Read The Truth Will Out for Free Online

used his other hand to lift the gun to her throat, turning it so that it pointed up towards the bottom of her mouth. I could kill her right now, he thought to himself. All in the pull of a trigger. Perhaps she would put up a struggle, just like the other one. He felt a sudden, warm rush at the memory. He had enjoyed that. For a split second he was sorely tempted…
    Instead, he put his mouth to her ear, gently brushing it across her hair as he did so. Her whole body quivered. “I am going to say this once,” he hissed. “Tell Jules to get back home, now. Then we can talk.”
    She nodded, as much as she could manage beneath the weight of his hand, eyes filled with terror.
    “He has twenty-four hours. Or I take you all out.” He glanced at the wall that separated her from the children, then back down at her. “Them first, then you. One by one.”
    Her body started juddering.
    “I’m going to remove my hand now,” he said. “Any noise, any whimper, and I shoot one of the kids.”
    She nodded.
    He removed his hand. “If you’re thinking of calling the cops, just remember I’ll be watching you. All of you. How is your niece getting on at nursery these days?”
    She shrank back in the bed. He surveyed her for a moment with hardened eyes, before he turned and left the room.
    Nate tucked his gun in his pocket as he made his way out down the alley at the side of the house. He was sure she wouldn’t call the police. She was tangled in this web as well. And where would she go for her next gram?
    Nate didn’t understand the craving for drugs. He’d dabbled over the years, mainly amphetamines and cannabis, but none gave him the shot of adrenalin he experienced after a kill. That was his very own hit of cocaine.
    He paused, removed his gloves, formed two fists and knocked them together like a boxer. His gold sovereign rings banged together. Clink, clink, clink. He was THE MAN.

Chapter Four
    Jules Paton lived on Granary Avenue, a quiet, tree-lined arrangement of late nineteenth century, three storey terraces on the edge of Hampton centre. Having obtained details of Jules’ black BMW from the incident room, Pemberton spent a couple of minutes driving up and down, scouring the nose to tail cars that lined the curb. When the search proved ineffectual, he parked up at the nearest available space to number fifty-three.
    In contrast to the other houses in the row, the curtains at Jules’ house were undrawn. Darkness seeped out of the long sash windows. An old, mock Victorian light shone in the tiny, open porch of the house next door.
    Helen was aware that they faced a potentially dangerous situation, possibly an armed killer. And without intelligence or evidence implicating Jules, they couldn’t bring in the armed response team to assist in the arrest. Although Jules’ car was missing, she was also conscious he could still be nearby - he wouldn’t be the first offender to have hidden his car. She called the control room, alerting the duty inspector to their whereabouts so that back up, if needed, would be available quickly.
    Helen and Pemberton exited the car to a blanket of silence. Even the gentle closing of car doors sounded like trombone notes at this late hour. The air was clear and the snow that had fallen earlier was melting rapidly; a few cotton wool coverings on tree branches, a smattering on the odd patch of grass, the only remnants of its visit. Helen looked enviously at the houses enveloped in darkness, all wrapped up for the night, the owners asleep in their beds.
    “Looks pretty deserted,” Pemberton said as they approached.
    Helen opened the front gate into a pocket size, paved garden and peered through the window into a sitting room. Two small, dark sofas sat on a wooden floor facing a black, wrought iron fireplace. A flat-screen TV stretched across the chimney breast. A plain rug lay on the floor beneath.
    Pemberton withdrew his head from the letterbox. “There’s a bunch of post down there,” he said.