LITMIR.BIZ

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rain, glancing over his shoulder to see if he could memorise the registration of the other car. But at this time of night, at this distance, he couldn’t even make out the plate, but the car was one of those new fancy Minis with the doors at the back, like his granddad’s old Morris Traveller. They had tried to recreate a classic. A car that had been built as cheap transport for the masses had been reinvented as a lifestyle choice of the upwardly mobile professional with deep pockets, no soul and even less imagination.

      As Cowan closed the door, he patted Ludwig as if parting with a faithful old horse. He tugged his hood up, pulled the rucksack onto his back and set off through the dark, rainy night up to the viewpoint to find a place to hide.

      VALERIE LAY ON THE bed in the hotel. The banality of her surroundings leeched every bit of vitality from her.

      She had felt the pressure since visiting Abigail’s house.

      It had left her unsettled, more depressed, but there was some comfort in knowing that this was the last day of her life. The knowledge many of us think we would like to have, but very few are brave enough.

      Imagine Abigail not realising that was the last time she would stack the dishwasher, Malcolm not thinking that was the last time he would do his teeth, pull on his Star Wars pyjamas and argue about staying up for another half hour. If they had realised that, they might have spent their final moments doing something less mundane.

      Like saying goodbye.

      Valerie had spent most of the morning rolling on the floor, lying on the tiles in the bathroom, or being sick down the toilet. Then out to the house before a sneaky foray to the off licence for cheap vodka, the quick consumption of which totally erased any memory of the walk round the house. But tomorrow the empty bottles would be lying in the corner. Silent, but ever present in their condemnation of her.

      Well, she wouldn’t be here to be condemned.

      She lay for a few minutes on top of the bed staring at the ceiling, gradually pulling together the information she needed to place herself in time and space. Judging from the lunatic screeching of revved-up enthusiasm she could hear from the room next door, it was Saturday evening. X Factor. Or Strictly. Something awful. Anything.

      On the ceiling was the familiar smoke alarm, the water sprinkler.

      The last day of her life. She had done her duty, she had gone round the house. The feeling was one of overwhelming relief, all was as it should be.

      She had a gun.

      And a bullet in the chamber.

      She turned on her side, pulling the pillow over her head and stared at the bland beige hotel room wall, thinking about the cleaner who was going to open the door to her mess, walking in to the room pulling her Henry hoover behind her then looking up to see a woman with her skull blown apart.

      The bullet would do a lot of damage. Valerie knew it wasn’t like in the films where the head lay intact, a neat trickle of blood delicately running down a sculptured cheekbone to leave a crimson teardrop on the pristine white sheets. The eyes, each lash point perfect with the mascara, the pupils open and staring into the sunset. Ready for their close-up.

      No, it wasn’t like that at all.

      Her head would open up like a flower, blood and brains would spatter all over the room, behind the headboard, behind the curtains. Over the fire alarm. Not pretty.

      The crime scene pictures of Balcarres Avenue had been burned onto her retinas. Her sister and her nephew, bloodied and torn flesh entangled. And Abigail, her arms round Malcolm, a final, desperate attempt to protect him.

      She would have been fascinated by it if it hadn’t been so personal. The whole room was a gaudy abstract of cream and crimson, matching the stained-glass rose on the door.

      That was another memory that wasn’t going to go away.

      She felt the weight of the gun in her hand.

      No. She had to time this right, so it wasn’t the cleaner who discovered her body.

      Archie Walker? Yes, she’d time it so Uncle Archie would find her.

      He could explain it to red-lipped Fascist and Beardy dogsbody. She sat back up, looking at herself as her face passed in the mirror. A haggard young woman stared back out at her, seeming to move slower than she herself moved. A pale face haunted by the loss of her family, the loss of her career. Her loss of self.

      Getting up and walking across the floor, she noticed she still had her boots on.

      She should pick up the empty bottles of vodka from the carpet.

      Why bother? She’d be dead. Oblivion was better than another meeting where they looked down at her, because she had lived a dream life. She had had it all. Yet they would stare at her as if she was some stupid addict, like she was one of them.

      She pulled the curtains over the window, blocking out the night sky as she tried to remember. Glimpses of being wet, walking down the street, her hand had been sore. She had stumbled against the wall at some point, remembering the stinging pain as she grazed the skin on her palm. She looked at it now, seeing the bloodied scrape, a dark scab starting to form. Was that yesterday? Or this morning? This afternoon?

      She had no bloody idea. This was the way of her life. Flashes of this. Glimpses of that. Nothing that ever made any sense. It was like listening to a foreign language, recognising words here and there but never enough to pull together a sentence, never made enough sense for it to form a story.

      Memory lapse.

      And she had no memory of what she was doing the day her sister was murdered.

      But she had visited the house. It was over, closed. She could end it all now.

      Sitting down on the side of the bed she took her boots off. Nobody committed suicide with their boots on. She wanted to be comfortable, lie down and not leave the duvet dirty.

      Dirtier.

      She lay down again. Relaxing. Life owed her nothing except this one thing – this little bit of peace and quiet, save the whipped-up hysteria being broadcast from next door. Picking up the gun, feeling the weight of it in her hand. It was far heavier than she had expected. It smelled of oil, it covered the skin of her hands in something foul.

      She wanted her last thoughts to be of Abigail. Of Mary Jane. And of Malcolm. She wanted to remember them as they had been in life. Abigail with her prim, controlled smile. Mary Jane pouting for the camera as every teenager had done for the last twenty years. And Malcolm laughing, both hands holding onto his most prized possession: his Lego Millennium Falcon.

      All gone.

      Had they all gone to heaven in their little rowing boat?

      And what had happened to the Lego Millennium Falcon? It hadn’t been at the house; well, she hadn’t seen it. She had bought it for Malcolm last Christmas. Good times.

      She felt the tears fighting to escape her eyes, but she refused to cry. There was nothing to cry about, not now. She looked back at the water sprinkler and the smoke alarm. Then heard footfall, somebody walking along the hotel corridor passing her door. They walked quickly with the quiet jangle of a key. A car key most likely, as all the rooms in the hotel were card operated, so he, she presumed, was going out to the car park.

      Then the footsteps paused. The jangling stopped. Valerie’s eyes fixed on the corner of the room, at the door, willing it to open, or not open. It seemed a long time before the feet moved away, going back the way they came. He had forgotten something. She wondered what.

      Valerie tightened her grip on the gun, allowed herself a weak smile. Was that going to be her last thought on this earth? What had that man forgotten that was so important he went back for it?

      She’d wait until he went away.

      She made herself comfortable on the pillow, thinking about pulling it round and using it as a silencer. But it would be better if they all heard. Then they might be careful about who opened the door, especially if her

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