And None Shall Sleep

Priscilla Masters

CHIVERS

This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

Published by arrangement with the Author

Epub ISBN 9781471311406

Copyright © 1997 by Priscilla Masters

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

It was his mother who first asked the question. He was playing in the garden, setting a trap for a tiny blue bird, a common little thing of no importance. Absorbed in the trail of seed that led towards the jaws of the pottery jar, he had not noticed her leaning against the door until she had spoken.

‘Tony,' she had said in a soft, sorrowful voice. ‘Do you feel no pity?'

At the time he had failed to understand her. It was only now – twenty years later – that he was able to answer her question.

Pity ... feel pity? No. Never. He felt emotion, sometimes, as he had when the bird had not fallen victim to his plan but had escaped.

He knew anger. He knew excitement, too ... the planning stage. That was so exciting. Finding a way to approach his victim with all the cunning of the seed trail and the trap that world seal the bird inside. Yes. That was exciting. Luring the victim to a place of secrecy.

Watching the panic – the terror in their faces – the realization that they were about to die. Sometimes he allowed them to pray. If they were good Catholics he allowed them to beg for absolution. Perhaps that was pity.

He knew contempt, too. And this job had inspired that. The contempt was for people's meanness. They were happy to hire him. Yes ... His Roman lip curled. They wanted him to do their dirty work for them. But when it came to paying, that was a different matter. Didn't they understand the skill as well as the planning that went into these jobs? No cheetah stalking a zebra ever used more skill, more stealth, more cunning. And yet his most recent... His eyes flashed at the recollection.

‘So much money for a moment's work?' He had struggled to hold back his temper. ‘A moment? You do not understand? I spend many days thinking about the best way to deal with this matter, choosing the place, the time.' His voice had toughened. This was the way to deal with clients. ‘I – am – a – professional.'

She watched him slit open the letter with curiosity.

‘Jonathan ...?' She glanced anxiously across the breakfast table. ‘Jonathan,' she repeated. He was staring at the piece of paper in his hand.

She herself had handed it to him, noted the neatly typed address, the white envelope. But it had evoked no apprehension. Instead she had felt thankful that it was not another bill. And so she had given it to him, unconcerned, the past forgotten. She had carried on buttering her toast before reaching for the marmalade jar. Then she had looked up and noticed her husband's white face.

‘Jonathan?' she said again. He held the letter at arm's length, his face drawn and tired, each line heavily marked in grey. Confounded, she reached out and took it. ‘Not the police again,' she said, and he shook his head, worked his finger around his collar to try to loosen its stranglehold.

Still calm, she slipped on her bifocals and peered down through the half-moon. It took only a moment to read the letter. One sentence, short and to the point. She flicked over it twice before giving a brief laugh. ‘Some sort of advertising stunt? Well, they've picked on the wrong one here, haven't they?'

Jonathan Selkirk closed his pale eyes and with some effort opened them again while his wife watched him, puzzled.

I mean, surely it's some clever trick – isn't it?' She stopped, held her hands out. ‘What else could it be?'

‘Advertising stunt?' He stared at the page in her hand. ‘You think it's an advertising stunt?' He looked angry. ‘You silly woman. If it's advertising, where's the name of the firm? His breath came in quick, dry whistles. ‘You honestly think they'd send some sort of crappy circular about making a will – to a solicitor? I always knew you didn't have two brain cells to rub together. You have to be one of the most ignorant, most stupid women.'

His wife took this unexpectedly coolly. She took her glasses off, folded and rested them, lens uppermost, on the table. ‘There's no need to be quite so rude, Jonathan,' she said levelly. ‘Advertising isn't always obvious, you know. It can be quite subtle.'

She glanced at the letter again before smiling and dropping it back on to the table. ‘My advice is to ignore it. Put it in the bin.'

He glared at her. ‘Is it indeed?' he said. ‘To ignore it?' His wife nodded.

‘Perhaps you're right.' His voice was hoarse. The couple continued with their breakfast, she filling her mouth with toast while he slowly sipped his tea, until his gaze drifted back to the sheet of paper.

‘But it is a threat, you know.' He appeared to be having real trouble breathing now. ‘It's a threat,' he repeated. And I have a good idea who's behind it.'

His wife concentrated on chewing her toast before speaking again. ‘Who do you think is behind it, Jonathan?'

‘You know.'

‘I wonder.' She tapped her chin rapidly with her index finger while her husband watched, irritated.

‘Oh, you can't mean them. Now who's being silly – and paranoid? That was years ago. It's all forgotten. Forgotten and forgiven.'

‘Huh.' Jonathan Selkirk made an ugly face. ‘The stupid are often thought of as naive,' he said. ‘Neither forgotten nor forgiven, Sheila. People like that have long memories, full of sentimentality.' He gasped. ‘They're the type who use such clichés ... Long sins have long shadows – and rubbish like that.'

His wife stood up. ‘No,' she said. Then her fine, dark eyes seemed to soften. ‘I'm sure you're wrong. But these sentimental, stupid people seem to have upset you. You don't look very well! She smiled again. ‘You should be treating this letter as a joke.'

Jonathan's face was plum-coloured now. ‘A joke!' he exploded. ‘A joke? This ...' He slammed his outstretched hand down on the paper. ‘This is no joke,' he said. ‘It is not meant to make me laugh – but
fear
.' His face was contorted with pain now.

Detective Inspector Piercy felt the vibration behind her as the lorry approached. She steered her bike as close to the kerb as she dared and kept her head down, bracing herself against the inevitable turbulence. The noise was deafening and she felt dwarfed by the lorry's immense bulk. It was approaching fast, almost level now, poised to swing out and overtake. It started to move past. And as she glanced over her right shoulder her eyes were drawn in to the massive tyres spinning as though they threw out a magnetic field. She crouched lower over her handlebars.

What happened next was sudden and quick. And it gave her no warning. Something on the lorry must have touched her and thrown her off balance. She was hurled from her bike into something hard and heavy. She heard a crack, a smash as her bike made impact. A searing pain in her arm. Then she lay, panting and winded, intolerable hurt darting through her body, especially her arm.

She remained still on the verge, disbelieving, the lorry disappearing into the distance in a haze of exhaust.

‘Bastard!' she screamed. ‘Bastard.' She raged futilely. He hadn't even known she was hurt. He'd felt no impact, heard no sound. He would arrive safely at his destination unaware of the collision. While she ... She glanced along the road, both ways. It was empty. Still early. No one had seen the accident. No one would report it, act as witness, stop and help her, call for an ambulance, pick the bike up. And it was this that forced her to sit up and inspect herself.

Her cycling shorts were torn and muddied, her legs bleeding. Her head hurt and her eyes felt puffed and strange, the road bulging in and out of focus. And she felt sick and shaky.

It was her right arm that had taken the full impact. Now it was numb. But the sharp angle of the wrist to the arm told her it was broken. And later on – when the shock had lessened – she knew it would hurt.

She struggled to focus on the road but it was still swinging away from her. She looked at her bike. It was a mess too. Buckled wheels, bent handlebars.

She took a deep breath in, battled with her tears, dropped her head into her arms. ‘Shit.'

Then she tried to stand up. Immediately the scene spun like an old-fashioned roundabout ... out of time, out of focus, out of vision. And so she sat, uselessly, by the side of the road, still feeling dizzy and sick until a car skidded to a halt and a man climbed out.

‘Come off your bike, duck?' he said. ‘Hurt, are you?'

She bit back every single sarcastic retort and merely shook her head. Then she fainted.

‘Jonathan,' she said, ‘are you all right?' Her husband's face was an unhealthy grey. ‘Of course I'm not all right,' he snapped. ‘I've got that blasted pain again. Get my pills. Quickly.'

His eyes closed wearily. He knew he was a sick man. He needed peace and quiet – a cooling touch, loving care. He struggled to get his breath. Sheila – if only he were free of her. Through the pain he smiled. He had plans. But ... His face darkened and he picked up the letter. It had been written on a word processor on a sheet of pure white A4, best-quality typing paper. And it was short, consisting of only one sentence. Unsigned, undated, with no address at the top.

‘
JONATHAN SELKIRK,'
it said simply and in capital letters.

‘MAKE YOUR WILL.'

Vague dreams of ambulance sirens screaming, people asking her if she could hear.

‘What's your name, love?'

‘Joanna,' she mumbled.

‘Have you right as rain in a jiffy,' a cheery voice assured her. And someone else told her not to worry – twice.

She didn't until another voice, brisk and businesslike, asked who was her next of kin.

The feeling was returning to her arm. Her guess had been right. It did hurt. She tried to move it and found it heavy, immobile and useless. She peered down at it. They had wrapped it up in a massive blue inflatable splint.

She gave up.

Jonathan had melted as many tablets under his tongue as the doctor allowed, but the pain got steadily worse. His wife watched his lips turn blue before she made her decision.

‘I'm going to ring the doctor,' she said firmly. ‘This isn't like your other attacks.'

He gave her an evil glance. ‘Leave the quack out of this, Sheila,' he said. ‘Nothing he can do except more bloody pills.' He tried to stand up. The pain dropped him back into the chair.

‘I'll be all right,' he protested. ‘Don't fuss.' He glared at her, catching his breath with the pain. ‘I'm not a helpless child.'

She bent over him. ‘But, Jonathan,' she said sweetly. ‘I really think you may be having a heart attack. You've had warnings enough. Maybe you've had your last warning.'

He looked up at her, the expression in his cold, pebble eyes changing to one of fear.

‘Warnings enough? Last warning?'

She smiled. ‘I mean the angina, dear.' Her face was close to his, her eyes bold and staring. ‘Whatever did you think I meant?' Jonathan Selkirk glanced back at the letter. ‘You'd like that, wouldn't you, Sheila?' he said suddenly. ‘A heart attack would do very nicely, wouldn't it?'

She ignored the comment until she'd found the doctor's telephone number in their personal directory. Then, as she waited for the phone to be picked up, she turned and looked at him, her face still pleasantly smiling. ‘Now don't be silly, Jonathan,' she said calmly, a mother scolding a fretful child. ‘Of course a heart attack wouldn't do – not at all.' Then she turned her attention back to the telephone. ‘Ah – Dr Matthews ... It's Sheila Selkirk here. I'm afraid my husband's ...'

The rest of the day's post lay unopened on the breakfast table, forgotten.

Efficiency, bright lights, stinging antiseptic. A bright bottle of clear fluid that somehow led into her arm and made it feel cold, her neck stiff and rigid in a splint, her cycling helmet off, someone slicing through her frayed shorts with a pair of scissors. She tried to protest and a nurse told her it was the only way.