once more. Stepping inside, he cast an anxious eye towards the sleeping man, but McManus hadn’t stirred, the near-empty bottle of bourbon having done its work.

He closed the door, the sounds of the night suddenly dying away. Now it was just the two of them, cocooned inside this sad space. It was even more unpleasant and odorous than he’d anticipated, a fitting backdrop for the grubby individual in front of him. This was where McManus hid his spoils, conducted his business, brought young girls. He shuddered to think what had occurred within these four walls, but he was not here to dwell on past crimes, he was here to do a job. To do what was necessary. Many lives had been blighted by this man, but perhaps after tonight he would do no more harm.

Stepping forward, he looked down at the comatose figure. Part of him still expected McManus to rear up, wrapping his sweaty palms around his neck … but he lay still, undisturbed and unsuspecting. There was nothing stopping him, no imminent danger, no chance of detection. This was it.

It was time to kill.

Chapter 2

The pale face stared up at her, tranquil but lifeless. Detective Inspector Helen Grace had encountered many bodies in Jim Grieves’s mortuary, but this one brought a lump to her throat. They always did when they were young.

The girl lying half hidden beneath the crisp white sheet was only sixteen years old. Eve Sutcliffe, a gifted student at the prestigious Milton Downs Ladies’ Academy, still awaiting the results of her GCSEs. Long auburn hair framed a pretty face still touched by teenage hormones, a cluster of spots decorating her left cheek. The beauty in her features, the serenity of her expression, however, hid the brutality of her murder.

‘Blunt force trauma,’ Jim Grieves growled. ‘From the shape and size of the impact wound, I’d say we’re talking about a hammer. Was anything recovered from the scene?’

Shaking her head, Helen leaned forward as Jim Grieves turned the deceased to reveal a bloody mess at the back of her skull. The young girl’s half-naked body had been found in bushes in Lakeside Country Park five days ago. No weapon had been discovered, no witnesses unearthed, nor did they have any offenders under consideration. Helen had been hoping Jim Grieves would give her something to work with, but he quickly put paid to that notion.

‘Not much more to tell you, I’m afraid. She was struck eight, possibly nine times, with considerable force, fracturing her skull and leading to massive internal bleeding. She probably wouldn’t have been conscious after the second blow, but even so …’

‘Any hairs? Sweat? Blood?’

Grieves shook his head.

‘Nothing under her fingernails, no sign of a struggle. I imagine that she was approached from behind and subdued before she had a chance to fight back.’

‘What about semen? On the body, on the clothes?’

‘You’ll have to ask Meredith about her clothes, but there’s nothing on or in the body; in fact, there’s no sign of sexual assault per se, no scratching or bruising around the genitals. She was sexually active, but not in the days, possibly weeks, leading up to her death.’

Already Helen’s mind was turning. Was there a boyfriend on the scene? Someone she’d recently broken up with? Someone who felt angry and spurned? Or was this a random act of violence, a young girl falling victim to a vicious, sexually motivated stranger?

‘So, her attacker was intent on assaulting her, but lost his nerve? Got frightened off?’

‘You tell me, you’re the detective,’ Grieves fired back, with grim relish.

Helen took the hit, privately acknowledging that the title had never felt more like a millstone. So much bloodshed, so much heartache of late, yet so little to go on. Recently, Helen had felt like she was swimming with one hand tied behind her back, drowning in a rising tide of violence and brutality.

‘I’ve got a couple more bits and pieces to do,’ Grieves continued, in conciliatory mode, ‘and if I find anything significant, I’ll let you know. I just wanted to give you my initial findings.’

‘Thanks, Jim. I appreciate it.’

And she did. But it didn’t help her. The memories of Eve’s devastated parents – their desolation, their agony – were still fresh in Helen’s mind. It was a case that demanded to be solved, not just for Eve’s sake, but for others who might yet be in danger from this violent offender, but so far they had nothing. Staring down at the girl’s innocent face, Helen was filled with guilt and sadness – for the loss of all that Eve might have been, all she might have become.

For a young life brutally snuffed out.

Chapter 3

The lighter sparked in his hand, then died. He wanted to scream, to spew out his rage and anxiety, but there was no question of that – his victim lay only a few yards from him, docile but dangerous. If McManus awoke now, if he took the fight to his assailant, there would only be one winner.

He tried again, the lighter clicking out its quiet, hopeless rhythm. Still it didn’t catch, remaining lifeless in his hand. It made no sense, he’d only bought it yesterday – it was full of fuel. He’d used it on the way here, one last cigarette, and it had worked perfectly. So what was the problem now? Yes, his hand was shaking, but surely not enough to disable the device?

He tried again, aggressively, persistently. It sparked, more encouragingly this time, but the flame burnt only briefly before going out. And now McManus stirred, snorting and rubbing his nose, disturbed by the click, click, click of the lighter. He was moving, shifting his substantial weight on the tired faux-leather sofa, which squeaked loudly in response, disturbing him still further. A frown, a cough and then he dropped the bottle of bourbon, which landed on the floor with a heavy thunk. Now his body shivered, as if juddering back into consciousness. There was no doubt about it – he was about to wake up.

Trying to calm himself, the intruder stared at the lighter, willing it to work. He pressed the small metal wheel and pushed down hard. Once, twice, three times and now – miraculously – a flame sprang up. A strong, steady flame. His breath hissed from him, tension flooding from his body, and he didn’t hesitate, raising the flame to the milk bottle he was clutching in his left hand. The dirty rag hung, moist and heavy, in the bottle’s mouth, asking to be ignited. Carefully holding it to the flame, he watched with excitement as the homemade fuse took. Now the fire was working its way up the primed rag towards the petrol inside.

Taking a step back, he looked down at the man in front of him. His eyelids were flickering, he was only moments from consciousness, so, raising his arm, he hurled the bottle down. Smashing on the hard floor, it exploded into flame, greedily latching on to the spilt whisky, the aged sofa, the man’s clothes. The ferocity, the heat, was far greater than his attacker had expected and he stumbled backwards, away from the conflagration, suddenly fearful for his own safety.

Retreating, he grasped the door handle gratefully, yanking it open. He was about to run through the open doorway – run away as fast he could – but now something, some semblance of calm, some fragment of his planning – made him pause. Refusing to look backwards at the scene of horror, he gathered himself, reaching down to pull the key from the lock. Then, moving swiftly and silently, he stepped out of the Portakabin, shutting the door behind him and turning the key in the lock.

Stepping out into the cool night air, he hurried down the stairs, desperate to be away from this awful place. But even as he did so, a sound from within the burning cabin stopped him dead in his tracks.

A single, agonized scream.

Chapter 4

He hurried down the alleyway, eagerly searching for his prize. A sharp-eyed constable had spotted it half an hour earlier and Detective Sergeant Joseph Hudson had wasted no time in responding. Running to the bike park, he’d raced across town, determined to have something to show for the day.

The officer now came into view, standing guard over the abandoned BMW. Hudson was convinced the stolen car would’ve been stripped, then dumped, and his instinct had been proved right. Here was the prestige vehicle he’d been seeking, the proud status symbol that someone had been prepared to kill for.

‘I haven’t touched it,’ the constable ventured quickly, as Hudson approached. ‘I just clocked the number plate and called it in.’

‘Thank you, Constable …?’

‘Atkins, sir.’

‘Well done, Atkins,’ Hudson responded, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder. ‘Good work, but I can take it from here …’

The constable nodded, pleased with the compliment, then headed off. Hudson watched him go, gratified to have cultivated another foot soldier, then turned his attention to the abandoned vehicle.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t locked. In fact, it wasn’t even secured, the driver’s door hanging ajar. Donning a pair of gloves, Hudson teased it open, crouching down to peer inside. It was a BMW 5 Series, four years old, but top of the range and, before it had been stolen, it would’ve had a state-of-the-art entertainment and navigation system to compliment the hand-stitched leather interior. Now, however, it was a mess. From the outside, with its striking, metallic paint and tinted windows, it still looked impressive, but the view from the inside was very different. It had been cannibalized – the screen ripped out to leave hanging wires, the main armrest removed, even the chrome handles had been lifted. He was surprised to see the leather seats still in place, but perhaps the thief was an amateur, keen to make a quick buck. If so, he hoped he’d got a good price. The cost had been high and the reckoning would be severe.

Hudson’s eyes were now drawn to the dark stains in the driver’s footwell, then to the rust-coloured smears on the window next to it. Up until ten days ago, this prestige vehicle had belonged to Alison Burris, an administrative manager at Southampton’s Children’s Hospital. It had been an extravagant anniversary present from her besotted husband and it was her pride and joy. She always parked it in a discreet car park, a couple of blocks from the hospital, and it was there that she was targeted one Wednesday night, shortly after midnight.

It was perhaps foolish of her to be alone in the car park so late, but still she should have had every reason to feel safe. As it was, she was set upon by a car jacker as she attempted to drive home. A struggle ensued – her clothing was torn, a clump of hair ripped out – as Burris battled to fight off the thief. It had proved a bad call, the young professional stabbed twice in the heart, before her attacker made off with her vehicle.

Alison Burris was found by a businessman just after midnight, but by then she was long dead. Hudson was the SIO on the scene and was quick to put the pieces together. There had been a spate of luxury car thefts in Southampton of late, another front in their battle against rising crime in the city, though few of them had been as violent as this one. As Hudson had crouched down over the poor woman’s body, his eyes had been drawn to the narrow, cylindrical wounds in her flesh. He was still waiting on the post-mortem – Jim Grieves had a backlog of bodies – but Hudson had a pretty good idea of what killed Burris. She had been felled by a sharpened screwdriver, rammed into her heart at close quarters. It was a sickening way to die and for what? There was a thriving market for black-market car parts in Southampton, had been ever since the post-Covid downturn, but even so, what would the thief have got for the parts he lifted? Five thousand pounds? Six? It seemed a paltry payback, but in these troubled times perhaps it was about right. Looking down at the brutalized interior of the car, the blood smears on the window, Hudson reflected that of late one thing had become abundantly clear.

Life was cheap.

Chapter 5

His eyes were glued to the Portakabin, transfixed by the sight in front of him. Through the thin blinds, he could make out the flames reaching for the ceiling, desperate to satiate their appetite for destruction. And even above the crackling of timber, chipboard and plastic, he could hear the screaming.

He had never heard a man shriek before. In his line of work, it was not something you came across. And he’d certainly never heard a man shriek like that. It didn’t sound human – it was so shrill, so insistent, dragged from the pit of his stomach. It was at once terrible and wonderful.

He would be the sole witness to McManus’s last moments, the extinguishing of a life. Yes, he should have left immediately, sneaking through the gates and disappearing into the night – that would have been the sensible thing to do. But he had to stay, to see that the job was done. There was too much riding on this to leave anything to chance. So he stood his ground, positioned at the far corner of the yard, watching and waiting for the screams to cease, for the Portakabin to collapse in on itself, for the flames to leap up into the night sky.

As soon as they did so, he’d be off. As soon as he could be sure, he would put as much distance between himself and this awful place as possible. And then he would celebrate, happy that his nerve had held, that he’d been capable of doing what was necessary. He might regret it at some point in the future, but not yet. For now he would simply reflect on a job well done.

Dragging his eyes away from the scene, he glanced at his watch. The pristine Omega showed him it was just before eleven – there was plenty of time to get where he needed to be without arousing suspicion. Such was the virtue of having a plan, of taking suitable precautions, of doing something right—

A loud noise made him look up. There it was again – a heavy, repetitive banging. And now he became aware of something else – the Portakabin seemed to be shaking. What the hell was going on? Was the fabric of the tired office finally cracking, splintering under the vicious assault of the flames? Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he had his answer, the locked door bursting open, the unmistakable form of Declan McManus crashing out onto the scrubby ground below.

For a moment, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He’d never expected his victim to survive the initial assault of the flames, let alone have strength enough to break out of the Portakabin. But there he lay on the ground, his clothes still burning, large as life. Immediately, the attacker’s eyes fell on a discarded tool, a rusting wrench that lay next to the shell of a Ford Mondeo. Should he pick it up? Rush over and cave the injured man’s head in? He reached towards it, but his attention was now drawn back to his victim. And what he saw chilled his blood.

McManus had risen to his feet. He was stumbling, raging, screaming, but he was upright. Even now he was blundering forward, bumping into old chassis, clinging on to packing cases. As he did so, zigzagging from obstacle to obstacle, he left a flaming trail in his wake, the discarded boxes and packing paper catching light as he passed. It was a bewildering, horrifying procession, but surely it would be short-lived? The man was on fire, for God’s sake, surely he would succumb to his injuries soon … but on he went, staggering away from the Portakabin, searching for salvation.

He watched on, horrified, transfixed, but worse was to follow. McManus had been stumbling towards the main gates, but now suddenly changed direction. Even in his agony, the flaming man had been casting around for help, any means of saving his skin and now he’d spotted him, standing across the yard in the shadows, passively watching his torment. Now McManus was making directly for him, speeding up as he did so, lurching towards his potential rescuer.

The man’s eyes widened, even as vomit crept up his throat. Never in his worst nightmares had he imagined something like this. McManus continued to gain momentum, barrelling towards him, his flaming arms reaching out, even as the fire continued to consume his hair, his limbs, his skin. He knew he should turn and run, flee a man whom he had badly underestimated, yet for some reason his feet remained rooted to the spot. McManus was only twenty feet from him, now fifteen, now ten. Any minute now, he would throw himself upon his attacker, locking him in an agonizing embrace. So why wouldn’t his feet obey him? Why did he continue to stand there, waiting patiently for oblivion?

He felt tears prick his eyes and he clamped them shut, bracing himself for the impact. Then he felt a rush of air, followed by a hefty thud and, opening his eyes a fraction, he saw that the portly aggressor had suddenly collapsed, falling in a crumpled heap by his feet. Relief now flooded through him, a high-pitched laugh exploding from his lungs, as he stared down at the twitching man. He couldn’t believe it – McManus had made it all the way across the yard, only to fall just short of him.

It scarcely seemed believable, but the burning trail of destruction in the yard was testament to his amazing progress. And even now as he looked at his wake, drinking in the blazing boxes and packing cases, he saw the Portakabin roof collapse, sending a great shower of sparks up into the air.

The alarm would soon be raised. The whole yard was catching alight, thin trails of smoke climbing up into the sky. It was no time to linger, so turning on his heel, he made for a sizeable tear in the chain-link fence, squeezing through it and hurrying away.

Chapter 6

She wrenched open the door and pushed inside. The incident room was deserted, which was how Helen wanted it. She needed time to gather her thoughts, following her trip to the mortuary.

Crossing the room, she headed not for her office, but to the murder board. Here, pictures of victims and suspects were displayed for analysis, surrounded by a spaghetti of supposition – marker pen lines linking individuals, leads and theories. Usually the sight excited her – as the board filled up, the different jigsaw pieces of the truth inexorably came together – but tonight it left her feeling like she’d been slapped.

Southampton was a vibrant city, with its fair share of crime, so it was customary to have two or three serious investigations on the go. Currently they had four – four murders that they had made no tangible progress on. A fatal mugging in Ocean Village three weeks back, an aggravated burglary in Upper Shirley shortly after that, a carjacking in the city centre and, of course, the recent murder of Eve Sutcliffe. All these cases had made headlines in different ways – the mugging victim was a mother of two, the middle-aged man who’d tackled an intruder was a self-made millionaire, the carjack victim was a young NHS manager and as for Eve … well, she was a ‘gift’ for tabloid hacks and vampires like Emilia Garanita, the local journalist who used her newspaper columns to dwell on Eve’s beauty, her talent, her tender age. With each new case, with each new banner headline, the pressure ratcheted up a notch, placing Helen and the team under severe scrutiny.

The unit’s murder board had never been so full, yet so empty – a point Chief Superintendent Alan Peters had made forcibly on his recent visit to the incident room. Helen couldn’t remember a time when the city had felt so febrile, so dangerous, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why – numerous local businesses having gone to the wall since Covid. Unemployment had spiked, as had divorce, domestic violence, child abuse and countless other serious offences. There was a general sense of fear, anger, even desperation in the city, but it was the recent spate of murders that brought the situation home most starkly.

The mugging, the burglary, the carjacking – these were economic crimes, laced with violence, perpetrated by those who thought there was more money to be made in the shadows, on the black market, than in the regular working world. Even the attack on Eve Sutcliffe was a testament to the profound legacy of the downturn, sexual crimes and crimes against women having also sky rocketed – powerless, desperate individuals taking out their fury, resentment and despair on the vulnerable.

‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’

Helen turned, her body tensing. Joseph Hudson had slipped into the room without her noticing and was standing close by.

‘I’m sorry?’ Helen queried, annoyed.

Hudson held Helen’s gaze for a moment, enjoying her discomfort, then shifted his attention to the varied photos on the murder board.

‘All that pain, all that suffering. And for what? A few pounds in the pocket, a fleeting moment of pleasure …’ He shook his head ruefully, but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘It’s like the old rules don’t apply any more,’ he continued. ‘Decency, respect, humanity. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there now. Every man – or woman – for themselves.’

Hudson wasn’t looking at her, but Helen could hardly miss his point. Several months ago, Helen had called time on their relationship, intimating that it might be a good idea if Hudson moved on from Southampton Central. Her former lover had taken this suggestion very badly, making it clear on a number of occasions since that he had no intention of going anywhere.

‘Did you have anything to report, DS Hudson?’ Helen countered. ‘Or have you just come here—’

‘We found Alison Burris’s BMW,’ Hudson interrupted, crossing to the murder board. ‘In an alleyway just off St Mary’s. Stolen, stripped and dumped, just as I said it would be. I’ve asked forensics to take a look at it for us.’

Picking up the marker pen, Hudson wrote the details on the board, linking this development via a crisp line to the photo of the unfortunate Burris.

‘Least one of us is making progress, eh?’

Replacing the pen, he smiled broadly at Helen, then headed for the door.

‘Don’t stay too late, Helen. All work and no play …’

Helen watched Hudson go, desperately fighting the urge to tear a strip off him. In normal circumstances, she would have reprimanded him there and then, but these weren’t normal circumstances. DS Charlie Brooks was still on maternity leave, meaning that Joseph Hudson was her only remaining senior officer. Given the situation, given the crime wave that was now engulfing the city, Helen had to rely on him, even though she was becoming increasingly troubled by his ‘contribution’. He was frequently insubordinate, even hostile – something she feared the rest of the team had picked up on – and, worse, seemed to be actively enjoying her predicament.

Of late she’d even begun to wonder if Hudson was actively working against her, enjoying the empty murder boards, the nasty headlines, the growing pressure. It seemed a crazy idea, her own DS torpedoing their investigations out of spite, but it was a notion she couldn’t shake. In her darker moments, she even began to wonder whether Hudson might be conspiring with Emilia Garanita – the thorny reporter appearing extremely well informed of late.

The truth was that Helen had never felt so isolated and exposed. Each new day seemed to bring fresh problems rather than answers. The team were looking to her for inspiration, for leadership, but for the first time she felt uncertain as to what to do. Nothing seemed to be working, the tried and tested tenets of modern policing coming up short, as her overstretched team battled a growing lawlessness in the city.

As ever, when Helen stood in front of the murder boards, she yearned to see patterns, clues, lines of enquiry, to divine a clear route to justice. But tonight, as she gazed at the empty space in front of her, she saw only the faces of the dead staring back.

Chapter 7

She pulled the scarf over her mouth and nose, then tugged hard on the drawstring of her hoodie. Carefully, she ran her fingers around the edge of the fabric, checking that her disguise was securely in place, then, satisfied that even her own mother wouldn’t recognize her, she emerged from the shadows.

She had been skulking in the basement stairwell for nearly two hours, waiting for the right moment to break cover. Several times she’d ventured up to the street level, but each time something had given her pause – the bark of a dog, a door slamming, and, most alarmingly of all, a couple wandering by. They had been happy – drunk, laughing, amorous – but their sudden appearance had set her heart racing.

Fortunately, the danger had passed, the couple walking on, oblivious, but she didn’t want to push her luck by outstaying her welcome. Nervously checking that the coast was clear, she stepped out onto the pavement and, keeping low, scurried across the road, concealing herself between parked cars on the other side. Here again she hesitated, convinced something was about to go wrong – a nosey neighbour spotting her, a beat copper passing by – but Ashley Road was as quiet as the grave.

She looked at her watch – half midnight – then fixed her gaze on the house in front of her. Her attention had been glued to Number 21 since she’d arrived, watching the comings and goings inside – figures flitting behind the drawn curtains, lights turning on and off, before, finally, the house settled into contented darkness. There had been no movement, no signs of life, for over three quarters of an hour now. With luck, the inhabitants were slumbering peacefully, unaware of the vitriol and hatred that lurked outside.

Another quick check, scanning the upper windows of the neighbouring houses, then the figure emerged from behind the parked car, cresting the pavement and hurrying up the steps to the front door. Lilah and Martin Hill didn’t have a dog, an alarm, or any security cameras, but even so, this was still a very dangerous moment. Given everything that had happened recently, who was to say that they wouldn’t be on their guard? That the door wouldn’t suddenly spring open? That she wouldn’t be caught red-handed?

But there was no movement inside, no sound anywhere, so reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the aerosol can. Shaking it, she held it up to the door and pressed down hard. Immediately, a jet of black paint spewed forth, spoiling the fashionably grey door. The eruption made her start, but gathering herself, she pressed on, sketching out the first line. It was hardly a polished effort, looking uneven and irregular, but it was at least clear, so she continued, carving out the second line with one vicious sweep of her arm.

Now she was getting the hang of it, gaining confidence with each passing second, moving swiftly and smoothly. She was reaching the end of the door, so aimed the paint onto the white wall, then onto the living-room window, sketching out the vile symbol deftly. The design was nearly complete now, so