BooksBarbecue
Back The Hollows
Chapters (77)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Dedication
  5. PART I
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. PART II
  15. 9.
  16. 10.
  17. 11.
  18. 12.
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. 21.
  28. 22.
  29. 23.
  30. 24.
  31. 25.
  32. 26.
  33. 27.
  34. 28.
  35. 29.
  36. 30.
  37. 31.
  38. 32.
  39. 33.
  40. 34.
  41. 35.
  42. 36.
  43. PART III
  44. 37.
  45. 38.
  46. 39.
  47. 40.
  48. 41.
  49. 42.
  50. 43.
  51. 44.
  52. 45.
  53. 46.
  54. 47.
  55. 48.
  56. 49.
  57. 50.
  58. 51.
  59. 52.
  60. 53.
  61. 54.
  62. 55.
  63. 56.
  64. 57.
  65. 58.
  66. 59.
  67. 60.
  68. 61.
  69. 62.
  70. 63.
  71. 64.
  72. 65.
  73. PART IV
  74. 66.
  75. 67.
  76. 68.
  77. Acknowledgements

“Yeah, well, stuff happened.”

For fuck sake, what now? “What stuff?”

Frank glared at his brother. “They’re in the front room.”

Paul banged the table, turning red. “They showed up while I was checking inside. What was I supposed to fucking do?”

Liz swept through the kitchen into the hall. Muffled noises came from the front room. What had that perverted idiot done now?

The first thing she noticed, entering the front room, was that the old coffee table was shunted up against the far wall. Daft, really: first thing she should have clocked were the two people lying gagged and hog-tied on their stomachs. One man, one woman. Once she was over the initial shock, Liz recognised them: that stuck-up little cow Charlotte Famu-whatsit and David bloody Chapple. The girl didn’t matter – if the rest of her family had been taken she’d be assumed to have gone the same way – but Ron Chapple’s son was a different matter. It was a Saturday, so he’d be meant to open up the office. Ron Chapple’d most likely assume Dave was in bed with some little tart, so it’d take a while before he worried. But sooner or later he would.

The Famu-whatsit girl sobbed and screamed through her gag, staring up at Liz. Red eyes, full of tears. But she wasn’t family, so she didn’t matter. Nothing would, soon.

Liz strode back into the kitchen. “What happened?”

“Told you,” Paul said. “They drove up while I was checking upstairs at the Bell and Little Miss High-And-Mighty started kicking off. Couldn’t just leave ’em, could I? Have the pigs down on us again.”

Like it or not, that was hard to argue with. “What about their car?”

“Eh?”

“They drove up, you said. Where’s their car now?”

“Uh,” said Paul, and looked down at the table. Liz closed her eyes.

“Oh,” she said, “you stupid cunt.”

12.

12.

The windows were broken and the door smashed down. A silver car sat in the Bell’s forecourt, doors open, and two sets of footprints led through the snow to the doorway. A third set, and maybe a fourth, approached the doorway from the other side.

There were tyre-marks too. Big, heavy ones: a tractor, Ellie guessed, but not Bert Annable’s: he’d driven back to Barsall as soon as he’d seen the state of Wakeman Farm. Someone else had cleared the rest of the hill road, and the North Road as far as the pub.

The Harpers; had to be. Anyone coming from outside would have cleared more of the North Road, and no-one else nearby owned a tractor big enough for the job. Although they weren’t normally so public-spirited, unless they were being paid.