Page 47 of Savage Justice

Borys has no time to respond before I start pouring, directing the torrent of grimy water right into his mouth and nose. He bucks and squirms and gurgles, but he’s going nowhere. I take my time. I intend to make this experience as memorable for him as it was for Molly.

By the time the bucket is empty, he’s gasping like a landed trout. I drag the towel away to allow him to draw a few steadying breaths, just enough to remind him how refreshing oxygen can be.

“Fill that up again, would you?” I nudge the bucket with my foot.

“No. No more,” Borys whimpers.

I lean over to smile into his pallid features. “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

The sound of water streaming into the bucket sends Borys into another frenzy of wriggling and pleading. I’ve had enough of him for now, so I throw the towel over his head again.

“Ready?” I ask as I hoist the bucket high and poise for the second dose.

I catch him mid-scream, filling his throat and nostrils with foul water. Assuming he gets out of this alive, I reckon a bout of dysentery has to be on the cards.

This time, when my bucket is empty, I leave the towel in place. I’ve nothing to say to him anyway. I wait for Tony to bring me fresh supplies, then I repeat the exercise.

We go through the process three more times before he goes limp.

“Did you kill him?” Jack asks. He comes forward to check.

“Maybe. Don’t think so, though. No, look, his chest’s rising. He’s just passed out.”

‘Fair enough.” Jack’s phone buzzes in his pocket, so he pulls it out to take the call. “Boss is just arriving,” he tells us. “I’ll go and open the door for him.”

CHAPTER 12

Molly

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

I glance up from my easel in time to see Frankie slinking backwards through the door.

“It’s okay,” I call out. “Come in.” I wipe my hands on the piece of paint-spattered rag I keep close by. “I was just finishing this off. The light in here is so good.”

I’ve set up my easel in the conservatory at the rear of the house this morning. It’s south-facing and catches the sun all day long. As far as I could tell, hardly anyone else ever uses it so I thought I could commandeer the space for a while. I don’t mind sharing with a huge Swiss cheese plant and a potted olive tree. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find a few cannabis plants. too, but apparently not.

“I was just looking for somewhere quiet,” Frankie mutters. “I have a form to fill in.”

He hasn’t struck me as the form-filling type, but what do I know?

“You’re welcome to stay,” I say. “I won’t disturb you.”

“But I’m interrupting you,” he argues.

“Not really. I can get on whether you’re here or not.” I pick up my brush and return to my scrutiny of the almost-complete canvas.

I’m working on a portrait of a prominent local politician. It’s a commission I accepted before that maniac, Borys, took a coach and horses through my life and career. The unfinished work was among several canvases that Nico’s friends brought over from my house, and I thought I might as well get on with it.

The subject is artfully posed according to his own specific instructions walking along a beach with his dog, his wife, and two children, against a background of the Northumberland coastline. It’s all put together from photographs, my usual way of working. The scene appears somewhat contrived to my eye, but the customer is delighted with the work so far. It’ll take me a couple more hours, then I can arrange to have it couriered over to him and send him the rest of my bill. A cool ten grand will be a welcome addition to my bank account.

I apply a couple of strokes to the rocky backdrop, just to emphasise the shadows a fraction more, then stand back to consider the effect.

“That’s awesome. Dead cool.”

I hadn’t noticed Frankie coming up behind me. He’s peering over my shoulder at the work in progress.

“Is it finished?”

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