The advancing policemen were less than fifteen yards from the car now.
Reed swallowed hard and gazed raptly at his daughter.
She was standing close to the school gates looking around.
Perhaps she expected someone to be there to pick her up.
The two constables were only ten yards away now.
Becky waved goodbye to one of her friends and stood chatting to the other who glanced at her watch, then looked up and spotted her mother. The woman had just pulled up close to the school entrance and Reed watched as the other girl hurried off and climbed into the car, waving to Becky as the vehicle pulled away.
She was alone now.
Waiting.
The two constables were within touching distance of Reed’s car.
He spotted one in his wing mirror but he thought nothing of it.
His mind was focused on Becky.
He pulled the knife from his pocket. - She was alone there.
He took one final glance at the summons.
Did Becky understand what they were saying about him? he wondered. Did she understand the shame the accusations had brought? Could she ever realise the pain he was suffering?
He felt tears brimming in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Becky,’ he whispered.
The first constable reached the Civic in time to see the knife glinting in Reed’s hand.
He was about to shout something to his companion when Reed lifted it higher.
His eyes never left Becky.
‘I’m sorry’ he said again.
Then he pulled the blade hard across his throat.
‘No!’ roared one of the constables, making a dive for the driver’s-side door but, as he tugged on the handle, he found it was locked.
Inside the car Reed felt fleeting moments of pain, barely noticeable, as the knife sliced effortlessly through the flesh and muscles of his neck, severing carotid and jugular vessels.
Blood exploded from the gaping wound, spattering both the windscreen and the side windows. Great crimson gouts ejaculated from the torn veins and arteries.
Reed dropped the knife.
He was dimly aware of a battering on the side window, of glass suddenly flying inwards, of hands grabbing for him.
It slipped away very quickly.
Blood was still spurting wildly from his gashed throat, but he sat upright in his seat, his body now jerking uncontrollably as the muscles contracted.
His vision dimmed, fuzzed, then cleared slightly.
When he looked slightly to one side, Becky was gone, glancing across at the commotion around a car she could not see into, wondering what those two policemen were doing.
He tasted blood in his mouth, felt it pouring over his lips.
His head lolled backwards against the top of the seat and the gaping laceration seemed to open further, yawning like some blood-choked mouth.
Reed was surprised how little pain he felt.
One of the constables had managed to open the driver’s door by now and was reaching for him.
Through a haze he heard words like:
‘… dying …’
‘… Emergency…’
‘… ambulance…’
One twitching hand touched the summons, now also spattered with blood.
He slumped back in his seat, his vision clouded red.
Reed felt as if he was going to vomit.
It never happened.
He was dead before his stomach managed the contraction.
Ninety-six
She wondered why she hadn’t cried.
Catherine Reed sat on her sofa, legs drawn up beneath her, eyes staring blankly ahead.
Why?
It was nearly four hours now since she’d been informed of her brother’s death, and yet still she found no tears filling her eyes. Where there should have been tears she felt only dazed bewilderment. Where there should have been pain she felt only a consuming emptiness.
Talbot himself had told her the news.
He hadn’t been specific until she’d asked about the nature of the suicide.
Even then she’d felt merely a shudder, not the explosion of emotion she had expected.
She told herself she was in shock. The weeping would come. The realisation of loss.
For now she was numb.
Why had Frank been killed? Why had his picture been inside the Misfortune Box when it should have been hers?
Where was hers?
She glanced at her watch.
11.35 p.m.
Was her time yet to come?
Would she hurl herself from the window when the hands of her watch met at twelve?
Talbot had offered to leave men outside her flat.
To what purpose?
If she was going to die it would be by her own hand. No one could prevent it, short of tying her down. Even then, perhaps she could swallow her own tongue.
When it came to taking life, the human mind was blessed with quite staggering powers of invention.
The phone had rung, the answering machine collecting messages of condolence.
She had not bothered to pick it up, not bothered to return any calls.
There would be plenty of time for that.
Wouldn’t there?
What if at midnight…
She forced the thought from her mind.
Instead she got to her feet and crossed the room where she refilled her glass with Bacardi and Coke. A strong measure of the former.
‘Frank,’ she whispered under her breath.
Even mention of his name didn’t bring the tears she expected. Tears she hoped for.
Shock.
She was heading back towards the sofa when the phone rang. Who the hell would call so late? she wondered.
The tone sounded unusually loud in the stillness of the room, then she heard a voice she knew only too well.
‘Hello, Cath, it’s me,’ said Phillip Cross. ‘I…’
She snatched up the phone.
‘Phil’ she said, and suddenly the tears which she had thought locked away inside her broke free.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said, worriedly.
‘It’s Frank,’ she said. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh Christ!’ Cross murmured. ‘Look, I’ll be over in thirty minutes, let me get changed. I’ve just got back from
