Page 56 of The Psychopath Next Door

‘That would be awesome,’ Rose replied.

‘Marvellous.’ Patrick rubbed his hands together – big, meaty hands that had spent many years pounding away at a typewriter. He was so sure of himself, so confident of his own brilliance. Not at all concerned about inviting strangers back to his house.

Fiona and Rose followed him across the garden to the pub’s side gate. On the way, Fiona checked over her shoulder to see if there were any witnesses. But there was still no one else around. The pub’s few customers would be huddled inside the bar.

They walked a little way down the road and then Patrick led them down a small lane, just wide enough for a single car. There was horse shit on the road and tall hedgerows on either side.

This was perfect. The almost-deserted pub. The quiet lane. Patrick’s interest in their game and his suggestion that they take his books. It was as if fate were smiling on her. And she didn’t believe in God or anything supernatural, but she could imagine Maisie walking beside her, whispering in her ear:The world belongs to us, Fi. It bends to our will.

Every now and then, it actually felt like that. Soon, it would be her and Rose, and it would be even better than it had been with Maisie. In that relationship, Maisie had always been the top dog, the more experienced one. This time Fiona would be the boss.

It started today. After this, if all went as she expected it to, Fiona would confess to Rose that Max hadn’t been an accident. She would tell Rose everything.

And if it didn’t go as expected? If Rose didn’t react how Fiona thought she would?

Well, that would be unfortunate for everyone.

‘I’ve written a book myself,’ Patrick said as they continued to walk down the lane. ‘Perhaps you’d like a copy of that too, Florence?’

‘No thank you.’

He guffawed, then said, ‘Down this way.’

The lane forked and he led them to the right, down an even narrower path which suddenly opened up to reveal a large stone house, set back behind a wrought-iron gate. They followed him through the gate into a front garden that was almost too cute to bear: the scent of apple trees and roses, a neat little lawn, chocolate-box perfection.

‘Come in,’ he said, opening the front door and gesturing for them to follow.

Fiona shut the door behind her.

‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’ Patrick asked when they were standing in the hallway. Despite the season and the warm weather, it was cold in here. It was the kind of space the sunshine never touched.

‘Tea would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘No trouble at all.’

They all went into the kitchen and he filled the kettle, flicking it on.

‘Now, my chess books are stored in the cellar. If you don’t mind waiting here, I’ll go and find a couple. A copy of my book too, just in case you think it might be interesting.’

He was panting a little from the effort of walking home, the first physical sign he’d shown of his age. He left the kitchen.

Rose immediately whispered, ‘What are we going to do? How are we going to get the artwork?’

Fiona went to the kitchen doorway and peeked out. ‘Wait here.’

She wanted to take a quick look around, double-check Patrick lived on his own and didn’t have a lodger or a live-in housekeeper. Then she would find Patrick and reveal her true identity. She couldn’t wait to see the terror in his eyes as he realised he was all alone with someone who wanted to kill him. And it was going to be so easy to make it look like a domestic accident. This poor vulnerable old man, falling down the stairs. Such a shame.

Tingling with anticipation, she went into the hallway and tiptoed past the open cellar door, glancing down into the dark.

Hold on. Why was it dark if he was down there?

‘Looking for someone, Bianca?’

She whirled around.

Patrick was standing at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the first floor. He was holding a gun.

‘Except it’s not Bianca, is it? It’s Fiona.’

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