The Last 10 Seconds

But I was too late. Wolfe lunged at me suddenly, dropping his knee into my stomach and driving the wind right out of me. As I tried to recover, he sat astride me, pinning my arms by my side, then everything turned to darkness as he pushed the pillow against my face, and I felt the metal of the gun barrel hard against my cheek.

Clenching my teeth against the impact of the bullet I knew was coming at any second, I struggled beneath him. But it was useless. He was a strong guy with all the momentum, and I was still battered and dazed.

‘Go on, Ty, take him,’ I heard Haddock hiss in the darkness.

Oh God. This was it.

All over.

‘Jesus,’ Wolfe cursed.

‘What is it?’

‘The gun. The fucking thing’s jammed.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Course I’m sure.’

I felt the pressure lift on my face and the pillow slipped sideways. The next second, Wolfe was getting to his feet.

‘Are you just going to leave him?’ Haddock growled.

‘I’m not putting a knife in him. You don’t do that in business. Don’t worry, he’s not getting out of here.’

The door closed and I heard the bolt being moved across, then their voices faded as they moved away.

For a good few seconds I didn’t move. I was too shocked. To have come so close to death and then be spared was almost more than my already shredded nerves could bear.

But it wasn’t that that was occupying my mind as I lay on the hard wooden floor. It was the fact that Tyrone Wolfe had deliberately spared my life. He might have told Haddock that the gun was jammed but there was no way he could have known for sure.

Because he hadn’t tried to pull the trigger.

Thirty-one

Kevin O’Neill had been a self-made man. One of seven children from a village in County Cork, he’d left school at sixteen and come to England to make his fortune, building up a construction and property development company from nothing. He hadn’t been immensely rich, according to what Grier had told Tina, but he’d made enough to send his children to private school and live in a big detached house on a secluded private road in the north-west London suburb of Rickmansworth.

It was ten past eleven and starting to spit with warm summer rain when the two police officers pulled up outside the security gates at the front of the property. Tina waited while Grier got out and pressed the buzzer, noticing the CCTV camera attached to the gatepost above his head. It wasn’t uncommon to have this level of security in London, even out here in the suburbs, but Tina knew that, although it might have acted as a deterrent against opportunistic burglars, the more determined and organized intruders would always get through, simply by bypassing the gate and going over the eight-foot-high wooden fence that bordered the grounds.

Although she wasn’t convinced that someone had killed Kevin O’Neill, the timing of his death was worryingly coincidental, given that his daughter’s murder was the only one of the five supposedly committed by the Night Creeper that stood out.

Grier had been less enthusiastic about coming, telling her as they’d driven through the dark, silent streets that he thought his death was exactly what it looked like, a coincidence. He’d also given her some compelling reasons, the most important of which was the lack of any obvious motive. On the night O’Neill died, Roisín had already been dead eight months, so why would anyone choose to murder him then?

It was a question Tina couldn’t answer.

The gates opened automatically as Grier got back in the car, and they drove down the short driveway that led to the main house, an imposing whitewashed building done in a faux Georgian style.

Derval O’Neill, Roisín’s sister, was at the door when they pulled up outside, dressed in jeans and a halter top, her feet bare. She was a physically striking woman in her early thirties, tall and willowy, with long auburn hair and narrow, delicate features. Grier had told Tina that the name Derval meant ‘true desire’ in Celtic, and even in grief, it was a description that fitted her easily.

‘Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, Miss O’Neill,’ said Tina, after Grier had introduced her. ‘We’re both very sorry for your loss.’

Derval’s expression seemed to wobble. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying, her face pale, and close up she looked thin rather than willowy. ‘He never got over Roisín’s death,’ she said quietly, fixing Tina with a look of surprising intensity. ‘It finished him. So now that bastard’s got himself another victim.’ She sighed. ‘Come inside. Would you like a drink of something?’

Tina fought down the urge to ask for a glass of decent red wine and requested water, as did Grier.

They followed Derval through a spacious hallway and into a tastefully furnished lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on to the back garden. Tina and Grier sat down at opposite ends of a three-person sofa and waited while Derval went to get their drinks.