Heart beating furiously, Shauna went out of the nursery and into the bedroom she shared with Josh. Aware of Ciaran following her, she went over to the wardrobe and made a great show of rummaging around in the bottom of it. Then she heard movement downstairs. She froze, looked back at Ciaran.

‘That’ll be Rowan, coming in ready for our talk with your old man,’ he said, smirking.

Terror gripped her then. They were going to hurt Josh. She’d blown Jeb out and all her apologies after he’d sorted out that mouthy bitch Phil had fallen on deaf ears. This was the result. This was Jeb’s revenge. Connor was still howling, screaming. The sound galvanized her, made her sharpen up. Made her quash the panic that was threatening to overwhelm her. Made her start to think.

They’ll kill Josh and then they’ll rape me, she thought. And Connor. Christ! Would they hurt Connor?

‘Hurry it up,’ said Ciaran.

‘All right,’ she snapped back, and then inside the wardrobe her groping hand found what she was searching for. She touched the end of the tape, yanked it back, flicked off the safety catch and turned with the ready-loaded Magnum in her hand. Ciaran’s face froze and he started to raise the shotgun.

But Shauna fired first.

65

65

When Josh reached his driveway, he saw a dirty old pickup truck parked in the road outside, and that chilled him, creased his guts with anxiety. Silently he went up the drive. All the lights were on in the house, but he could hear no sounds coming from inside.

Shauna was in there with little Connor, the apple of his eye, already the spitting image of his dad. Not the au pair, she was off visiting relatives this week, thank God.

He passed the front door and went on round the back. He had the key. Going by the windows, he peered in through the film of net curtains and saw no movement inside, nothing. The TV was on in the living room, but there was no one in there and he couldn’t hear the sound except . . . shit! That was Connor, crying. Josh walked on until he was at the back door, which led straight into the kitchen.

Quietly, his hand unsteady, he put the key in the lock and opened the door. Peeked inside. It was all lit up, but there was nothing, no movement. He stepped inside, turned right – and found himself staring straight down the twin barrels of a twelve-bore shotgun.

‘Hello again, Josh Flynn,’ said Rowan Cleaver with a drunken grin. ‘Beat you back, didn’t I.’

Rowan was standing in the doorway that led into the hall, and he was so wide that he nearly filled it. Despite that big shit-eating grin he always wore, Rowan’s manner, his stance, was terrifying. He was mildly drunk, yes – but still dangerous.