She could see the colourful pattern of his boxer shorts poking through the zip of the trousers and her stomach turned.
‘Do it, or I kill you now,’ he threatened, pressing the cold barrel under her chin and pointing her face up towards him. ‘It isn’t like you haven’t done it a hundred times before. Probably more.’
She swallowed hard and slowly moved her hands upwards, willing herself to put her fingers anywhere near his crotch.
‘That’s it,’ he scoffed. ‘Old habits die hard.’
She threw her head backwards, cracking the base of her skull on the edge of the desk but ignoring the searing pain and at the same time she grabbed the barrel of the gun and pushed it towards his body, just as his finger tensed. The explosion was deafening, so close to her right ear, and she wanted to retch as the warm liquid splashed against her cheeks and closed eyelids, but it was over in a second.
He fell backwards, writhing in pain, the gun abandoned, clutching his groin as though he might be able to keep everything attached by sheer will.
‘You bitch! You fucking bitch!’ he was screaming, but the cries were muffled.
Pushing herself away from him and the desk, she picked up the three folders, and backed out of the room, keeping her eyes on Mr Brown to ensure he didn’t reach for the gun again, but there was no danger of that. Scooping up the blade from the carpet’s edge, she zipped it back into her coat, and continued backwards out of the room and down the stairs, wiping the blood from her face with the sleeve of her jacket. Her eyes didn’t leave the upstairs until she felt the handle of the front door protruding into her lower back, and only then did she turn and pull open the door.
Her exit from the property was less careful than her arrival. Tearing down the paved driveway, she darted through the gates, across the street, and into her waiting car. Dropping the folders onto the passenger seat, she started the engine and hauled out of there.
She finally stopped when she was a good five miles away, and it was while in the car park of Dover train station that her breathing finally returned to a more regular rhythm.
She could have remained at the house and waited for the police to arrive so that she could explain exactly who Mr Brown was and why she’d broken into his home, but she wasn’t ready to go on the record about her own misdemeanours yet. She also could have picked up the gun and finished him off, but she liked the idea that his wife would return home and find him bleeding, and leave him to explain why.
She lifted the top folder and pulled out the picture of Faye McKenna – or Precious, as she had known her. The fire at Pendark last year was bound to uncover her remains eventually, but without help the police would be unlikely to connect her death with the man responsible. Her only hope was a gentle push in the right direction, but who could she trust?
Opening the glovebox, she extracted the book she’d found on the shelf in the library. Here was a woman writer who did seem to care about the plight of others, and if the detective skills she’d demonstrated in the book were anything to go by, she might just be able to unpick the conspiracy. If Mr Brown was right then she had more work to do if she was to find the head of the organisation.
Writing Faye’s name on the photograph, she slipped it into one of the prepared brown paper envelopes she’d brought with her. Then, putting the copy of Ransomed back into the glove box, she exited the car in search of a post box.
THE END
Emma Hunter will return in Repressed…
Acknowledgments
I always find writing acknowledgements in a book challenging, because I’m always terrified that I’ll end up inadvertently omitting a key collaborator, and just waffling. But here goes.
For once I’m going to start by acknowledging my personal support network whose love and support enables me to keep writing. What is any writer without the support of a loving spouse? My brilliant wife Hannah keeps all the ‘behind the scenes’ stuff of my life in order and our children’s lives would be far duller if I was left in sole charge. They are my reason for getting up and soldiering on every day, and I want them to know how much I love them all.
I’d like to thank my parents, Ann and Nick, and parents-in-law, Marina and Robert, for all they do for us as a family. Thank you as ever to my best friend, Dr Parashar Ramanuj, who never shies away from the awkward medical questions I ask him. Thank you to Alex Shaw and Paul Grzegorzek – authors and dear friends – who are happy to listen to me moan and whinge about the pitfalls of the publishing industry, offering words of encouragement along the way.
And thanks must also go to YOU for buying and reading Discarded. You are my motivation for waking up ridiculously early to write every day, and why every free moment is spent devising plot twists. I feel truly honoured to call myself a writer, and it thrills me to know that other people are being entertained by the weird and wonderful visions my imagination creates. I love getting lost in my imagination and the more people who read and enjoy my stories, the more I can do it.
I want to finish by thanking every member of the One More Chapter team who’ve played some part in the production of this book. I’m lucky to have an editor like Bethan Morgan who ‘gets’ Emma and her close friends, and is always there to
