Page 4 of The Devil's Torment

Barron tracks just off my left shoulder as I make my way to the door. I could have ordered the guy to come to me, and normally I would have. I’m not in the habit of chasing after others. In this instance, however, I want him relaxed. A relaxed mind recalls far more than one on edge, and I’m aware my broody, daunting demeanor doesn’t exactly put people at ease.

The door opens before I can knock, revealing a tall, lanky guy, his hair shaved close to his head. He looks as though he’s dressed for the occasion, the blue suit a bit too large for his reedy frame. He takes one look at me and begins to play with the cuffs of his shirt, his fingers nervously plucking at the cotton material.

I try for a reassuring smile, but it must come off as more menacing than friendly given the way he takes a step back and pales. Wherever he’s been on holiday, it wasn’t anywhere sunny, unless he spent the entire time inside.

“Mr. Joss. I’m Nicholas?—”

“I know who you are, Mr. De Vil.” He tucks his chin into his chest and moves away from the door, gesturing to us. “Won’t you come in?”

He leads us into a bright living room with magnolia paint still fresh on the walls. Caught between needing to get back before the wake is over and putting this guy at ease is a tricky line to walk. I refuse his offer of coffee and take a seat on the couch. He chooses the chair, flashing the odd sideways glance at Barron’s broad frame blocking the entrance.

“I don’t have a lot of time, Mr. Joss. If you could tell me what you know, what you saw that night.”

“Of course. I’ll try.” He clears his throat and proceeds to relay pointless information about what he was doing there that night. I give him a little leeway, but as I’m about to prod him to get to the point, he shares the news I’d hoped for. “I saw the driver. I saw your lady climb in the back. The driver caught my eye because he was wearing an Arsenal cap, and I’m a huge Gunners fan.”

Football. More of a rugby fan myself. The cap is interesting. The guy was clearly trying to hide his identity, but if he was a professional, he’d have chosen something neutral without a recognizable insignia. It’ll be a good detail to include in the sketch, although any cap makes identification more difficult. Right now, though, it’s all I’ve got to go on. If I can find the driver, I’ll have a lead on exactly who is responsible. There’s no chance the driver is the brains behind the operation—it’s more likely he’s the hired help, and a poor choice, too—but from there I’ll have a much better chance of finding the one who ordered the hit.

And end him. Or them. Slowly. Painfully.

“Do you think you could describe him to a sketch artist?”

His tongue sweeps over his lips as though he’s thirsty. “I’m happy to try.” A frown pulls his eyebrows inward. “Would that be to the police?”

I shake my head. “My family are dealing with this. I’ll have someone sent over.” Standing, I smooth a hand over my tie and refasten my jacket. My father may think this was a wasted journey, that I could have sent someone else to question Joss, but I disagree. By turning up here myself, I’ve shown him I’m personally involved. Knowing that may sharpen his mind and help to ensure he recalls as much detail as possible, no matter how small.

Barron shadows me back to the car. Once inside, I make a call to have someone sent over to Joss’s place immediately. We’ve lost too much time. His memory will have already degraded. I could kick myself for not trying to track him down earlier when he didn’t answer our calls. Even a check of his name against flight manifests would’ve at least given me a location. Why didn’t I fucking think of that before now?

By the time I make it back to Oakleigh, more than half of the mourners have left. Dad spots me and beckons me over, not bothering to hide his displeasure or his irritation.

“Care to tell me what was so important that you thought it acceptable to leave Elizabeth’s funeral?”

“I found a witness. Someone who can identify the driver. The sketch artist should be with him now.”

“And you couldn’t have waited until the funeral was over to go to speak with him?”

“We’ve already lost three weeks. I thought it best to both act quickly and attend myself to show him how seriously we’re taking what happened to Elizabeth.”

Dad’s mood lifts a little. He straightens his spine and squares his shoulders. “Fair enough. Let’s hope you get to the bottom of this.”

“Oh, I will.” If it takes me a decade, I’ll find the fucker responsible.

“Go and apologize to the Montagues for your rudeness and disrespect.”

I scan the room, my gaze alighting first on Laura and Phillip quietly sipping champagne on the far side of the room, then on Victoria, her fearsome, murderous gaze boring through me.

A tremor runs down my spine, unexpected yet oddly welcome. Maybe sparring with the elder Montague sister—the only Montague sister now—will take my mind off the pressure of finding the culprit who planted the bomb.

Give me your worst, sweetheart. I’m ready for it.

ChapterThree

VICKY

At risk of crushing the delicate crystal champagne flute, if I grip it any harder, I set it down on a passing server’s tray and make fists of my hands. HowdareNicholas leave my sister’s funeral before we’d completed the ceremony? And here he is, waltzing into her wake when most people have left already as if he’s turned up late for a party.

I’ve always known he didn’t love Beth, but I’d hoped he at leastrespectedher. I guess I have my answer to that now.

He wanders over to his father, and they share a word. Whether he senses my fiery glare, hot enough to melt the skin off his face, or his father says something that draws his attention to us, he glances across the room. His gaze sweeps over my parents, then me. I pour every ounce of hatred into my stare, leaving him in no doubt of how much I despise him. How I wish with all my heart that he were the one lying in a cold grave instead of my sister.

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