The shock of her knowing his name jolts him; he can’t help it. Who is this woman? Is she the one he saw at Beth’s house? He’d called her fat then, but she was more than that; proper built. Could Beth have hired a bodyguard? With her frame so close and his face pinned against the wall, it’s hard to make out her features, but he twists his eyeballs as far as they’ll go. With his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, he can just make out that she’s wearing a beanie pulled low over her ears, and a black jacket zipped up over her mouth. She’s broad, solid, so just like that woman he bumped into. Does he need to factor her into his plans now? ‘Fuck off,’ he manages. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

‘Yes I can, you stupid boy. You’re still a child. In here, in your head.’ She taps hard on his temple and tuts in disgust. ‘And you need to leave Beth the fuck alone, okay? Or I’ll make sure you regret it.’ She gives him one final shove, then releases her grip on his hair and takes a step back. At her size, she should be slow and lumbering, but she’s lightning fast and a few seconds later she’s gone, slamming the door behind her.

He leans back against the tiny kitchen work surface, staring at the moon and waiting for his breathing to settle. That’s why the police haven’t come calling, he realises, because Beth has gone private, thrown money at the problem, like all posh people do. She’s hired someone to protect her. He bets she’s loving it, feeling like she’s won.

A wave of fury rushes over Mark and he kicks out, connecting with the sole kitchen cupboard in the room. Once, twice, three times. He listens to the MDF crack and splinter, and then watches the door fall off its hinges. ‘Not this time,’ he whispers. ‘This time you’re going to fucking lose.’

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Beth

Beth uncrosses and recrosses her legs. She looks at her hands resting tautly on her knees. She daren’t look anywhere else in case there are tell-tale signs on her face. She still can’t believe the terrible mess she got herself into last night. When that detective left, she’d felt desperate to go for a run, to expel the cortisol racing around her body. But of course she was too scared to leave the house by then, all her earlier optimism extinguished. So she’d resorted to those familiar crutches instead. Cleaning out the kitchen cupboards and scrubbing every surface. Then when her heart rate still refused to settle, she’d crawled into her wardrobe and sliced open a new foil strip hiding in her old winter boot.