The House Guest by Mark Edwards(54)

‘Why did you kill Jack?’ I asked. ‘Were you worried he was going to own up to knowing Eden?’

I thought he might deny it, but he said, ‘You know, Jack begged for his life. Like a little kid begging not to be beaten by his dad. Is that what you’re going to do?’

‘Would it do any good?’

He laughed.

‘Ruth will want to know what’s happened to me,’ I said. ‘She’ll know who was responsible. She’ll go to the police. The real police.’

He shoved me forward so I stumbled and almost fell. ‘I am the real police.’

We carried on walking, deeper into the woods. It was almost dry here, the canopy of trees providing protection from the rain, but the air still burned with the scent of the summer storm. Something landed on my face – a bug, some kind of fly – and I tried to shake it away, realising my cheeks were wet. I had been crying without knowing it. Crying for Ruth. Perhaps, though I was loath to admit it, for myself.

A little way into the woods, close to a ditch that ran alongside the path, Krugman said, ‘Stop.’

A breath shuddered through me and I clenched my teeth. Keep your dignity. Don’t beg.

‘Face the ditch,’ he said. ‘And stay still.’

I had my back to him. I closed my eyes, grateful he hadn’t instructed me to get on my knees.

‘You religious?’ he said. ‘Got anything you want to say?’

I was finding it hard to hold back the tears now. I was thinking about my family, back in England. My mum and dad. How they would never know what had happened to me. How this would hang over them for the rest of their lives, a terrible mystery.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Don’t hide my body. My mum . . .’ I was too choked to say any more.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Can’t do—’

And somewhere nearby, a twig snapped.

‘What the fuck?’ said Krugman.

I turned. He turned too, sweeping the beam of the torch through the trees.

‘Who’s there?’ he yelled.

I saw it at the same time as him. A figure, stepping out from the foliage, like a piece of night breaking off, shadow emerging from shadow.

Krugman aimed, but the shadow moved fast, evading the beam of light. Another twig snapped and the figure jolted to a halt.

Two guns went off at the same time.





Chapter 30

Krugman lay still, just a few feet away from me. I hurried over to see if he was still breathing – he was – at the same time that Callum stepped out from between the trees. It was so dark with the torch lying on the ground that I could barely see his face. But then he said, ‘Sorry to have cut it so fine.’

‘Are you shot too?’ I asked.

‘Me? I’m fine.’ He strode over and joined me, crouching beside Krugman. ‘Still alive. Good.’

Blood bloomed across the front of Krugman’s shirt where the bullet had struck him in the belly. Instinctively, he had laid his fingers across the wound.

‘We need to get him to a hospital,’ I said. ‘Where’s your phone?’ Krugman had taken mine after he pretended to arrest me.

Callum addressed Krugman directly. ‘You want us to do that? Call an ambulance?’

Krugman stared up him. His eyes were glassy. He coughed and droplets of blood appeared on his lips.

‘I could patch you up, call 911. Officer down. They’d probably send a helicopter, am I right? You’d be fine. But first, tell us where they are.’

‘Where’s Ruth?’ I added.

Krugman didn’t speak.

‘Come on, man,’ said Callum. ‘Time’s ticking away. Do you really want to die? Is this really how it ends for you? Shot in the woods by an old guy like me? You got kids? A wife? You ever want those things? Just tell us, where can we find them?’

Krugman coughed again. More drops of blood.

I tugged Callum’s arm. ‘He hasn’t got long. Give me your phone.’

‘Not till he tells us where they are.’

‘Callum . . .’

‘You hear that, Detective Krugman? This young man wants to save you, even though you were going to kill him and bury him out here where no one would ever find him. All he wants is to find his girlfriend, talk to her. So where is she?’

Krugman went to speak. A croak came out, along with more blood. I put my ear close to his mouth.

‘Protect one, protect all,’ he said.

Callum swore, then pulled Krugman’s hand away from the bullet hole. It was a horrific sight, a red mess, and I could hardly bear to watch. Callum ripped apart Krugman’s shirt, buttons popping and falling on to the damp earth on which he lay.

I thought he was going to try to staunch the flow of blood. Instead, he picked up a small but sharp twig from the ground and jabbed it into the open wound.

Krugman screamed.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I yelled.

Callum withdrew the twig. Its point glistened black in the shine of the torch. ‘I’m a desperate man, Krugman. Now tell us where to find them.’

But the pain had made Krugman pass out.

‘Mother of Jesus,’ Callum said, slapping Krugman on the cheek.

‘Are you a sadist?’

‘No, Adam,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘But we need to find out where they are. If he dies without telling us, we’ll be back at square one. Worse than that. After this, we’re going to have every one of those bastards looking for us.’