Page 99 of Ticket Out

James wondered where he’d gotten the gun, and then recalled Mrs. Everett had said hers had been stolen after she’d been attacked.

Hartridge crowded behind him. “I think I heard a car, sir,” he murmured. “Might be the Hampstead bobbies.”

“Get the exits covered. Make sure everyone’s aware he’s armed and dangerous.” James kept his eyes on Mr. Knife as he answered.

Hartridge disappeared.

The man shoved his knife into a pocket, scooped up a tin and flung it with force back into the pantry, and he heard Gabriella cry out in pain.

“Come out. Now. With luck you might wriggle out of your fate a second time.” He pointed the gun into the pantry, angled so he could still see James, and pulled the knife out again.

“How many times do I have to wriggle out for it not to be fate anymore? Or why isn’t my fate to always escape?” Gabriella’s voice was strained but calm.

The man cocked his head. “Tricky. You are tricky.” He pointed the knife at James. “And you are interfering and annoying.”

Gabriella was suddenly in the doorway, swinging something down on Mr. Knife’s hand holding the gun. It went off, a bullet hitting the floor, cracking the tile.

Gabriella seemed to draw back and hit out again, and the man staggered into the kitchen, still clutching the gun, looking back at Gabriella, who was standing by the door, a slim, broken bottle in her hand.

It was dripping blood.

The man looked down at his side, at the blood soaking his white t-shirt, and then lifted the gun to point straight at Gabriella.

He didn’t see the swing of James’s pipe coming.

chapterforty-three

She was treatedin the back of the ambulance, sitting amongst the wailing sirens and flashing lights of the police cars.

She had a cut to her neck, which she barely remembered getting, the cut on her forearm, another to her upper arm from the French door, and the deep bruise on her collar bone when she’d caught the tin of baked beans Mr. Knife had thrown back at her.

They still didn’t know his name.

She didn’t really care any more.

He had been taken off to hospital already. Her upper arm was stitched, because the medic said they might as well, as it was only going to take two stitches, and then she was given a cup of tea and left to sit on the ambulance’s tail gate.

She thought longingly of the espresso machine in the kitchen, and given the chaos around her, decided she might as well give it a go.

She walked into the house, which was more or less empty, as the body was out at the pond, and found the kitchen was empty, too.

She started up the La Pavoni, and was just scrounging in the fridge for milk when she heard someone enter behind her.

James leaned on the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest, and the look on his face was hard to describe.

“I’d have thought this was the last place you’d want to be,” he said.

“Devenish has a very good espresso machine,” she answered, milk in hand, and added a dash to her cup. “Do you want some?”

“I think I’ve had enough stimulation for one day,” he said.

She opened the fridge to put the milk back, and he was suddenly right behind her, hand just above hers on the fridge door.

“Is that tiramisu?”

She turned, standing very close to him. “I was going to make it for Mr. Rodney’s homecoming from hospital. He made me make it for him, instead.”

James frowned, as if he couldn’t quite believe her.

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