Page 22 of The Last Bench

‘Yer man Hinges, who got off in that murder trial?’

‘Yes, him, well, he’s the man who supplied Anne and John’s daughter with drugs. I don’t think they’ll ever get over her death.’

‘That’s understandable. So do they know where this Hinges bloke is?’

‘They said they didn’t. But something doesn’t feel quite right, although I can’t quite figure out what it is. It’s like loose threads are dangling in front of me . . .’

‘He’s probably dead,’ Luka said. When Vega raised an eyebrow in question, he continued, ‘Look, guys like Hinges are either on the run from a drug cartel or the Gardaí.’ Then he added ominously, ‘Or in a shallow grave somewhere.’

The hairs on Vega’s arms stood up, and she gasped aloud as loose threads began to knit together, one by one. ‘Luka, sorry, I’ve got to go. Love you.’

She picked up her notebook and flipped back through pages of notes until she found what she was searching for, hoping that she was mistaken.

‘Damn it, Anne and John,’ she whispered, her suspicions confirmed with one damning detail.

Eighteen

Anne

26 August 1998

Anne struggled against Hinges, but was powerless to move.

‘Doesn’t feel so good when it’s your turn now, does it?’ he growled into her ear.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘Where’s your husband?’ Hinges asked.

‘He’s out,’ Anne said, and had never felt such relief from a fact in her life. She’d brought this crazy man to their door, so it was her and only her who should pay the price.

But then she heard the slam of a car door, and John’s face came into view through the glass in the back door. She tried to shout a warning, but Hinges pressed a sweaty hand over her mouth, holding it firmly.

‘Wait till you see the beauty I bought,’ John said, walking into the kitchen. The smile on his face froze in horror when he saw Anne’s situation.

It only took John seconds to react, but as soon as he moved forward Hinges tightened his grip and said, ‘I’ll snap her neck if you walk one inch closer.’

‘Let her go,’ John demanded. ‘If you hurt her, if you harm one hair on her head . . .’

Hinges squeezed his arms tighter, and for the first time Anne cried out in pain. Her eyes locked with John’s in panic.

‘Give me the videotape,’ Hinges said.

‘It’s not here. As I told you, it’s somewhere safe. If you hurt Anne or me, it will go to a journalist,’ John said evenly.

‘Maybe I don’t care. It would be worth the fallout to see you two go down.’

There was no point in reasoning with this man. Anne would have to talk to Hinges in a language he understood. She swung her arm slamming Hinges in the groin, but didn’t connect, and he pulled back his fist and punched her across the side of her head, sending her flailing to the ground. His eyes scanned the room, and he ran towards the kitchen counter by the AGA stove, reaching for the block of kitchen knives.

He picked up the largest butcher’s blade and rushed towards John.

Dazed, Anne started to move towards her husband, who was trying to hold off Hinges from plunging the knife into his chest.

And then the back door opened.

Michael.

Was she dreaming?