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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

‘Perfect, I’ll leave it to you then.’

‘Do, it’ll be a lovely surprise for you.’ It would be. Perfect timing. She made careful plans.

She could have said she wasn’t free when Jo mentioned she was coming to London for a meeting, but Allison was reluctant to say she wasn’t available. She’d developed a connection with the other woman, a rare enough event in her life; it would be good to see if it survived meeting face to face. Over the next few weeks, she might be in need of a friend. Anyway, it didn’t matter, there was plenty of time to fit in everything she’d planned.

12

The following morning went as smoothly as Allison had hoped. After reminding Peter once again to leave his office on the dot of five, she hurried from their home and walked the ten minutes to the nearby train station.

The fifth floor, where most of the offices of McPherson Accounting were situated, was blissfully quiet. There’d be none of the annoying, often-endless interruptions that punctuated her usual workday. It would be an hour before most of her colleagues and the support staff arrived. Sixty minutes where she hoped to get the bulk of her more pressing issues sorted.

Her office, like all the others on this floor, was compact. Tiny but hers: hard-won with long hours, lunch at her desk, pandering to those who made the decisions, never complaining when more work was assigned than she could cope with, spending longer hours, working from home at the weekends. The small window, grimy with pollution on the outside, looked onto the grey-bricked building next door a mere two or three feet away. If she pressed her cheek to the glass and strained to look upward, it was possible to get a glimpse of the sky. Sometimes, desperate for a glimpse of the world that was whizzing by, weeks, months, years where she seemed to be standing still, she did press her cheek to the glass, her make-up leaving a strange pattern that she struggled to remove with paper tissue and spit.

That day, she didn’t. She wasn’t standing still any more.

* * *

The Covent Café, where Allison had arranged to meet Jo at one, was a short walk from her office. At a quarter to the hour, with two emails still to send, she blew a frustrated sigh, tapped out a few more words, grunting in annoyance when she made errors, deleting and correcting with her teeth clenched. It was a minute to the hour when she switched off, grabbed her bag and jacket and raced through the door.