The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7), Nathan Goodwin [little red riding hood ebook TXT] 📗

entirely different to her imagined version of him. He was a strong-willed, defiant man with a fortitude easily matching that of his wife.

Ann continued watching their exchange, assuming from the way which Hester’s exaggerated hands moved from flapping animatedly in the air to being thrust onto her jutting hip, that the conversation which she was now witnessing was actually an argument.

The perfect time to make an entrance, she mused, with a wry smile.

With a confident stride, Ann marched towards the house. Just yards from the door she stopped dead. It was not Sam at all. He—whoever he was—took something from Hester. Money, perhaps, then moved towards the street door. In a panic, Ann wondered what she should do or where she should go, but she had no time to go anywhere or do anything.

The door opened and the man saw her. He hurriedly pulled his hat down over his eyes, but she had seen him. It was the man from the Bourne Tap. The handsome man who had played with his moustache whilst making oblique statements about the place. Without a word, he strode past her and was absorbed into the darkness.

‘Who be that?’ Ann demanded of Hester on entering the house.

‘It bain’t be none of your business,’ Hester answered, slamming the street door.

Ann felt the devil rise inside her. ‘Happen I be asking Sam what a man be doing here at night giving his wife money.’

Hester looked visibly shaken. ‘He be a friend and not what you be a-thinking.’

‘What do he be called, this friend what gives money to folks at night time?’ Ann asked.

‘Jonas Blackwood.’

Ann nodded. ‘What say—quitter for quatter, like—that I not be moving on tomorrow and be lodging here a while longer? Happen, then, I be forgetting all about men what pay you in the night time.’

Hester’s narrowed eyes displayed such bilious anger. Short snorts of air fumed from her nostrils, as, with hands on her hips, she contemplated Ann’s threat.

Ann stretched exaggeratedly, as though she had all the time in the world to wait for Hester’s decision. In her peripheral vision she spotted movement outside. Sam was walking the path to the house. Ann danced her way to the door and pulled it open. ‘Sam, what a delight. We be just talking about you.’

‘What grabby weather,’ Sam complained, removing his boots, shooting curious looks between the two women. ‘What you be saying?’

Ann looked to Hester.

‘Ann be a-staying on here a little longer, if that be alright by you, Sam,’ Hester said softly.

Sam smiled. ‘She can be staying here as long as she be liking.’

‘Most gracious,’ Ann said, flouncing from the room.

Chapter Ten

Phil was sitting in his battered Volvo looking at his cheap watch. Counting down. Forty-five seconds to go. He glanced up at the bungalow and back down to his watch. Forty seconds. He looked up again and saw that the door was now open.

‘You’re thirty-three seconds early!’ he said with a laugh, banging the steering wheel.

He watched the old man shuffle out, shut the door, then check that it was locked three more times.

‘Jesus, will you just hurry up. IT’S LOCKED!’ Phil yelled, unheard from the confines of his car.

Arthur Fothergill, with a hessian jute bag in one hand and a walking stick in the other, ambled down his garden path and out onto the main road, where he paused and took a lengthy look up and down the street.

Phil flopped his head onto the steering wheel with exasperation at the time he was taking.

Finally, the old man wandered down the road towards the bus stop. It was the same routine, week in week out. Every Tuesday he would take the 10.16am 101 bus from New Romney to Folkestone, where he would spend the day shuffling around shops into which he didn’t need to go, spending money which he didn’t have, on stuff which he didn’t need.

Once he was completely out of sight, Phil clambered from his car, crossed the street and walked up the path to the bungalow. Taking out his key, he opened the door and went inside.

Phil switched on the light, but it did little to drag the dark and dingy hallway from the shadows. He entered the dining room and headed straight for the bureau where he knew Arthur kept his official documentation. Opening the drawbridge-style door, Phil could instantly see from the chaotic mess of paperwork that his task was not going to be as quick and easy as he had first thought. Still, he had all day.

He pulled out the first stack of papers—bills from British Gas and EDF. As he sorted through the pile, he paused, thinking that he had heard something. He quickly stuffed the papers back inside and closed the bureau door. Without moving, he listened. Yes, someone was standing at the front door, struggling to get their key into the lock.

Now what? The front door opened, meaning that he was now prevented from escaping via the back entrance. He was trapped in the dining room and had no alternative but to hide in the first place that a child might check in a game of hide-and-seek: behind the door.

‘I actually feel sick about it,’ Juliette whined, standing from the table and rubbing her stomach under her nightshirt, preparing to scoop Grace up as she crawled around the kitchen floor.

‘But that’s just because you’ve had a year off—it’s normal,’ Morton said, taking a bite of his toast. ‘Once you’re back out there you’ll be fine.’

Juliette sighed. ‘Even though it’s only three days a week, it feels different now we’ve got Grace. It’s not exactly the safest job in the world. Mind you, with the stupid things you end up doing, your job’s just as bad.’

‘I promise I’ll be more careful,’ Morton tried to reassure her.

Juliette crouched down, lifted