The Doll's House

135

Ben let out a roar and drove his fist into the glass. The mirror shattered and fell to the floor as the blood oozed from his lacerated knuckles. Without hesitation, he stamped on it, his heavy boots pounding it to oblivion.

How? How? How?

How had they found him so quickly? Those bodies were dug up less than a week ago and already they were staking out his shop. It was purely a matter of luck – and their incompetence – that they hadn’t caught him there and then. He let out an anguished howl and drove his head against the exposed brick wall. It couldn’t be happening, not when Summer had just come back into his life, when he was so close…

How long would it take them to find this place? The home that he had so lovingly constructed for their future happiness? It couldn’t be long now. Once they found out who owned the shop, they would talk to that old bitch. If he was lucky she might be barmy by now, but he couldn’t take that chance. There was nothing for him to do but disappear.

He still had the van. They wouldn’t know about that. And the fake plates would make it hard for them to find him. He could visit Summer tonight. He had never made such a direct approach before, but needs must. If they could be together before the evening news broke, then they might make it away completely.

Marching to the utility room, Ben picked up the squat glass bottle. The rubber bung was still firmly in place and he could see that there was enough clear liquid inside for his needs. He snatched up a couple of old rags and shoved them in his pocket. He turned to leave, then paused. This place would be like a treasure trove when the cops turned up. This distillation unit, his mementoes of Summer, not to mention that thing in the doll’s house downstairs. Bitterness gripped his heart as he thought of those faceless policemen and women passing judgement on him as they patiently fingered his possessions…

Suddenly Ben knew what he had to do. Throwing the cardboard boxes aside, rifling through the detritus of this small room, he found what he was looking for. A large can of turpentine. And nearby it on the shelf, an old lighter, a relic of his smoking days.

Picking them both up, he stalked over to the trap door and hauled it roughly open.