Ali Knight [Knight - Wink Murder

CONTENTS

First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Hodder and Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright Ali Knight 2011

The right of Ali Knight to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Epub ISBN: 9781444715347

Book ISBN: 9781444715323

Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

To Stephen, with love

I snap my eyes open in the dark, sensing something is not right. The room is instantly familiar, coming into focus with the help of the city light that sneaks past the roman blinds. Tasteful prints hang on the wall, armchairs guard the fireplace opposite, one has Pauls clothes piled on it in a disordered mountain, the other cradles my dressing gown, neatly folded. Im in our bedroom, a place of safety, a haven from life. The other side of the king-size is empty, the pillow fluffed. Paul is not home. I hold my breath because there is the noise again, a shuffly scraping thats coming from everywhere and nowhere. My heart pounds in my ears. The clock clicks to 3.32 a.m. as I hear a crash downstairs. It might wake the children and this thought alone forces me out from under the comforting warmth of the duvet. I am a mother; point one on the job description is to protect them, at all costs. My movements are slow and deliberate as I try to steel myself for what Im about to do. I pick up my mobile and turn the handle on the bedroom door hard to ensure it opens without a sound. Someone is groaning in the hallway and it doesnt sound like Paul.

I have mentally rehearsed what happens next quite often because Paul is away for work a lot at the moment and I think its important to know how I would fight for the only thing that really matters to me my family. I like to be prepared. So, as if Im a fire warden at work, Im putting it all into action. I take a deep breath, punch 999 into the keypad but dont press the green button, turn on the light and run for the stairs, shouting as loudly as I can into the night silence Get out of my house!, phone aloft like a burning spear.

I thump loudly down the stairs and use my gathering momentum to swing round the swirly circle at the bottom of the banister as a shape heaves itself across the kitchen at the end of the hall. Get out, get out! The police are outside! I flood my world with light at the flick of a switch as the dark bundle clatters to the floor with a chair. I pull a cricket bat from the coat stand and feel its comforting weight in my palm and am in the kitchen in a second, the weapon close to my chest. Get out of my house! He has his face on my kitchen tiles but as I raise the bat the shape turns to me and I see my husband, staring up at me from the floor.

It is my husband, but not as I have ever seen him before. He is crying, taking great gulps of air, snot running down to his mouth. I toss the phone on the table and drop the bat to the floor. Paul, what on earths the matter?

He doesnt answer, because he cant. He looks up at me and my former fear for myself is replaced by a more acute worry for him. I try to pull him upright but he is like a dead weight in my arms; hes folded over and crushed, his demeanour transformed. That was why I didnt recognise him from behind, he is not the man he used to be. Whats happened?

Paul smashes his fist into the side of his head and groans again. Kate, Kate

Oh my God, whats going on?

He gets to his knees, shaking, leaving the car key on the floor. Paul is a big man; hes tall, with wide palms, and shoulders you can fall asleep on, it was one of the many things about him that I fell in love with all those years ago. He made me feel protected. Kate, oh help me

His hands are caked with blood.

Youre bleeding!

He looks down at them in disgust. He staggers to his feet and I pull limply at his coat, he must be cut somewhere under the thick wool. Are you hurt?

I... I, oh God, its come to this.

What? He closes his eyes and sniffs, swaying. What has happened? He shakes his head and drags himself into the downstairs toilet and starts washing his hands, flakes of blood and brown water swirling away down the plughole. Paul!

He wipes his face on his shoulder and nods his head. I killed her...

He shakes the water off his hands and I slap him, hard. Tell me what is going on!

My husband looks at me, his arresting brown eyes bloodshot from his tears. What a mess, what a stupid load of... He sighs from deep within. Oh fuck, Kate, I love you so much. And with that he falls right past me on to the hallway floor in a faint no manner of prods, shoves and screams will wake him from.

Something at least becomes clear to me: Paul is pissed. He must be completely rat-arsed. There are probably many things I should do at this moment but first I must pee. I sit on the toilet and stare at the long body of my husband passed out on the floor, his feet turned inwards, his palms up as if hes indulging in a spot of yoga. I am shivering with anger that he could get in a car and drive home in such a state. I shake his shoulders but he doesnt move. I am not a spontaneous person, I need to plan things, to think; I have never imagined a situation like this before and I am at a loss, paralysed in the face of so much that needs to be discovered. After a lot of pushing and heaving I manage to turn Paul over on to his back and pull his coat apart checking everywhere for a wound. When I find nothing I am pathetically thankful blood makes me faint. I sit back on my heels and stare. The hard planes of his handsome face have dissolved into a puffy mess, his strong jaw has receded into his neck. Paul is snoring, his chest rising and falling. The house is silent, my children slumber on unaware. The kitchen clock accompanies him with its staccato beat. The fridge hums and a window rattles. The house settles back into its night-time rhythm. At 3.50 a.m. I get to my feet, tiredness moving over me in waves. I can think of nothing better to do than go to bed. Hell wake up in the end.

W hat seems like a second later a small hand pokes me in the stomach. Ava! Stop that! My daughter is squirming over me in bed.

Mummy, let me get in, she pleads, letting blasts of cold air into the warm fug under the covers. Normally my four-year-old wriggling in for an early-morning cuddle is one of my greatest pleasures, her soft, flawless skin so close, cold little feet pressing into my back, but its 7.10 a.m., my head is pounding, my eyes scratchy. Paul is not here and the flashing memory of last night pulls me sharply upright, my heart banging in my chest. Mummy, Im cold, Mummy... I cannot believe I slept, that I could leave my husband in such a state on the floor. Horrible images of his dead body being casually stepped over by Josh on his way to turn on the cartoons hurry me out of bed.... Daddys on the sofa hiding under a blanky.

I stumble from bed, pulling on my dressing gown. Ava scratches her blonde head. Mummy, can Phoebe come and play? I ignore her as I busy towards the bedroom door. Its time to get the truth about last night.