Mine To Murder: A pulse-racing and gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist by Mark Yarwood

Author:Mark Yarwood [Yarwood, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Biscuit Books
Published: 2022-06-19T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

I’d stopped along the high street on that hot, sweltering day. First of all, I’d looked at the fat woman coming out of the shop because she was so red, looking like a post box stuffed into unflattering shorts, pouring with sweat. I almost walked on, ready to laugh, but then there was that drip in the back of mind, a slow release of recognition. I’d seen her on TV a few years back, giving financial advice on a watchdog programme, back when the stock market took a big nosedive. It was all I could do to stop myself kicking the TV screen in. At least she’d looked half decent back then, slimmer, well-dressed, no sign of the red-faced, heartless bitch she had become. But of course, she must have always been a heartless bitch to have done what she had done. But she only got a slap on the wrist while grown men and women cried, and some took their own lives.

‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ she’d said, stood on the beach, her face already twisted with uncertainty, perhaps knowing by that point that something wasn’t right.

That I wasn’t right.

‘No, we’ve never met,’ I’d said.

I had dropped the smile. There was no need for pretence of normality any more. It had felt good to let my face fall into its natural scowl, to speak in the tone that dark part of my brain wanted me to, begged me to. That’s what made her flinch, the note in my voice, all the hate and death combining and playing in that haunting key. They say that some notes played loud enough can smash windows, but they don’t know that others can break bones and twist flesh.

‘We’ve never met, but I’ve seen you,’ I’d said. ‘I’ve seen what you and your kind can do.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t -’

‘You’re not sorry, you’ve never been sorry. You’re not capable of sorry. Unfortunately for you, neither am I.’

‘My husband will be-.’

I’d found out where she was staying and watched her and her husband for a couple of days. He liked to go to the pub and leave her at home, so all I had to do was wait for him to go out and then knock on her door: ‘I’m sorry, but there’s been an accident...’

Never trust a police officer. Never. Especially not late at night.

She turned and ran and that’s when I felt it, the thunderstorm in my heart, the big black wings beating in my head, coming closer, flying over the sea, the rocks, the sand, swooping down. She could hardly run. No one runs very well on sand, especially not a big sack of pink flesh like her, panting and huffing and crying as she kept looking back at me. It was the knife that did it, the glint of it as I held it in my hand at my side. Her eyes had jumped to it and she’d taken off. I can’t remember if I made any noise, growling or shouting or anything, but I was like a hunting dog suddenly, so I might have howled or barked.

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