Angel of Death

Terry was programmed to buy women flowers or chocolates when he visited them, so he had bought flowers again, en route, a great polythene-wrapped spray of red roses, but looking around the garden he could see he had brought coals to Newcastle. Dorothy Knox lived surrounded with flowers, like a princess in a fairy tale in an enchanted bower.

She paused, flushed and breathing fast, to stare at him as he pushed open the gate, which whined and creaked like an old dog.

‘Mrs Knox?’

She nodded, pushing a lock of fine-spun silvery hair back from her forehead.

She was amazingly attractive for a woman of her age, he thought, staring at the brightness of her eyes, the warm tones of her skin, her slim, active figure.

Terry hesitated to tell her his own name. He had no idea how much Miranda, or the police, would have told her.

‘Is Miranda here?’

‘No,’ she said and suddenly there was frost on her voice. ‘Who are you?’

He couldn’t refuse to answer. ‘Terry Finnigan, I was Miranda’s boss.’ He held out the flowers in what he felt, himself, to be a pathetic attempt to placate her. ‘I happened to be down in the west, so I thought I would look her up, see how she was, and I brought her these.’

Dorothy Knox made no move to take them. Her face had become cold, hostile. ‘Well, she isn’t here, and before you ask, I don’t know where she is. If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I know about you and your son.’ She put a hand up to her head. ‘I still have the scars to remind me.’

Terry ground his teeth. He had forgotten what had happened to her. ‘Look, I’m sorry for what happened to Miranda, and to you, too, but I wasn’t

responsible, I assure you. I haven’t done anything to either of you.’

‘Your son did! If you have any decency, you’ll stay away from my daughter. The police won’t be too pleased to hear that you’ve been here, looking for her. And I will tell them, don’t worry. She’s under police protection, so don’t bother searching for her. Even if you found her you wouldn’t get near her. Now, I’m very busy, so please go away and don’t come back.’

Flustered, he protested, ‘Look, I’m sorry, honestly, that you got hurt. I just want a chance to . . .’

She lifted the hoe she was using, poised to use it if he came any nearer. ‘Clear off. I don’t want you here.’

A car was progressing along the country road towards them. Dorothy glanced at it, her face lighting up. ‘Here’s my friend. He’s a policeman, he’ll soon deal with you.’

Terry looked round as the battered red car stopped at the gate. The man getting out was in his sixties but he had a wiry, faintly belligerent look that would, recognised Terry, make him something of a problem in a struggle.

‘Go on, get out,’ Dorothy said. ‘Before Freddy throws you out. He’s a lot tougher than you think you are, believe me.’ Her eyes were contemptuous.

Terry didn’t try to argue or plead; he just slunk away, passing Freddy at the gate without meeting his stare.

‘Who’s he?’ he heard Freddy ask.

Terry dived into his car and drove off before Freddy could catch up with him. He wasn’t afraid of the man, simply reluctant to get into a fight and perhaps attract police attention.

Back home, he found Sean lying on a sofa in a towelling robe, his hair wet from a swim in the pool, listening to deafening rock while he cut his toenails. Terry looked at him with a mixture of despair and disgust, then walked over and turned the music off.

‘Hey!’ Sean began then stopped at the glare he got. ‘What’s the matter with you now? You’re always on my case these days. This is the weekend. Don’t I deserve a bit of peace on a Sunday morning?’

‘Have you seen Nicola this weekend?’

‘Yes, we had dinner and went on to a club last night, then I drove her home at midnight. Her dad insists she’s in by then, old-fashioned git. Where were you last night? Don’t tell me you picked up a woman?’

‘I was doing what you should have done. Looking for Miranda,’ his father bit out with scorn. ‘She’s out of hospital, but she’s gone underground, and I’m told she has police protection. I went down to Dorset to find her mother and got warned off.’ He was still burning over the way Dorothy Knox had spoken to him.

Sean ran a hand through his springy, wet, blond hair. ‘Maybe a chick would find out more – why don’t I get one of my birds to look around? Chat people up. Even the filth get friendly with a pretty girl.’

Terry frowned. ‘What the hell d’yer mean, one of your birds! Don’t you ever learn? You’re supposed to be engaged to Nicola. You shouldn’t be seeing any other women. You don’t have any common sense, do yer? Grow up, for God’s sake.’

Even his accent was deteriorating and his son noticed it, giving him a startled look.

‘OK, OK – but shall I get someone to ask around, or not?’