Page 14 of Making a Killing

Lily is looking at me the same way her mother does. A look that says ‘I have you completely sussed but I love you anyway’.

I smile at her, and gesture at the half-eaten boiled egg on her plate. ‘If you think you’re distracting me from the fact that you haven’t finished your breakfast, I have to tell you, you’re going to be very disappointed. And in any case, I’m not reading this for your benefit, I’m reading it for mine.’

Behind me, the kitchen door bangs open and Alex arrives in a rush of shampoo-scented air. She has a piece of toast in one hand.

‘You’ll get indigestion.’

She grins at me. It’s a well-played line. ‘I don’t have time to sit down – I have a meeting at 9.30 and I need to get Lily to G0Cre8 –’

Lily looks up and rolls her eyes theatrically. ‘Ihatethe school holidays. If I have to do finger-painting one more time I am going toscream –’

Oh, to be six again. I catch Alex’s eye and smile. ‘It’s a life lesson, sweetheart,’ I say, ruffling Lily’s hair, which she hates but, rather like a cat having its tummy rubbed, will tolerate. Though as with the cat, you have to know when to stop. ‘A taste of what it’s like being a grown-up.’

‘Being stuck all day with stupid people doing boring things,’ she grumbles.

Which, to be honest, just about nails my job description. Counterterrorism isn’t as James Bond as it sounds, trust me. ‘Exactly. But this too will pass. And it’s pizza night tonight.’

Lily looks a little less disgruntled. Cheese and carbs have ever been the way to her heart.

‘Nice axe,’ says Alex, glancing over my shoulder at the book, on her way to the fridge. ‘The six-pack isn’t bad either.’

‘It’sBeowulf,’ says Lily, picking up her spoon. ‘He fights a monster called Grendel. Only I know what happens.’

Alex gives me a mock-horrified face. ‘Isn’t that a touch grisly for six?’

‘It’s a kids’ version,’ says Lily solemnly. ‘But I know Grendel eats people. That’s what monsters do.’

‘OK,’ says Alex, trying not to smile, ‘well, I guess that’s OK, then.’

Lily is concentrating on her egg. ‘Daddy chases monsters too. That’s his job. Though he doesn’t have an axe. He has a computer.’

Alex drops a kiss on her daughter’s head and looks up at me, her eyes full of laughter. ‘The axe, I can take or leave. The six-pack, though, that’s a deal-breaker.’

Lily sighs and makes a sicky noise. ‘Yuck, notmoresnogging.’

***

Ten minutes later, Alex is trying to coax Lily out of the front door, and I’m faffing about looking for my car keys.

‘Will you be late tonight?’

‘Probably not. Unless something comes up.’

I pull her to me, smelling her hair, the coffee she never quite finished.

She sighs. ‘Whenever you say that, somethingalwayscomes up.’

***

Margaret Collier comes to a halt in the clearing and stands still, listening. There’s a wren chirping beadily from the brambles ahead of her, wood pigeons pottering in the undergrowth, a gust of wind rattling the holly leaves. She read somewhere that Thomas Hardy could identify different trees just by the sound the wind made. She’s a long way off that, though itamuses her, sometimes, to try. But not today. Today she’s dog-sitting her daughter’s delightful but very high-maintenance labrador and there’s isn’t room for very much else. She can hear him now, rummaging about in the bushes, making cheery grunting noises. She sighs, hoping he hasn’t found more fox crap; last time the stink hung around the house for days.

She calls his name and pushes through the trees until she gets to the edge of Hescombe Mere. The water company are bringing in a hosepipe ban next week, and if the reservoirs look anything like this she can see why. The bank drops sheer to the water here, but the flat shore on the far side is like cracked concrete, a scatter of seagulls picking around in the receding mud. She turns and winds her way down the path along to what would normally be the water’s edge, the dog racing ahead, ears flapping. And even though she knows dogs are about as receptive to reasoning as career politicians, it doesn’t stop her trying.

‘Flynn! Flynn? Where are you? I don’t want you going in the water!’

Too late: the dog is yards out splashing about in the murky shallows, but after a moment or two he comes galloping back. She tells herself the training must finally be working, but she’s wrong. He has something in his mouth. He comes hurtling towards her and slithers to a happy stop at her feet, tail wagging, looking up at her in gleeful doggy expectation becausehasn’the been a good boy.

She knows you’re supposed to look grateful for ‘gifts’ (Or is that what you do with cats? She can never remember) but she can’t even pretend to be pleased with this disgusting article. The smell alone is turning her stomach.

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