Page 87 of Ticket Out

He jumped into the driver seat and started up the car.

The bobby ran forward, but Mr. Knife put his arm out, waving the knife in front of her face as soon as he’d put it into gear.

He roared off, and the bobby ran after them, following them until they turned off onto one of the main roads.

Mr. Knife watched in the rear-view mirror with bright blue eyes until they lost him, moving through the traffic and then turning right, toward the city.

That didn’t last long, though.

They turned again, going north, into areas she wasn’t familiar with, and eventually he slowed down as he approached a drive on a leafy street where the houses were set apart, and there were hedges and large trees shielding them from the neighbors.

She caught sight of a sign that said High House in dark red letters on a cream background, and Mr. Knife turned into a long driveway, hedged in on both sides for a short way, and then opening up to reveal landscaped lawns and a massive gray stone house.

How could he own something like this? she wondered.

Houses here had to go for hundreds of thousands of pounds.

One thing was for sure, the Bentley would not be remarked upon here. If it was out of place in Notting Hill, it very much belonged in these posh surroundings.

“Home sweet home,” Mr. Knife said as he pulled up at the front entrance. “Sorry, but I had to let the butler go. You’ll have to bring in your own bags.”

She looked over at him, studying him intently. If he had lost his mind, she’d rather understand that now.

“You don’t like my jokes?” he asked her, studying her back. He had full lips and a dent in his chin. He winked at her.

“Isn’t a joke supposed to be funny?” she asked.

He gave a long, slow smirk. “They’re funny to me.”

She’d felt panicked and frightened since he’d grabbed her, now she felt pure, cold terror.

He wasn’t mad at all. He was simply enjoying himself.

“Why grab me? And why in front of a police officer?”

“It was more fun this way.”

He caught her horrified expression, and jabbed the knife toward her in a feint. She jerked back, trapped between him and the door, twisted by the way he’d tied her hands.

“Come on. That shopping probably needs a fridge.” He got out the car and walked around to open her door. He freed her from the door and loosened one of the loops so she could slip her hand out of it. “You carry them in.”

She picked them up, wondering at this focus on her shopping. Nothing made much sense to her. His behavior was so far out of her experience, she didn’t know what to make of it.

The only thing she knew for sure was that she was afraid. Deathly afraid.

He waited for her to get out of the car, then walked behind her, poking her every now and again in the back with the tip of the knife.

When she reached the front door, a dark, glossy red like the lettering on the sign at the entrance to the driveway, her hands were slick with sweat, and her arms were trembling, as if the bags were too heavy to hold.

He leaned past her, one hand between her shoulder blades, the other holding keys. He opened up and then stepped back for her to go through.

She walked into a gloomy hallway. The air smelled stale, although there was a hint of wax polish and vinegar.

A staircase ran up to a second floor to her left, and in front of her was an arch, leading into what looked like a lounge with a fireplace. The room was gloomy, barely lit by what she could see was a gap in the heavy brocade curtains pulled across a set of French doors.

“Swanky, eh?” he said. “Paul Devenish was a naughty, naughty boy. Buying a place like this with ill-gotten gains.”

This was the gallery owner’s house.

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