The firearms cabinet was in the sixth bedroom, which had been converted to a study. It was hidden inside a cupboard and bolted to the wall to conform to stringent police regulations. All that was kept in there was the one shotgun, used for vermin control on the land. How appropriate, Tara thought, as she unlocked the cabinet and extracted the shotgun out of its clips. She often used the weapon for clay-pigeon shooting at a local club too, so she knew what she was doing with it, knew which end was which, knew the damage it could cause.
She sneaked back to the kitchen. The door was still slightly ajar. Coulton had not moved.
Tara sidestepped into the room, the shotgun held across her body.
She watched Coulton for a few seconds. He did not move, could have been asleep, sat there.
She tip-toed up behind him and rammed the barrel of the gun into the back of his neck.
‘You raped my daughter.’
Coulton’s eyes shot open. Indeed, he had been drifting into sleep, his head nodding. His eyes opened like those of a doll and he became as rigid as a statue. The cold muzzle of the shotgun nullified the alcohol in his system.
‘Don’t shoot,’ he pleaded. He imagined his head being blown off. ‘Please don’t shoot. It’s not what it seems.’
She jammed it harder into his neck. ‘You deserve to die, you bastard.’
‘It was a mistake. .’ he began.
John Lloyd Wickson appeared at the kitchen door in a dressing gown, shocked by the scene in front of him, bleary from alcohol intake. ‘Tara?’
She looked at him, startled by his unexpected manifestation.
Coulton used the moment, contorted round and made a grab for the gun. Tara was quicker. She danced away from him and held the gun aimed at his middle. ‘Get back and sit down.’
Coulton was half out of his seat. He smiled callously and continued to rise, his courage enlarged by the presence of Wickson.
‘I said sit down.’ Tara raised the gun. ‘I’ll use it. I will. You violated my daughter and no court in the land will convict me of murdering you.’
But he continued to rise and took a hazardous step towards her. One step was as far as he got. Tara pulled the trigger. The noise was incredible within the confines of the kitchen. The blast reverberated, pummelling eardrums with its aftershock. The shell blasted a hole in the cupboard door just inches to the side of Coulton’s head. Smoke rose. Wadding settled to the floor and a horrified Coulton dropped back into the chair, covering his head with his hands.
Tara racked the gun with deliberation, her face a mask of hatred and resolve. ‘Next time it’s your head,’ she said and promised, ‘There will be a next time.’ She spun to her husband. ‘You join him.’
‘What?’
‘Do as I say.’
Meekly, John Lloyd Wickson complied.
‘Now, you lousy bastards, what do you have to say for yourselves?’
‘I’ve reached the track up to your house, Tara. If you hear a car coming, it’s me. Don’t worry.’
‘OK, OK,’ Tara said.
‘I’m only a couple of minutes away.’
‘He raped Charlotte,’ Tara said to Wickson.
Wickson glanced sideways at his head of security, then back to Tara. ‘And. .?’ he said.
‘What do you mean, “And?” He raped our daughter.’
Wickson shook his head. ‘No, Tara, he raped your daughter, not mine. She isn’t my daughter, she’s yours. There is a difference.’
‘Yes, she is yours, John, in everything but biology, she’s yours — our — daughter.’
Wickson continued to shake his head and laughed. ‘You betrayed me. You let someone else impregnate you and then you claimed it was mine. You lied, you cheated. All to keep your way of life. She’s not my daughter and I don’t care. Now put the gun down and let’s get this sorted, Tara, once and for all.’
‘Sorted? In what way? You don’t even care he raped Charlotte, do you?’
Wickson’s face was emotionless. ‘No.’
It was at that point Tara Wickson knew she was very capable of killing two people in cold blood. Part of her, the devil in her heart, urged this to happen. She wanted to see both men dead. She could see a future, without them, never mind the consequences. The other part of her, however, the reasonable person, knew this was very wrong and stupid.
Fortunately she recognized that the strongest part of her was the devil — which is why she picked up the cordless house phone from the wall by the Aga and called Henry Christie. He was the only person she could think of who could talk her down from this course of action: murdering two people.
Several lights burned at the big house. Henry stood by the Astra and surveyed the front of the building. He thought he saw movement at one of the upper windows. It could have been the breeze blowing the curtains. He shivered, once again feeling vulnerable. His mouth was dry from so much talking and from fear because he did not know exactly what he was going to come across. All he had to go on were Tara’s verbals.
He glanced towards the stables. The JCB was still there next to the crusher. They stood like prehistoric monsters, darker than their background. Menacing.
‘OK, Tara,’ he said into his mobile, ‘I’m walking up to the front door now.’
Twelve
A quarter of a mile away, another man shivered at the same time as Henry Christie. This man was laid out on the hillside overlooking the Wickson household. He was comfortable, but getting cold in spite of the layers of clothing on him. He had watched the arrival of Henry Christie with interest and, as Henry stood by his car, held him in the cross hairs of the powerful night sights on his rifle.
He adjusted the sights minutely and zeroed in on Henry’s head, just to the temple by his left ear. The man had been testing the rifle the day before and knew it was perfectly sighted. The tip of his forefinger rested on the trigger. If he had pulled he would have blown a hole in Henry’s head, probably taken the top half of it off.
Henry Christie would have been very dead indeed.
If only he knew he had been in the sights of a high-powered rifle.
But Henry was not his target.
The man lifted his cheek from the stock of the rifle, his keen sharp eyes watching as Henry said something into his mobile phone, then walked up to the house.
The man on the hillside wriggled his toes to keep the circulation going. He adjusted his position slightly and manoeuvred the plastic straw into the corner of his mouth to sip the high-energy drink next to him.
He was playing a waiting game, knowing that sooner or later his prey would appear. He was a patient man. Snipers had to be.
The front door was unlocked. Henry pushed the heavy oak-panelled piece of wood open and crossed the threshold.
‘Tara, that’s me coming into the house.’
She did not acknowledge.
There were no lights in the hallway. Henry let his eyes adjust. He saw something at the top of the stairs to his left. A dark shape. Charlotte sitting on the top step, knees drawn up under her chin, rocking back and forth.
‘Are you OK for the moment?’ Henry whispered just loud enough for her to hear.
She nodded.
‘Good girl. Everything’ll be fine.’
He gave her the thumbs up, then turned his attention to the hallway in front of him. He knew the last door on the right was the kitchen. He braced himself and said, ‘I’m coming down the hallway and into the kitchen,’ into his mobile phone. He ended the call, probably the longest he had ever made in his life — and dropped the phone into his jeans pocket.