Angel of Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

at the corners of her lips, Charlotte headed for the patio. Stephen’s attention was drawn to the television by a voice saying, ‘…divers recovered the man’s body earlier today. Police have yet to formally identify the dead man, but they believe him to be Ryan Castle, a thirty-three-year-old local man whose car was found at a nearby nature reserve. They further believe that Castle, a known drug dealer with a history of violent crime, may have been the victim of a deal gone wrong. Castle was killed by gunshot wounds to the chest—’
    Stephen picked up the remote-control and turned the television off. As he headed out the front door, the newsreader’s words echoed in his head. Killed by gunshot wounds to the chest. Killed by gunshot wounds to the chest.
    ‘Stephen.’
    Flinching at the sound of his name, Stephen looked towards the wrought-iron gate that separated the long driveway from the quiet lane beyond. A man in a dark grey suit was standing beside a black Jag on the other side of it. The man was bald with a natural tonsure of salt-and-pepper hair and a slightly jowly, almost babyishly smooth face. A deep frown cut Stephen’s forehead. Edward Forester. That phoney bastard was the last person he felt like talking to. But he knew from experience how persistent Edward could be when he wanted something. Sucking in a tight breath, he approached him. Edward smiled, showing unnaturally white and even teeth. There was something about his smile – some quality of rigidity – that made it seem more a habitual reflex than a genuine expression of emotion.
    ‘Save your smile for the voters, Edward,’ said Stephen, his voice cold and hard. ‘What are you doing here?’
    The smile disappeared like water from a tap being turned off. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you all week. Why haven’t you returned my calls?’
    ‘Because I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
    ‘I thought we were friends.’
    ‘Friends?’ A slight, humourless curl came to Stephen’s lips. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’
    A ripple crossed the smoothness of Edward’s face. ‘Christ, they’re true, aren’t they? The rumours I’ve been hearing.’
    ‘Goodbye, Edward,’ said Stephen, turning away from the gate.
    ‘Don’t turn your back on me,’ snapped Edward. ‘I’ve a right to know what’s going on.’
    Ignoring him, Stephen headed towards the garage. Edward’s angry voice pursued him. ‘I’m warning you, Stephen. Don’t make a fool of me.’
    Stephen lifted the garage door, revealing his Range Rover and his Aston Martin. He ran his hand lightly over the sports car’s sleek bodywork. Other than Charlotte, making money and one or two vices, there was nothing he loved more than opening up its throttle on the leafy lanes surrounding his property. The thought of someone else driving it and getting the same pleasure from it that he did was enough to make him feel nauseous. Shaking his head as if to say, No way , he took a couple of petrol canisters from a shelf. He unscrewed one and sluiced its contents over the vehicles. The sound of an engine starting up then receding into the distance, told him Edward had left. Lucky for him , he thought. He approached a tall, rectangular metal box, opened it with a key, and removed a double-barrelled shotgun and a cartridge belt. He strapped on the belt, broke open the shotgun, chambered two cartridges, and snapped the barrel shut. Holding the shotgun in one hand and the full canister in the other, he returned to the house.
    As quietly as possible, Stephen set down the canister in the hallway and closed the front door. Shouldering the shotgun, he padded along the hallway. The sound of cutlery being laid came from beyond the half-open kitchen door. He peered through the gap.
    Charlotte was sitting at the table with her back to him. That’s good , he thought. That way she won’t see what’s com ing or have time to be afraid. His eyes lingered on her hair a moment, before shifting to