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Back The Widow Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. PART I
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. PART II
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. MORE FROM VALERIE KEOGH
  90. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  91. The Murder List
  92. About Boldwood Books

It was half an hour before the door opened again. If Portia noticed Allison wasn’t wearing the underwear she’d brought, or recognised the torn scraps that had been tossed about the room, she said nothing. The knife was attached to one hand like an appendage; in the other, she balanced a cardboard tray. ‘You must be hungry. There’s a couple of glasses of Prosecco too.’ She placed the tray on the bed, her eyes never leaving Allison’s face. ‘Enjoy.’

The cardboard tray held an assortment of food. All on disposable plates. The cutlery, too, was plastic and flimsy. Allison picked up the first plate. Pasta in a sauce. Her mouth filled with saliva and her stomach growled. Taking a fork, she scooped up some and shoved it into her mouth, almost groaning with pleasure. It was delicious. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she finished it, scraping the last of the sauce with the edge of the fork.

It would have been nice to have washed it all down with the Prosecco. Two plastic cups of it. She took a sip. It tasted okay. But then so had the couple she’d had that fateful day and look where that had landed her. Taking both glasses into the en suite, she poured the drinks down the sink, rinsed them out several times before filling both with water. Better than using her hand, anyway. She gulped down a glass, refilled it and took both back to the bedroom.

There were cheese and crackers and a slice of chocolate cake too. She nibbled on one of the pieces of Cheddar, munched on a few crackers, drank one of the glasses of water, then picked up the cake. It was very good, chocolatey without being over-sweet.

It had all been good. She certainly felt better for having eaten it. Stronger. Less stressed. Almost relaxed. She put the tray on the floor and sat back on the bed, eating the last piece of cheese with tiny bites. By the time it was finished, she understood the mistake she’d made. It hadn’t been the Prosecco this time. She guessed it had probably been the pasta dish, the garlic strong enough to cover any after taste of whatever drug they’d used this time.

It didn’t matter. It was all too late.

61

The morning after following Portia, Jo returned to the Kensington house. It wasn’t easy to look inconspicuous on the quiet street. It wasn’t en route to anywhere, there were no shops on it, no logical reason for anyone to be hanging around.