Page 87 of Joker in the Pack

The brick through my window, the message on the lounge wall, the eggs, my bike tyres, and now Twiglet. Nye’s idea definitely had some merit. “But I wouldn’t leave.”

Was that a smile or a grimace? Hard to tell, but he still looked sexy. Oh boy, was I in trouble.

“I bet he didn’t expect you to be so damned stubborn. What’s the value of this place?”

“I don’t know. I inherited it, remember?”

“And it never went on the market?”

“No.”

“So, somebody could want it for themselves, and they just never had the opportunity to buy it?”

It was possible, but I couldn’t really see it. “I guess, but it’s not in great condition, or even in the best part of the village.”

“Has anyone made you an offer for it?”

“I had one of those ‘we sell any house’ cards through the door from an estate agent, but apart from that, no.”

“So, that leaves us with option two.”

“Which is?”

“There’s something in here that somebody wants.”

I looked around the dilapidated kitchen. I’d done my best with it, but the whole place was still…tired.

“What could possibly be in here? It’s full of junk.”

“The first burglary, nobody took anything, right?”

“Not that I could tell.”

“They just made a whole lot of mess. I reckon they were looking for something, and they clearly didn’t find it, because everything since then has been done to terrify you into leaving.”

Which could be the case if not for one massive flaw in his logic.

“Why now? The place was empty for months. If somebody wanted to search it, why didn’t they turn the whole place over then? Nobody would even have noticed.”

Nye stopped and leaned against the sink. “I can’t answer that. Yet. Maybe they didn’t know the thing was here? There must have been a trigger for all this. Who else knew your aunt left you this place in her will?”

“Nobody. She didn’t have one. I was her only surviving relative, and one of those heir-hunting companies tracked me down from the Bona Vacantia list.”

“I’ll need their details.”

“Mickey wouldn’t have done anything. He’s harmless.”

“No such thing. And even if it wasn’t him, he might have tipped someone off when he started digging into your aunt’s life. Eleanor Rigby. Like the old Beatles song?”

“That’s right.”

“This started with her—I’m sure of it. You need to tell me everything you know about her.”

“But I don’t know anything. I only met her a couple of times when I was a child. She and my mother fell out, and I never saw her in later years.”

“Well, we’ll need to come at this from a different angle. Someone must have known her.” Nye talked at a hundred miles an hour, no doubt mirroring his thoughts. I’d never seen him so animated. “What was the argument with your mother about? Do you have any other family who might be able to help us?”

“Only my father.”

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