King vaulted the metal park fencing and landed softly on the gravel driveway. The fencing reminded him of a country park, a National Trust property he had recently visited with his fiancé, Caroline. As he walked, crunching on the thick bed of gravel, he felt a sad nod to his past, knowing he had walked similar parks, seen the same fencing with his late wife too.
Another life.
Keep moving forwards.
The rear of the house confirmed his assumptions. The garden was exquisitely kept. An expensive timber climbing frame and swing wrapped itself around an oak tree. Either the homeowner was a craftsman, or a team had been hired to do the job. King suspected the latter. The grass was cut short, the plant and flower beds well-tended and edged, bird tables and statues made from marble or polished concrete, along with several mature trees randomly planted a hundred years ago by people with both the required vision and sentiment. They wouldn’t sit in their shade, but they had selflessly left something beautiful for future generations. The property had that feel. That it was a family’s home, no matter how large that family had become, nor how long the family line had extended.
Both cars were parked to the side of the house. Both were new plates, the Audi six months newer than the Range Rover. They were base models, but still some hundred-thousand pounds worth between them. The Range Rover was muddy, but the Audi had recently been polished. King looked back at the house. A satellite dish was discreetly fitted behind a gable. He looked back at the cars and the garden. To him, although wealthy enough to afford the cars, or at least the repayments on them, the people here still had a proper life. They worked, took pride in their property and used it as it was meant to be used. They were far removed from the body being loaded into the coroner’s vehicle across the valley in the California house. They had no unrealistic aspirations of that lifestyle either. Had the fifth richest man on that list not lived across the valley, this house and its occupants would have been something for all around to aspire to.
The main door to the house was ajar, but King expected it to be. He drew his weapon, but doubted there would still be a threat inside. In fact, he knew there wouldn’t be, but he was in his early-forties and had only made it that far by being at the top of his game. He just hoped his game was still good enough.
The house was quiet. But he knew it was far from empty. It was early spring. A warm day. The shot had taken place at one-pm. It was now four-thirty. The shooter would have gotten here early. Now King had ascertained that this was the place, and with the cars of the household still parked outside, he assumed at least one member of the household had worked. The shooter would have to have arrived before the family had set out. There would be a child or children. The climbing apparatus would point to that. The timber was well-stained, looked new. At least not decades old. There were no pinch marks at the trunk, no warping of the wood as the tree had grown. It was a new addition to an old and well-established garden. It was a school day so the whole family would have been up. The man of the house in his shirt and tie, sipping tea and checking his smartphone. The wife and mother perhaps in active-wear, ready for a run or the gym after the school run. His fiancé would have jabbed him in the ribs at such stereotypical assumptions. She was any man’s equal. But he was building a picture in his mind, a snapshot of the people who owned a house like this.
King looked around the hallway. There were coats on a rack. A lower rack was fixed below it. Children’s coats, easy for them to reach. He estimated the coats to fit an eight to ten-year-old. Sure enough, there was a polka dot affair, a woollen thing and a drab-looking blue anorak with a hood. A school coat.
It wasn’t going to be easy, but King had no expectations. No matter how bad it would be, he knew deep down that he would still have seen worse.
The silence was deathly. As was the smell. King kept the Smith & Wesson revolver pointed downwards, at an angle of around forty-five degrees. He didn’t expect to be using it, but good weapon drills had kept him alive.
He was looking at about ten-hours since the shooter had set up their position. It was twenty-degrees-centigrade outside. Slightly warmer inside. Plenty of time for the gases to build, the blood to sour and putrefy. He edged his way through the hall, caught sight of himself in the gilt-framed mirror. Dark close-cropped hair, slightly salt and peppered at the sides. Rugged, his eyes cold and blue, the sockets dark, haggard. He looked tired, but it was to be expected. There had been little sleep lately. A couple days’ worth of stubble had sprung up on his face. He didn’t do suits, would look out of place in one. He peered through the doorway into the kitchen. The family had owned a dog, a golden retriever. It was either swelling from the gases inside, or had eaten a large breakfast. For three more dogs by the look of it. It looked to have been shot in the head, between the eyes at the bridge of its nose. Its tongue, dry and pale, hung out a long way on the stone floor. Its glossy eyes were open, staring lifelessly
