Dublin, Oxford, Edinburgh and London.
‘Chris was at all these places shortly before he died,’ Donna said. ‘They must have been meeting places for The Hell Fire Club he discovered.’
‘We have to get to Portsmouth,’ Donna said, ‘and find that book.’
‘We can’t go in this weather,’ Julie said, looking out of the window. The rain was coming down in a solid curtain. It was as if God had kicked a bucket of water over. ‘We’ll be stranded, with the state of the roads around here.’
‘As soon as it stops,’ Donna said.
‘If it stops,’ Julie added quietly, gazing up into the heavens.
The rain continued to pour down.
7.08 p.m.
The sky still wept.
The ceaseless deluge had turned the small front yard of the cottage into a swamp. Water poured through the guttering and splashed noisily from the eaves. It was falling so fast that rivulets of rain streaming down the window-panes made it difficult to see out at all. Darkness had come prematurely with the deluge, the gloom summoned early by such an abundance of black cloud. The sky looked like one massive mottled rain cloud.
Donna sat in the sitting-room, glancing endlessly at the sheets of paper they’d picked up from the bank that day and also at the notes Ward had left. She knew the words off almost by heart.
‘Donna.’
Julie’s shout caused her eyes to snap open. She looked round and saw her sister standing at the window, gazing out.
‘Come here,’ the younger woman said, a note of urgency in her voice.
Donna did as she was asked and stood beside her sister, peering through the rain and darkness.
Two cars were moving towards the house, both with their lights turned off.
‘Who are they?’ Julie wanted to know.
Donna was reasonably sure she knew. When she spoke, her voice was low.
‘Lock the doors and windows,’ she said. ‘Hurry.’
The cars stopped about twenty yards from the front of the cottage. One of them parked across the narrow track leading away from the building; it acted as a barrier.
Donna saw men scuttle from the vehicles, two of them running towards the house, slipping in the mud but keeping their balance.
She recognized one of them as Peter Farrell. Julie was busily locking the doors and windows, sliding bolts and turning keys. Donna seemed transfixed by the approaching men. She saw two more of them move towards the sides of the cottage. She turned and ran upstairs.
‘What’s happening?’ Julie asked breathlessly, hurrying to secure a window-lock on one of the kitchen windows.
The face loomed up out of the darkness and leered at her through the rain-soaked glass.
Julie screamed and took a step back.
The man held something in his hands.
Something he was swinging towards the window.
The iron bar struck the frame and the glass simultaneously, shattering the glass, sending shards spraying into the kitchen.
Julie screamed again and threw herself to one side, hissing in pain as a silver of broken glass sliced through the flesh on the back of her left hand.
The man outside struck at the window again, smashing more of the wooden frame, then he dropped the iron bar and snaked one hand inside, trying to slip the catch.
‘No,’ shouted Julie. She picked up a knife lying on the draining board by the sink, and drove it towards the man’s hand. She heard him shriek in agony as the blade pierced it, cutting through the web of skin between his thumb and index finger. Embedded in the wood, it momentarily skewered him to the window-frame. Julie saw blood pumping thickly from the wound.
With a shout of pain he tore his hand free, the flesh ripping as he dragged himself away from the knife, leaving it embedded in the wood.
Julie snatched at the knife as the man disappeared back into the blackness outside. Rain now poured in through the broken window, the wind also whipping through, buffetting Julie as she moved across to the back door.
The impact against it was enormous.
It seemed to bow in the centre; for one terrible second she thought that it was going to split.
The second blow sent the door flying open. For fleeting seconds Julie found herself staring into the rain- soaked face of the intruder. He fixed her in a maddened stare and she saw the blood running from his gashed hand.
‘Fucking bitch,’ he hissed and lunged towards her.
On the cooker to her right stood a frying pan the two women had used for their meal less than an hour ago.
Julie snatched up the heavy skillet and swung it with all her strength.
It smacked savagely into the man’s face, flattening his nose. The bones splintered under the force of the blow and blood spilled down his chin and the front of his jacket. He staggered.
She struck again, wielding the frying pan like a club, bringing it down hard on the top of his head with a blow hard enough to cut his scalp.
He dropped to his knees and tried to scramble away but Julie hit him again, kicking him hard in the ribs as he fell to the ground.
She dropped the frying pan and used both hands to push the back door shut, heaving with all her strength as the man tried to block it with his body.
She pulled the door back a foot or so then slammed it forward, catching him between the heavy wooden door and the frame. He grunted in pain.
She slammed it on him again.
And again.
He let go and ducked back into the driving rain.
Julie banged the door shut and slid the bolts into place.
Donna had been rummaging beneath the bed upstairs, where she’d pulled out both of the metal cases. She flipped one open and took out the Beretta and the .38, jamming one into the waistband of her jeans. Then she rushed back towards the stairs, almost falling in her haste to get back to the ground floor.
As she dashed into the sitting-room she heard movement outside the front door and immediately swung the automatic up into firing position.
It had been a while since she’d fired a pistol and the initial retort took even
The 9mm bullet left the barrel travelling at over 1,200 feet a second and cut a hole through the door. She
