Axiom (The London Lot Book 3) by Emmy Ellis

Author:Emmy Ellis [Ellis, Emmy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-04-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

SPYDER’S HOUSE

The bodies, phones, and weapons burning at the crem, Mr Murder had shirked off the annoyance of things veering off course and got on with seeing it through until the end. He had the papers in his pocket and crept through Spyder’s remote house in search of Dylan, Fingers behind him for backup. Mr Murder had used his lock pick and strode right in, shaking his head at the unbelievable lack of care.

Fucking prats. Anyone could walk in here.

This place hadn’t been secured well. No CCTV visible, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. No alarm set—but then he suspected Spyder wouldn’t think anyone had the balls to break into his house, so he’d become lax and relied on his reputation to deter thieves. A stupid move by a stupid man so far up his own arse he inhaled shit.

Dad had always said Spyder was sloppy.

Lights had been left on—the under-cabinet spots in the kitchen, shining on abandoned takeaway cartons, Indian by the look of the discarded foil tubs. Tikka Masala. Tri-colour pilau rice. A forlorn, rounded end of a naan bread left to go dry, a black mark from cooking appearing as an angry bruise. Plates smeared with sauce had been left on the island, and crystal glasses stood beside a half-empty bottle of vodka.

They’d dined like kings before going to meet Vera. Seems like a celebratory meal to me.

Had they planned to get rid of her all along?

He led the way into the living room. A lamp shone in the corner. More crystal glasses on end tables—what had they done, had a fucking party?

He backed out into the spacious hallway, bumping into Fingers who was right up his arse. A gaudy chandelier blazed, similar to the one at the office, and a twin one at the top of the stairs did the same, although one of the bulbs had blown, grey now, as though someone had exhaled fag smoke into it.

Mr Murder pointed to the ceiling. Fingers nodded.

At the top of the landing, Mr Murder stopped to take stock. Stared at each door in turn, wondering if there were guests staying, people who’d make a nuisance of themselves. Five were closed, one ajar.

He checked the closed ones first. A bathroom—clawfoot tub and a massive shower cubicle; three bedrooms—two neat and tidy, the other with Spyder’s stuff cluttering it up; and an office, surprisingly in order, smelling of Mr Sheen. Along the corridor, he paused outside the last room. Peered through the gap. Imagined what he’d look like, a slice of his mask in the four inches of space. No light on in there, but the curtains were open, and illumination from the glowing solars in the front garden, ones that had been staked into the ground, afforded enough light to make out the figure on the bed.

Mr Murder pushed the door open wider.

The covers had been kicked off to one side. In the shaft of light from the landing, a naked Dylan lay in a star shape on his back, his cock embraced by a jumble of hairs.

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