There’s no sign of the bastard watering his plants, loitering by the front door or peering out of windows like a spider in its web, as on my previous visits. The house is silent in the dying light of the setting sun. A tang of burning is carried on the breeze. The security gate to the back garden is open. There’s no sign of him out here either and it crosses my mind that perhaps he’s realised his number is really up this time and he’s fled.
But Danny wouldn’t be Danny if he fled. Only the weak flee. I know he’s here somewhere.
My heart sinks when I see that at the end of the lawn, an incinerator is smoking away.
I kick the lid off the incinerator and peer inside. Breathe easier when I find a pile of smouldering roots, plants and clippings from the garden, rather than the document proving he was a trustee of Pretty Lanes. I wince back from the heat scalding my face. The contents glow red, orange and black, seething and rolling like hellfire. And I suddenly realise the mortal peril I’ve put myself in by coming to this place. My galloping heart and the sweat drip-dripping down my back tell me to get out of here.
The image of what he did to Hope, chaining her to the wall, banishes my weakness. Danny Greene is going to get what’s coming to him. Rage and retribution drive me forwards. I take the handle of the French doors and twist, hesitating for a moment before I step inside. The large windows that are so airy and light in the daytime now appear frighteningly big, the dimming colour outside painting the glass a wintry grey. A chill hangs in this house that I haven’t noticed before.
Racing with the lightest of treads I head for Danny’s operations room, taking out my set of keys. Danny is not the master criminal he thinks he is because he has no idea that I kept the set of keys I found in his cleaner’s cupboard. I fit the key in the lock. Turn. The lock jams halfway. I don’t understand. I have definitely got the right key. I try again. The same thing happens.
Abruptly, I freeze. There’s a heat behind me that wasn’t there before. It creeps and soaks uncomfortably into my back. And breathing. Ever so light, the catch and fall rhythm of someone sleeping. But this person isn’t sleeping; they’re standing way too close to me. I scramble to my feet and twist around, my back pressed up against the locked door. My torch tumbles to the floor.
Danny’s silhouette stands a few feet away in the gloom. He smiles at me. ‘Hello, daughter.’
He sees me flinch. His eyes glow with feral delight. ‘Are you looking for this?’ With relish he waves a copy of the Pretty Lanes trustee document at me.
The smile he sends me is macabre. ‘Did you really think I didn’t hear you in the small hours of this morning rooting around in my office like a rat in a rubbish bin?’ His large eyes are almost the colour of neon blue.
He takes out a lighter and torches the end of the trustee document. ‘No!’ I scream, rushing him, but he grabs me and holds the paper high. I try clawing at it, but it’s no use; it burns before my very eyes. He places it on a side table, where the embers turn it into ash.
I struggle but he holds me tight. ‘You’re not going already? You’ve only just got here. Why don’t you sit down and tell your father what the matter is?’
He drags me through the house, through the French doors and into the garden where he slams me down into a chair at the table by the riverbank. His tied-up rowing boat on the water’s edge bobs up and down.
I should be cold, but I’m hot again. ‘You murdered my mother, you evil animal. And you would’ve murdered me as a baby too.’ My voice is choked and angry.
He takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, apparently unfazed by my accusations. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a silver cigarette case. When it’s open, he takes out a slimline cigar and lights up. I’ve never seen him smoke before. The smoke clouds his face.
He continues his caring parent routine. ‘Who’s been filling your head with all this silly nonsense?’
I bare my teeth at him. ‘You seduced her, an older man preying on younger women in more ways than one. Soft-talked her like you did me with all that “I’ll give you a shoulder to lean on” claptrap.’
He pulls on his cigar, his gaze roaming all over my face. ‘You look like her, your mother. She sadly turned into poison ivy clinging to me after a while. And then the baby thing.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘That was the pin that popped our relationship.’
My body tenses. I’m ready to charge. He points a restraining finger my way. ‘Don’t. I don’t want to have to hurt you.’