The Assassin's Dog Read online

  She turned left as instructed and almost immediately hit a huge puddle of water that had gathered in a depression in the tarmac. “Hope you can swim, Dolly girl,” she said, peering through the windscreen as she tried to distinguish road from ditch.

  Normally Trisha would have kept half an eye on the satnav screen and seen the approaching tight bends. But on this occasion, with the rain beating on the windscreen, she was too focussed on trying to see anything at all and it wasn’t until she was almost on the first bend and driving too fast that she made out several large trees directly ahead where previously there had only been road. She hit the brakes and the car took on a life of its own.

  The tyre had finished its slow deflation two miles back, but with the speed at which Trisha was driving, along with suspension that was too clever by half, it wasn’t until she braked hard that the car dipped alarmingly and its rear left wheel rim connected with the tarmac. It was all Trisha could do to stop the car from bouncing off the road and by the time it eventually shuddered to a halt perilously close to a massive tree, she was white with fear, her hands shaking as they gripped the steering wheel.

  Using the name Emma Carrington was second nature to her. It was what she always did when she met someone in a social situation that was unlikely to call on her role as a police officer. She had learned from rather too many examples that using her real name was dodgy if her job became known; it was too much information for someone to have on her, especially after a one-night stand. And if she made her job known immediately, it was more often than not a total turn-off. She could read it in the eyes; too many people had too much to hide.

  Nearly writing off your car and having a passing knight in shining armour change your wheel for you was hardly a social situation, but you never knew what might transpire. She certainly saw no reason to announce to Mart Burton that she was a detective superintendent of police. She had a well-rehearsed alternative life story she had used successfully on a number of occasions; she would stick to that.

  Gus Brooke wound down the jack and the red Golf settled comfortably on its spare tyre. He looked at it and pulled a face. It needed some air but it would get her safely enough to where she was going, assuming that wasn’t too far away. For similar reasons to Trisha McVie, Gus seldom used his real name or mentioned his job when he met someone new who had no reason to know the truth. Telling a woman he might casually try it on with when Mo was away that he was a cop was an almost guaranteed bucket of cold water. There were far too many women on one recreational drug or another who would become shit-scared in the presence of the law. Best they had no notion of who he was or what he did.

  Trisha watched as Gus hauled the wrecked wheel into the well in the boot of her Golf and put the cover back in position. With water running in competing rivulets down his face and his clothing sodden, he was a mess. He looked down at his grimy hands and filthy suit trousers and laughed. “Glad I don’t spend much on my suits.”

  “I’ll buy you a replacement set of clothes; it’s the least I can do,” said Trisha.

  Gus shook his head. “Not a problem. This old suit has been through worse than this. Look, it’s getting a bit chilly and this rain is showing no sign of stopping. I don’t know how far you have to go, but you’re as wet as I am. We should both get out of our clothes before we turn into candidates for A&E. My little cottage is less than a mile from here; you will have passed it but in this weather you wouldn’t have seen it. I’ve got plenty of hot water and fluffy towels. A hot cup of something wouldn’t go amiss either, or something stronger if you’d prefer. You’re probably still feeling shaken up after that near miss; I know I would be.”

  He paused before catching her eyes. “You’d be most welcome.”

  “You really are Sir Galahad,” said Trisha, laughing. “It’s a kind offer, but I should be getting along. I’ve still got quite a way to go.”

  “All the more reason for accepting my offer,” said Gus. “If you drive far like that, you’ll end up with pneumonia.”

  Trisha made a show of considering it further before tilting her head in apparent capitulation.

  “A hot shower right now is certainly rather appealing,” she said. “OK, thank you, Mart. You’re very kind.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Trisha was impressed by what Gus had called his ‘little cottage’. It was far larger than she’d imagined and renovated in a modern, country style that was both minimalist and practical without losing its charm.

  Gus showed her to a bedroom on the ground floor, one of four, he told her. “I prefer the bathroom in there to the others. The water pressure is a bit better and I’m rather proud of the quirky solution I dreamed up to fit everything in. In fact, I was so pleased with myself that I repeated the design in the bathroom of the master bedroom, even though it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

  “I’m intrigued,” she said, tossing her handbag and overnight bag onto the bed.

  “I’m going to bung my stuff in the washer on a quick cycle,” continued Gus, moving towards the door. “Put yours in too, if you like. It’ll all be ready in an hour.”

  “That would be great,” enthused Trisha. “These jeans are the only casual clothes I brought with me; the rest is work stuff for the next two days. Can’t stand wearing it after hours. While I’m at it, I’ll chuck in the top, jumper and undies too, if I may; they’re all sodden.”

  “Sure,” said Gus. “Toss them all in the hall and I’ll take them through to the utility room once I’ve had my shower.”

  Trish closed the bedroom door and continued her quiet inspection. She was convinced that much of what she was seeing had a female influence, a female with a strong designer instinct. It was the colours, textures and fabrics, along with some big, bold paintings, all swirling colour, heavy on oil. If Mart Burton wasn’t an interior designer or an artist, and there was something about him that said he wasn’t, he’d either employed a professional, which would be costly, or had a wife with her finger on the decoration pulse.

  Not wanting to drip on the bedroom carpet more than necessary, she made straight for the bathroom and peeled off her clothes. There were two fluffy white bathrobes folded neatly and stacked alongside several bath towels on raw wooden shelving next to the double washbasin. She ran a hand over their pristine folds; she was already looking forward to snuggling up in one while she waited for her clothes to finish drying.

  But what caught her eye more than the free-standing bathtub and the large shower with its tropical-rainforest shower head, were two steps leading up to a raised dog-leg in the bathroom floor beyond the bath where the loo and bidet were placed. This was clearly the design feature Mart was so proud of. Gives sitting on the throne a whole new meaning, she thought, smiling to herself.

  Wanting to give herself plenty of time to luxuriate in a steaming shower, she slipped on a bathrobe and gathered her clothes together, intending to leave them outside the bedroom door as instructed. But when she opened the door to the hall and heard a shower running elsewhere in the house, she continued on as far as the kitchen and left the clothes on a chair.

  On her way back through the bedroom, she stopped as she caught sight of her handbag on the bed next to her overnight bag. The handbag contained everything that identified her: credit cards, driving licence and, in particular, her warrant card. The last thing she wanted was for Mart to snoop through her bag while she was in the shower and discover her true identity; discovering she was a senior police officer might spoil a potentially fun evening. However, the solution was simple: obsessive about tidiness, she had packed the overnight bag with her accustomed pristine neatness, and with a few deft changes of order to its contents, the handbag was stowed away towards the bottom, next to the clothes she intended to wear the next day.

  For the next fifteen minutes, she enjoyed the comfort of the scalding hot water as she washed away the memories of her crappy drive up, the filthy storm, the puncture and near write-off of the car. Added to those, she took particular enjoyment
in washing away memories of bloody Steven Hawthorn, whom she’d now decided was her ex.

  As she dismissed him from her mind and her life, she remembered that she’d left her phone in the car, switched off after that final pathetic call with him whining away. She should retrieve it and turn it back on; she’d have any of her junior officers’ guts strung on a line for being out of contact for anything more than a brief, justifiable period. No doubt Mart would have an umbrella; she’d fetch the phone once her clothes were ready.

  “Ah, there you are, Emma,” said Gus, turning towards her from where he was opening a bottle of red wine in the open-plan kitchen. “I thought maybe you’d drowned in the bath.”

  Trisha smiled at him. He looked relaxed and sure of himself in a pair of slate-grey lounge pants and a loose, pale-grey cotton top. His hair was slicked back, still wet from the shower.

  “I was drowning all right, but not in the bath. I was drowning in the luxury of winding down in that lovely shower. And this bathrobe is magical; it has a warm glow all of its own. I also dug a hairdryer out of a cupboard in the bathroom in an attempt to breathe life back into my hair. I paid a fortune to have it done only this afternoon; I could have asked dear Julian to give me a drowned-rat punk look there and then. It would have cost far less.”

  Gus laughed. “Looks pretty good to me.”

  “Mmm,” conceded Trisha, with a nod, “it did fall perfectly into place as it dried, so I suppose he knew what he was doing.”

  Gus held up the bottle of red wine. “I’m having a glass of this, if you’d care to join me. Alternatively, the kettle’s just boiled. There’s a selection of various packets of things that claim to be tea, including good old-fashioned builder’s, or there’s coffee if you’d prefer. And if you still want warming up, there’s hot chocolate as well.”

  He smiled, his arm still extended upwards with the wine bottle.

  Trisha sighed her indecision. “The wine is certainly tempting after everything that’s happened today, but I’m not sure how far I still have to drive, and in this weather, I’ll still need my wits about me as well as staying on the right side of the law. It’s something I’m very strict with myself about.”

  “Staying on the right side of the law or not drinking and driving?” said Gus, raising an amused eyebrow.

  Trisha pushed her lips together in a smile. “Both. But particularly drinking and driving. I keep whole fleets of taxis in business in London.”

  Gus unscrewed the bottle cap. “It’s your choice, Emma. But if you do want to have a drink, you’re perfectly welcome to stay the night. As you’ve seen, the bed along there in the downstairs guest room is all made up. As are the others, in fact.”

  Trish stretched and yawned. “Sorry,” she said, patting her mouth. “I must say the thought of not going out again tonight is certainly appealing.”

  She paused before adding, “Thank you, it’s a most generous offer.”

  Gus took a second wine glass out of a wall cupboard next to him and held it up. “So, that’s a yes?”

  “It’s a yes,” smiled Trisha in agreement. “Do you mind if I pull a chair up by the log burner? I love the glass front; I can see that winters here wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Only moved in last spring, so it’s hard to say. But, yes, that’s the general idea.” He handed her wine to her and drew a second chair closer to the stove for himself, “Tell me, what brings you to this part of the world on a filthy September night?”

  Trisha took a breath, ready with her tale. “I’m an art dealer,” she said, “for a rather exclusive little gallery in Mayfair. Our clients expect the personal touch, so I’m often out and about giving them notice of work coming our way that might interest them. It’s a pain when it could all be done by email, but you’d be surprised how much difference it makes.”

  “Rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, eh? Another world, I should imagine.”

  Trisha laughed. “Sometimes, yes, but most of the time it’s the rich and self-absorbed. I’m seeing someone tomorrow at their home in The Park in Nottingham,” — she quietly thanked Jennifer for living there, otherwise she wouldn’t have had a clue about the better quality districts in the city — “and after that I’m off out into the sticks somewhere. Can’t remember the name, but I’ve got it all written down.”

  She paused and took a large pull on her wine. “Mmm, that’s delicious. Cabernet?”

  “Cabernet-Merlot blend.”

  “What’s with the throne in the bathroom,” she asked. “I must admit, it looks good, but is it necessary?”

  Gus laughed. “It is, actually, yes. On the other side of the wall behind the shower is a stairway to the cellar and a void that was just begging to be filled. So with a little wall rejigging, I created the raised floor over part of the void and a cupboard as well. Wouldn’t have had nearly so much room in the bathroom without putting the loo and bidet there. As I said earlier, I liked the look of it so much that I repeated the design in the master bathroom.”

  Trisha nodded. “Clever stuff. Is that what you do? Cottage refurbishment?”

  “No, not at all. I’m in software. I work for a computer company writing various types of business programs. My company opened a new East Mids office last year and gave me the job of getting it up and running.”

  “Sounds interesting,” she lied as she ran her eyes over him while he stared into his glass. She had never seen anyone less like a software engineer in her life.

  Gus shrugged dismissively. “It has its moments. And it keeps the wolf from the door.”

  He drained his glass and stood up. “Are you hungry? I know I am. I’ve got some great curried chicken left from last night. I normally make enough for two or three nights rather than start from scratch every time, and there’s loads of salad, nuts and cheese.”

  Trisha nodded. “Yes, I’m starving. That all sounds wonderful.”

  She stood and followed Gus to the kitchen area. “What can I do?”

  “Top up the wine?” suggested Gus, nodding towards the bottle. “And there are plates in there,” — a nod towards a lower cupboard — “and cutlery in the drawer in front of you.”

  “Where are we eating?” asked Trisha, pulling a pair of plates from the cupboard.

  “Here, at the counter?” he suggested. “It’s warmer than in the dining room.”

  Trisha set two places.

  “Will the washing be ready yet? Not that I was thinking of dressing for dinner, if that’s all right.”

  “If you’re comfortable, it’s fine by me.” He held up a wooden spoon. “Do you want to taste this curry sauce? See if it’s okay?”

  She walked over to the cooker and stood close to him. She could smell plenty of spice, but it was from his deodorant or cologne, rather than the food. Whatever it was, the effect was more than pleasing. She wondered if he would notice the Chanel No. 19 she’d found in the bathroom cabinet and sprayed liberally. It was her favourite, but she hadn’t used it since that arse Steven had accidentally knocked her bottle off a shelf and watched it smash on the bathroom floor. She’d been livid and there’d been another monumental row. And the bugger hadn’t even replaced it.

  Gus held the spoon out for her, more or less forcing her to place her hand on his to draw the spoon into her mouth.

  “Wow!” she said, nodding her head in approval. “That’s delicious. Is it Mary Berry or an old family recipe?”

  Gus half-closed his eyes mysteriously. “It was a secret my grandmother taught me.”

  “Was she Indian?”

  “Not as far as I know. She was from Bournemouth.”

  “Then I reckon she had a secret admirer in a local restaurant.”

  Realising she still had her hand on his, she pulled the spoon towards her again for a second taste.

  “Magic,” she said, finally dropping her hand.

  “Perhaps I’d better check the washing. If it’s ready, is there somewhere I can hang it up to air?”

  “On a night like this,
probably better to chuck it all into the tumble dryer. Twenty minutes should do it. Could you bring in another bottle of this red as well? There’s a pantry beyond the washer with a large rack in it.”

  Trisha came back a few minutes later carrying two bottles of wine, a mischievous glint in her eye.

  When Gus saw them, he smiled inwardly to himself. The evening was turning out well.

  “Seeing how that bottle is more or less empty,” said Trisha, “I thought that two … well, you know.”

  “Excellent thought,” said Gus, as he emptied the remains of the first bottle into her glass and took the two she was carrying from her. “Shall we eat?”

  Half-an-hour later, they had finished the food and the second bottle of wine. Trisha’s head was beginning to spin, but she still felt as much in control as she needed to be. She was surprised how relaxed she felt in this man’s company. He was at least ten years younger than her and more than a little arrogant with his opinions and self-satisfied stories, none of which she believed. She didn’t care; she knew exactly where the evening was going and she was looking forward to it, in spite of a nagging feeling that she should get at least a little sleep so she didn’t look too washed out in front of DCS Hawkins and the SCF team in the morning. However, experience told her that just a little sleep would be more than sufficient. And in spite of a degree of over-confidence, which was probably an act, she was enjoying Mart Burton’s company. He was amusing, and it was interesting to follow his line of seduction.

  “When is it, Emma?” he said, surprising her as his voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Er, sorry,” said Trisha. She had drifted slightly deeper into the heady lake of red wine and lost the last half minute or so of conversation.

  Gus smiled at her. “I was talking about performance.”

  He paused, letting the suggestive tone register. “On the track or in the gym, I mean,” he said, his smile indicating that the track and gym weren’t remotely connected to what he meant. “And you mentioned the half-marathon you are training for.”