Something Wicked Read Online Free PDF

give her the report at his office but she’d
insisted she couldn’t leave the house. The road was wide and straight, a boy racer’s dream, with bare autumn-racked trees swaying gently on either side in perfect rows. It was the
type of tranquillity that could only exist thanks to busybody residents’ groups with tape measures and clipboards. Still, good for them – if it was left up to the council, they’d
plonk down a bunch of mismatched red-brick abominations as higgledy piggledy as possible in the name of ‘community housing’.
    Andrew got out of the car and looked both ways along the street: it was the kind of place you’d retire to. Peaceful and still, except for the TV engineer at the far end who was grappling
with a tangle of cable, while simultaneously keeping a fag on the go. Smokers: the ultimate multi-taskers. Although it was probably good they could do more than one thing at a time considering
they’d die of lung cancer ten years before everyone else. Best cram it all in as soon as possible.
    The Deacons’ house was a sprawling mass of bricks and glass, three storeys high, with a double garage and a driveway with paving slabs so perfectly even that it could have been laid by a
mathematician, albeit one with big shoulders. Bay windows too – you couldn’t be upper middle class if you didn’t have curvy glass at the front of the house. A hosepipe slithered
its way along the manicured lawn, with banks of pristine tufty jade grass surrounded by empty flower beds waiting for winter to come and go.
    Andrew double-checked the address against the appalling scrawl of biro written on his hand and then made his way up the drive, satchel slung over his shoulder. It looked more professional to
carry a bag, even if it did contain only a laptop he wouldn’t need, a charger for his old phone, the file for Violet, a notepad and a pen which may or may not actually work. It wasn’t
what was in the bag that was important – it was the promise of what
might
be in the bag. For all his potential clients knew, it could be full of important surveillance gear, or
technology so advanced it would blow their minds.
    The doorbell made a deep bing-bong as Andrew checked his watch: exactly nine thirty-five. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing the lightbulb-shaped Violet Deacon – bulbous on
the bottom, small head at the top. Her dyed brown hair was clamped to the top of her head in a loose bun, while she had poured herself into a pair of leggings that did no favours either for her or
the straining cotton.
    Andrew stood to the side as she poked her head out of the front door and looked both ways. ‘You didn’t see anyone out there, did you?’ she asked.
    ‘Only some cable guy down the street.’
    She nodded shortly, stepping aside to let him in. ‘Bunch of nosy sods round here. That Mrs McIntyre across the road is always sticking her beak in other people’s business. You can
see her every day sitting in her window, spying on everyone going past, hoping she’ll get a bit of gossip to report at their Friday coffee mornings. It’s like they’re winding down
to death one coffee at a time. Old bags.’
    Violet was in her early forties but looked older, a permanent yawning weariness etched on her face. Andrew didn’t reply, allowing her to lead him along a photograph-laden hallway. He
spotted Stewart and Violet in most of them, along with a boy in varying stages of adolescence. Here we are in Paris: snap. Here we are somewhere with elephants: snap. Skyscrapers, beach, sunshine,
trees, next to a pool, holding up cocktails to the camera – all of the usual holiday pictures were there. They were one double thumbs-up away from a photo bingo full house when Andrew reached
the kitchen.
    A chunky unit sat in the centre of the room. Rows of pots and pans hung above, with the sides flanked by cabinets and counter tops. Everything was made of a glimmering black marble-type
material, heavy with sharp edges