Alex Barclay 4-Book Thriller Collection: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss, Harm’s Reach

From behind her and to the right, she heard angry footsteps, then they stopped. A man’s voice rose up over the sound of something or someone slamming against a truck or car.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, going to Mountain Sports?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t “what” me … Are you out of your mind?’

‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about … but you can stop right there.’

A younger voice and an older voice. She recognized the older voice – Malcolm Wardwell.

‘Honestly, my ass,’ said Malcolm. ‘You know damn well what I’m talking about. That’s why you want me to stop!’

‘This conclusion? You’ve jumped high and wide.’

‘Have I? Really?’ said Malcolm. ‘Have I? I don’t think so … you ungrateful … piece of shit.’

‘Your only son is a piece of shit now?’

Malcolm let rip. ‘What the hell have I done to you? You are a spoilt, ungrateful, terrible, terrible child.’

As the anger exploded and she knew they had been sucked into their own private world, Ren slowly sat up and turned to watch. She saw it was Malcolm Wardwell’s son.

‘Child?’ he said, stepping forward, laughing.

Malcolm slapped him across the face. His son held his cheek, his eyes wounded and angry. ‘I asked you for nothing,’ he hissed. ‘Ever! Stay out of my business, Dad. Like I want to stay out of yours. Funny how I seem to have made a pact with the devil without being there to sign the papers.’

‘Oh, you sure did make a pact with the devil …’ said Malcolm.

‘For crying out loud, get me the sackcloth, ashes, let me walk around town ringing a bell, let me –’

‘You … disgust me.’ Malcolm Wardwell’s voice was so pained and sincere, his son stopped, mouth open. He looked surprised himself at the tears that flowed. Malcolm Wardwell hesitated, then walked toward him, taking his son in his arms.

Chapter 56 (#ulink_078e9de4-6085-5f5b-8408-a8584756a7fc)

Mike Delaney sat in his office, leaning back in his chair to close the blinds behind him. Ren knocked on the door.

‘Come in, take a seat,’ he said.

‘Am I interrupting you?’

‘Absolutely.’ He smiled. ‘I will give you two minutes of my precious time.’

‘Cool,’ said Ren. ‘The strangest thing happened last night and I’d just like to see what you think. I was parking my Jeep in the church car park. The one on French Street, opposite the inn. And I heard the Wardwells – Malcolm and his son.’

‘Jason.’

‘Jason,’ said Ren. ‘It was creepy. They had this intense argument. Malcolm Wardwell was apoplectic. Which was weird in itself because, when I interviewed him, I thought he was a bit of a pussy. Anyway, Malcolm looked like his head was about to blow, he was so angry. Then the son – this forty-something-year-old guy – starts weeping like a baby, kind of collapses in on himself and the father takes him in his arms. Weird.’

‘That is weird,’ said Mike. He waited.

‘And the argument was just about Jason taking a job in Mountain Sports.’

‘That was it?’

‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘So I was thinking, I mean, obviously the stores are in competition, but … this argument was a little … dramatic.’

‘Tensions were high.’

She nodded.

‘So what do you want me to do?’ said Mike.

‘Who owns Mountain Sports?’

‘A Norwegian couple. Let me check.’ He wheeled his chair to the computer and started typing. After a while, he turned the screen toward her. ‘The owners are …’ He squinted. ‘Maria and Sjurd Nordberg –’

‘Syurd. The js are like ys,’ said Ren.

‘Thankjou.’

‘It doesn’t work the other way round.’

‘How do you know shit like that?’ said Mike.

‘“Norwegian Wood” … my boyfriend in college.’ She winked.

Mike laughed. ‘OK … SYURD Nordberg and his wife have had the store nine months.’

‘Did we talk to them first time round – in the winter?’

He paused. ‘Yes, I think that might have been me. It’s all coming back. Yes – they had nothing much to say. They were too new – new in town, new to the store.’

‘I might go say hi today,’ said Ren.

‘For …’

‘The holy hell of it.’ She smiled. ‘Was that two minutes?’

‘Yes. Get out.’

Ren stopped by Wardwell’s on her way to Mountain Sports. A red-and-yellow banner the length of Wardwell’s window read Twenty-fifthAnniversary Sale: 25% Off. Ren hovered in front of it. A mother and three blonde identicoiffed daughters bumped past her, confident that high hair, Fake Bake and miniskirts worked well across a forty-year age spread. Ren frowned after them, then walked down the steps into the store.

The sale rails were overloaded and pushed against the wall, leaving space at the center for a stack of cartons. Malcolm Wardwell kneeled beside them with a box cutter, slicing through the brown tape that sealed them. He glanced up at Ren and looked back down again.

‘I would like to apologize,’ said Ren. ‘For that last time.’

Mr Wardwell leaned into the open carton and pulled out a pile of vacuum-packed parkas. He stopped and looked up at her.