tiles.
His home was modest; a nondescript terraced house in a quiet mews in a village-like enclave a minute’s walk from Notting Hill High Street. He had considered moving to something more prestigious, but he’d made the place comfortable over the years, particularly his bathroom, on which he’d spent at least fifteen thousand pounds getting it exactly how he wanted it.
He spent a lot of time in there. His asthma, aggravated by the airborne particles of city life, meant every day ended in a hot and steamy bath to settle his chest, his inhaler resting on the soap tray at the side along with the TV remote and his cordless phone.
It would be fair to say this bathroom was the most used room in his home.
He picked up the remote and muted the small plasma TV hanging on the wall and then picked up his phone. Since speaking with Julian earlier in the week and reading further into the journal, there were some more thoughts he wanted to pass on before he got sidetracked with other things.
He dialled and Julian answered almost immediately. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello, Julian it’s Tom. Listen, I thought I’d talk with you a bit more about this story of yours. You got time?’
‘Sure. What’s on your mind?’
‘Well, I’ve read a little more of that journal and I’m increasingly certain that Preston’s a — sticking strictly to medical terminology — a monster. A very dangerous individual capable of, well, frankly… anything.’
‘Yeah, I think we’re both agreed on that.’
‘Anyway, there’s something worth taking a moment to consider here.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Whose toes you might be treading on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that there may be descendants of Preston’s who might not take too kindly to having their great- great-granddad portrayed as some kind of Charles Manson figure, a serial-killing cult leader who, very likely, murdered his entire parish. You could quite easily find yourself in some legal tangle over there on the grounds of defamation. Apart from anything else, you’ll want to be careful that you define a very clear line between the Church of the Latter Day Saints and whatever Preston was preaching to his people, otherwise you’ll have them on your back pretty quickly. And believe me, they have money to burn on lawyers.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘Seriously. For example, I would be careful in your use of the word “cult” in favour of the word “faith”. There are significant implications over in the States, least of all tax implications, which faith groups will defend with a certain… ferocity. You quite often see that kind of issue being fought aggressively in court by very expensive lawyers on behalf of the Church of Scientology.’
‘Yes, I can do without that kind of hassle.’
‘Something else.’
‘What?’
‘Just something I was theorising about in a column recently.’
‘Go on.’
‘That sociopathic tendencies are a Darwinian strong suit.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, it’s very likely a hereditary hand-me-down, like being left-handed, artistically inclined, having a musical ear.’
Tom reached for his inhaler and took a wheezy pull before continuing. ‘Anyway, the point I want to make is this: just be careful what sort of people you piss off over there with your story, okay?’
‘Well, it’s not like we’ve had any real luck digging up anything on Preston. He remains something of an enigma. I’ve certainly not got any great-great-grandchildren lined up to do a door-step interview.’
Tom nodded. ‘Well, that’s probably for the best. You might end up getting a bloody nose.’
Julian laughed.
‘So, you’re heading back to the US tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, have a good flight and say hi to Rose for me.’
‘I will.’
‘Oh, Julian, by the way, I’m away for a couple of weeks. My agent’s flogging overseas rights to some European publishers, so I’ll be part of the dog and pony show; meet-and-greet, then some talks, some signings. But we’ll hook up again when you get back?’
‘Yes, for sure.’
‘Because whether you manage to put a production together or not, I’d dearly love to work with you on this as a book. We could co-author if you like, or you write and I’ll consult, whatever. Want to talk about that downstream?’
‘Yeah, sounds good.’
‘Excellent. Happy flying, then. I’ll speak to you soon.’
‘Thanks, speak soon.’
Tom disconnected and placed his cordless phone back on the soap shelf, then settled back in the bath. ‘Yes, a book,’ he muttered to himself, his deep voice resonating off the granite tiles and around the bathroom.
He was reaching for the TV remote when he heard a noise from downstairs.
CHAPTER 61
Thursday
Notting Hill, London
It was a soft clack.
He froze for a moment, then realised that it was probably the wind playing with the letterbox flap. Outside, through the top, unfrosted panel of his bathroom window, he could see the tip of the solitary withered and miserable-looking inner-city poplar that grew outside the back of next door’s house, uplit by the amber glow of street lights, swaying gently.
He watched it gently undulating from side to side, and listened to the pleasing tinkle of a wind chime.
He left the TV muted. Not that he was the twitchy sort, but there had been several burglaries along their cul-de-sac in recent months. In any case, it was relaxing listening to the hiss of a breeze through the leaves, and the gentle random musical notes. Despite being so central in London, and so close to the high street, he was constantly amazed at how quiet their little piece of backstreet Notting Hill was. In the distance a police siren wailed and a dog barked in reply… but other than that, so peaceful.
Another noise.
It sounded like the slightest scrape of one of his kitchen stools across the parquet floor. That was all it was… a nudge. Not a sound that could be mistaken for the central heating coming on, or any of the other plethora of tickings and creakings a house will make in the night.
It was the sound of someone else in his house.
Shit.
He felt the first cold prickle of anxiety, and a quickening of his breath. He reached out and took a pull on his inhaler.
Just a kid… a chav looking for something easy to swipe and run.
He knew from past dealings with young offenders that they were at least as frightened as the people they robbed or mugged. If there was someone down there, a confident boo would have him running like a startled rabbit.
‘YOU HAVE EXACTLY TEN SECONDS TO PISS OFF BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!’ His voice boomed out of the bathroom. He listened intently for the sound of trainers skidding on his waxed floor, the clatter and slam of a door or window being opened and the diminishing slap of running feet outside on the pavement.
