Contents (71)
- THE
- DAUGHTER
- MICHELLE FRANCES
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Justin.
The man put down the kettle and held out his hand. ‘Janković.’ Despite being in his early sixties, Janković had the solid build and height of a younger man, with an impressive amount of brown still present in his close-cropped hair. The grey in his moustache was the only thing that hinted at his true age.
‘Justin,’ he replied automatically, while at the same time wondering why he was adhering to polite formalities.
‘Yes,’ said Janković. An affirmation, as if he already knew.
Justin pulled his hand away. ‘Are you going to tell me why you are in my kitchen?’
‘We have the same boss.’
‘What?’
‘He sent me.’
‘I don’t understand – you have a key?’
Janković waved at the phone charging on the counter as he pulled out a chair and sat at the wooden table. ‘Call him if you like.’
Justin cast his eyes towards his phone. Then, without turning his back on Janković, he picked it up and dialled.
‘Hey, it’s Justin. Can you call me?’ He hung up. ‘It’s his answerphone,’ he said to Janković.
‘I will make sure he listens to your message.’
Justin could feel his anger rising. ‘I want you to get out. Now.’
‘Not possible, my friend.’
‘You what? You break in here, start fucking around with the coffee like you’re in charge of a breakfast buffet. You can take your sorry Polish arse out my kitch—’
‘No, no, no!’ thundered Janković, as he slammed his fists on the table. He stared at Justin, eyes cold, his bulk leaning towards him threateningly. Justin could feel his heart hammering. This man was a lunatic. He rapidly thought of something with which to defend himself, mentally calculated the distance to the knife block.
Janković suddenly burst into loud guffaws. ‘Not Polish. Serbian.’ He sat back down. Took a genial sip from his coffee mug.
Justin was silenced.
Janković watched him. ‘You sent your report.’
‘Yes.’
‘You will let me know if she comes back.’
‘Who?’ asked Justin, even as he knew the answer.
Janković placed a card on the table. On it was printed a number. Then, without any rush, he got up and left.
Justin waited a full five minutes before he moved – only when he’d heard the sound of a motorbike start up and then drive off down the lane.
He picked up the card. He crushed it in his hand, went to throw it away, but at the last second, something stopped him. What was it Janković had said? They had the same boss.
Maybe he’d wait.
Why would his boss need the services of someone like Janković?
Troubled, Justin recalled his hope the night before that Becky would come back to the farm. Now something made him hope that she wouldn’t.
TWENTY-ONE
2018
Kate walked through the open door of the unfamiliar room and looked around, sick with nerves.
She was back in a classroom.
There was only one other person there so far; a thirty-something woman sat in the second row of desks. If the woman hadn’t been there, if she hadn’t looked up and smiled a friendly smile, then Kate would have walked out again. Instead, she croaked a ‘hello’ and self-consciously made her way over to a desk a couple of rows behind.