Tudor checked the obscured places; behind the door, behind the couch. No sign of anyone else. He signalled to the trembling security guard to keep close behind him, and they stepped towards the next doorway. The half-lit space ahead was the kitchen. Evidently this was the source of all the smashing and breaking they had heard. Mr Salinger must have met his end first, before the party moved to a kitchen scene. There were bloodyfootprints confirming this theory. As the carpet changed to tiles they became smudged, smeared, no clear path discernible. Tudor snatched open the door to a walk-in cupboard to his right. No jump scares in there. The cupboards and shelves had been violently cleared of their china and glass, most of which was in a shattered mess on the floor, much of it bloody. A tap was running, the blind at the window pulled off its roller, a pane shattered, glass in the sink.
Then a tiny sound. A whimper.
Both men turned to face the far corner, where there was a space between the units, a dog bed in it. But there was no dog. Only Mrs Salinger, crouched and cowering, her nightie drenched in blood, her white hair crazy, her eyes wide with horror, more blood smeared across her face. What must she have witnessed? What might have been done to her?
McAllen exhaled, recognition and pity carried on that breath. ‘Mrs Salinger! It’s OK,’ he told her softly, reaching forward a gentle hand. ‘It’s OK,’ he repeated, glancing around the room, still searching for the monster who had caused such suffering.
A decade in the forces and five more in high level security had tightened Tudor’s senses. Made him wary. Made him pick up on things another man might miss. Like the fact that he couldn’t see the old woman’shands. Like the fact that the old man hadn’t tried to defend himself. Hadn’t even thought to raise his arse out of his seat before he was filleted. Like the fact that there was no-one else in the apartment. Like the fact that they had just found the perpetrator.
In the time it took his warning to McAllen to exit his mouth, the old lady had uncoiled from her hiding place faster than a striking snake. She sprang forwards, the kitchen knife in her right hand raised, the blade flashing under the flat kitchen light, her expression pure venom. The guard didn’t have a chance to protect himself before she landed on him, chopping as they fell to the floor together; a middle aged man too stunned to defend himself, and a crazed woman intent on slaughter.
Tudor didn’t bother to shout a warning before he fired. To hell with procedure. There was a risk one of the bullets might find its way to McAllen, but it was smaller than the risk he would end the same way Mr Salinger had if he didn’t shoot. The force of the blast hitting the skeletally thin senior citizen sent her sideways, knocked her off her balance, knocked her off her prey. Because that’s what she looked like: a predator, a wild animal using its base instincts to bring down its chosen victim in the most efficient way possible. The sound that came from her was a shriek of rage, thennothing. The sounds that were coming from the security guard were pitiful. Tudor yelled back to Deri, shouting at him to call an ambulance, knowing even then that it would come too late. Dropping to his knees on the bloody floor beside McAllen, he placed his hands over the two worst wounds. A futile gesture, offering little comfort to either of them.
The stricken man tried to speak. Tudor hushed him. ‘Help is on its way. Hang in there.’
He shook his head, giving up a hopeless cause.
Tudor grabbed his face with one hand, turning it so he had to look at him. ‘Just hold on. You are needed here, d’you hear me?’
This brought a crooked smile from him, even as he began to spit blood. If he had a witty reply ready he never had the breath to use it. He gasped, a bubble in his throat gurgling, his chest heaving once, twice, and that was it. Tudor looked at the openings in his ribcage and stomach and the lake of blood beneath them. There was no bringing him back.
From the other room, the TV expert was busy explaining that geraniums needed wrapping up in fleece to survive two degrees of frost.
CHAPTER TWO
The Black Mountains, Wales 1084
That afternoon, Gwen went out into the garden with her mother. Lady Olwen took great pride in her rose beds, and liked to talk to her daughter while she tended them. In truth, Gwen believed she wished to distract her from the guest they would soon be entertaining. To keep her under her watchful eye, fearing that the girl might take it into her head to go wandering upon the hills when she should be readying herself, arriving home looking a fright with no time for remedy. It would not be the first occasion on which she had employed such a ruse. They took their slave, Rufus, into the garden to help them. He had been born to slave parents owned by Gwen’s grandfather, his ancestors having belonged to a Roman general, their forebears living their lives in Rome. Fifteen years older than Gwen, he had been a steady, helpful presence throughout her childhood. As a young girl, when she slipped from her nurse maid to roam the mountains it was Rufus who was sent after her. When she was playing through dusk with the village children it was Rufuswho would come, often led to her by the sound of her laughter, to urge her home before her absence was discovered. It was he who taught her to ride and showed her how to draw a bow. He had become her unofficial protector. Her father had been glad of his strength and loyalty when she was a child. Now that she had become a woman, however, he disapproved of her spending any time alone with him, deeming it unseemly. Lady Olwen, therefore, mindful of the importance of the childhood friendship to her daughter, chose to include him in tasks they could all happily share. Among the flowers stood an ancient apple tree through which a climbing rose twisted. Rufus climbed up into the boughs on his mistress’s instructions so that he could secure some of the wandering shoots. The three snipped and tied the plants beneath the soft summer sun, the scent of the flowers making Gwen languorous. She clumsily grasped a stem and found a large thorn.
‘Ouch!’ She put a finger to her mouth to staunch the bleeding.
Her mother shook her head. ‘You have never cared for my roses,’ she said
‘I favour a flower that does not bite me.’
‘You favour wild plants that grow where they will, need little tending, and resist being tamed.’ She paused to nod at the tangle of honeysuckle that grew profuselyover the far wall. She gave a small smile, peering up from beneath her banded headdress. Her eyes crinkled, and it was easy for Gwen to understand how her father had loved her for so many years. Above them, Rufus stifled laughter.
Gwen affected not to be aware of her mother’s comment on her own nature. ‘It is true,’ she said, ‘I am fond of honeysuckle. I find its scent more to my liking, its blooms less brash, its choice of woodland or wild meadow for a home more pleasing than an enclosed garden. I am happy it chooses to grow here too, with little encouragement.’
‘Encouragement, indeed! That plant of yours would overwhelm my garden if it were permitted to do so. Truly, I have never known such vigorous and abundant flowers as those you tend, child. It would please me if you could apply yourself to my roses with equal effect.’
Lady Olwen stepped forward and as she did so Rufus gave a cry. He had let go the pruning knife. Gwen saw that her mother stood directly in its path. Without forming a thought for her actions, Gwen flung herself forwards, stretching her hand up to snatch the knife from the air. Her mother, with her back to her daughter, was entirely taken up with her task and so missed the incident. Rufus, however, had seen what happened. He hadseen the unnatural speed with which Gwen reacted. He had noticed the impossible skill of the catch that had saved Lady Olwen from serious injury. Gwen passed him back the knife with a smile and a shrug. In truth, she too was unsettled by what she had just done, but she had no wish to alarm her friend, nor to make more of something that puzzled her.
‘Daughter,’ her mother turned, handing her three long stemmed roses, ‘these are at their best and will remain so if we keep them cool. You may wear them in your headdress, the better to impress your father’s guests.’
‘I pray they have thorns aplenty, then, so that no eager suitor will dare touch me,’ Gwen joked, bringing an exasperated smile from her mother. Something caused Gwen’s own smile to quickly fade. She sensed rather than heard something. Lady Olwen noticed the change in her daughter.
‘What is it, child?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure… a rider, I think.’
‘I hear none. Rufus, you can see further down the valley from your perch. Tell us who approaches.’
‘Why, no-one, my lady.’
‘Gwen, your mind is running to dreams again. Your head is ever full of fancies and whimsy.’
‘I was certain…’
