Rollover Read Online Free PDF Page B

happened tonight had changed his life forever. He could never return to what he’d had. Vince Mayo’s death had jerked him out of his comfort zone and flung him into the eye of a storm.
    Now it was up to him to hold his nerve and see this thing through. He could not bring himself to consider the alternative.
    There were no lights on inside the house. No other cars in sight. The man got out of the car and walked up to the front door. He rang the bell. Slammed the heavy brass knocker. Waited a couple of minutes before exhaling a long sigh of relief. The house was unoccupied. Just as he knew it would be. The owners were still on the other side of the world, blissfully unaware that their home was about to be violated.
    He stood back and studied the front door. Dark wood with frosted-glass panels. He raised his right foot and kicked out with his walking boot, smashing one of the panels. There was no burglar alarm. That was lucky, although not a surprise. People would never learn. He reached in and fiddled with the lock but couldn’t get the door open. There was a window to his right, but too high to aim a kick at. He looked around. In a nearby flower bed he spotted several stone animals. A duck, a badger, a hedgehog. He picked up the duck and used it to smash the window. He reached in through the broken glass, found the handle and opened the frame. He hauled himself up with ease and climbed through it.
    Then he was inside, exploring the house, safe in the knowledge that he was alone. He barely knew Peter and Anne Salmon, but it was the sort of house he would have imagined they lived in. Boring. Uninspiring. Totally lacking in imagination.
    The cherry-wood furniture was old and for the most part ugly. The colours were overbearing. The place felt closed-in and claustrophobic.
    He checked all the rooms. On the upstairs landing he saw a wooden pole that was used to open the loft hatch. It gave him an idea. He picked it up and lowered the ladder, then stepped gingerly up it. There was a light switch attached to a joist inside the loft. He flicked it on and a single bulb suspended from a cord came to life.
    Perfect, he thought.
    The loft ran the length of the house. Grim and dusty. Shadows jostling for attention. A floor of chipboard sections had been laid over parts of it. About fifteen feet above the floor the angled rafters met to form an apex. The space felt damp and airless but it would suit his purpose.
    He hurried back downstairs, searched the kitchen until he found a bunch of keys, including one for the front door. Then he went looking for some rope. But in the garage he came across something better.
    Chains.
    There were five of them, each one about six feet in length. Peter Salmon probably used them during bad winters to give his tyres more grip. He rolled up the chains and stuffed them into the rucksack.
    Next he found some blankets in a bedroom drawer and took them up to the loft. Then he went back out to the car. The ski mask that he often wore on his long winter walks was lying on the front passenger seat. He slipped it over his head again. It felt tight against his skin.
    Then he leaned against the car door and flared up a cigarette to steady his nerves. He blew out a long kiss of smoke that was taken away on a gentle breeze. His hands were shaking and his heart was pounding. He knew it was going to be a long and dangerous night. He would have to be careful but at the same time ruthlessly determined.
    He dropped the cigarette butt and ground it into the gravel with a sharp twist of his ankle.
    It was time to get the woman and child.

7
    D etective Chief Inspector Jeff Temple was not a happy man. It was gone midnight and he was knackered. As he stared down at the corpse on the kitchen floor he just knew that he wouldn’t be getting to bed any time soon.
    It had been a long day. As usual the chronic shortage of CID officers in Southampton meant that the weekend shift was a struggle.There’d been an off-licence robbery, a