The Family Man Read online

  T.J. LEBBON

  The Family Man

  Copyright

  Published by Avon an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street,

  London, SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

  This ebook edition 2016

  Copyright © Tim Lebbon 2016

  Cover design © Headdesign 2016

  Tim Lebbon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008122911

  Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008122928

  Version: 2016-07-04

  Praise for The Hunt

  ‘A pacy thriller that had me on the edge of my seat!’

  Sun

  ‘A great thriller … breathless all the way.’

  Lee Child

  ‘A breakout new voice in thrillers.’

  Sarah Pinborough

  ‘Cleverly executed and full of suspense.’

  My Weekly

  ‘The plot is fast moving and keeps you on the edge of your seat all the way through.’

  Crime Book Club

  ‘The pace of plotting and the well-realised location of the rugged and hostile terrain of Snowdonia add to the feel of a tension fuelled thriller.’

  Crime Fiction Lover

  ‘Guaranteed to get your heart pounding.’

  Crooks on Books

  Dedication

  For Pic

  ‘The battle line between good and evil runs through the heart of every man.’

  – Alexander Solzhenitsyn

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for The Hunt

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One: The Space Between Breaths

  Chapter Two: One Thing

  Chapter Three: Dangerous

  Chapter Four: Not You

  Chapter Five: Loony Tunes

  Chapter Six: Pillbox

  Chapter Seven: A Quiet Life

  Chapter Eight: Manson Eyes

  Chapter Nine: Soft Bitch

  Chapter Ten: Attenshun

  Chapter Eleven: Carry on

  Chapter Twelve: Nothing Would Happen

  Chapter Thirteen: Bluebells

  Chapter Fourteen: Little Things

  Chapter Fifteen: Windy Miller

  Chapter Sixteen: Splinters

  Chapter Seventeen: Jane Smith

  Chapter Eighteen: Rocks

  Chapter Nineteen: Cat

  Chapter Twenty: The Team

  Chapter Twenty-One: Hired Help

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Night Watch

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Gone

  Chapter Twenty-Four: On the Move

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Amateurs

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Tumble

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Superglue

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Hottest Day

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: One More Scar

  Chapter Thirty: Trouble

  Chapter Thirty-One: Armed Response

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Option Three

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Stacked Odds

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Beach

  Chapter Thirty-Five: The Hollow Woman

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Surprise

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  Author’s Note: Some of the towns and locations in this novel exist in real life. In fact, I live very close to Usk and Abergavenny and they’re both very beautiful places. I have also visited Brusvily in France many times, and it is equally lovely. But I’ve taken the monstrous liberty of changing things about these places to suit the novel – layout, landscape, the names of shops and pubs. It’s a terrible indulgence, and I beg your forgiveness.

  Chapter One

  The Space Between Breaths

  When it regained consciousness, he had already glued its mouth shut.

  This excited him. It was like locking the life inside, not letting it bleed out. Usually there was some sort of leakage as something died beneath his hands – blood, breath, tears. This already felt different. He decided that he would use the glue again.

  He turned away as it started to twist and moan. The bindings were tight, and he knew that there was no chance of it working its way free. Not in the short time it had left. But for a moment he wanted to observe unseen, not meet its gaze. He liked the power this gave him.

  Circling around behind the chair, he paused to watch. Perhaps it could smell him. It could certainly hear him, because his breathing was deep and heavy, calm. But now that it could no longer see him, the panic was deeper, the desperation more divine.

  He watched for a while, coughing once, uttering a long, low whistle, excited at how these sounds affected its behaviour – a pause, and then more frantic efforts to break free.

  He glanced around the room. The house was old and abandoned, everything neat and ordered but layered with years of dust, perhaps the home of a dead person with no relatives. It was out of time, and he was confident that he would not be interrupted. The traditional life represented here by a bulky TV, a table for dinner, and family photographs, was not his life.

  Far from it.

  A loud snort drew his attention back to his victim. Blood and mucus shot from its broken nose, and then it breathed more easily.

  He closed slowly from behind, and then pounced.

  Moving with confidence, he pulled its head back against the high-backed chair, pressed the tube’s nozzle into one nostril, and squirted the superglue inside.

  Then he dropped the tube and squeezed its nose shut.

  As it squirmed and tensed, attempting to writhe from side to side against the ropes, its strength surprised him. He had to pull back hard, tipping the chair onto its two rear legs. But it didn’t take long.

  After a minute he let the chair drop back onto all fours. The impact on the hardwood floor had the sound of finality. Retrieving the tube of glue, he moved around to face it for the last time.

  Its right nostril was closed, deformed. Its eyes were wide and desperate, issuing pleas that it knew would not be answered.

  He could see that realisation in its eyes – there was no hope, and the only future remaining was the space between this breath and its last. That pleased him. Its panic was his fuel.

  Pressing its head back against the chair, he heard the sudden inhalation that would feed those final few seconds. He squirted glue into its open nostril. Squeezed the nose shut. Looked into its eyes.

  ‘Shhh,’ he said.

  But even then, he did not smile.

  Chapter Two

  One Thing

  It was the downhills that scared Dom the most
.

  He’d once read that cycling defines the man, and as he mounted the brow of the hill and followed Andy down into the first curve of the big descent, he couldn’t help but agree.

  Andy was hunched low, hands on drop bars, head down, arse up, and he was already moving noticeably ahead.

  Dom’s hands were feathering the brakes. They’d ridden this descent together several times before, and it was always at this point that the fear bit in.

  The garish pink house flitted by on the left, big dog barking from the raised deck and old man sitting in his garden rocker as usual, a bemused expression on his face.

  On the right was a low hedge guarding an incredible view across the Monmouthshire countryside, shimmering and hazed in the growing heat of yet another scorching day. And then the road curved around to the left and grew steeper, and there was no going back.

  The breeze blasting past his ears carried a distorted ‘Yeaaahaaaa!’ from Andy, and Dom grinned and hunkered down over his handlebars. As the road straightened into the long, steep descent, Andy was speeding away from him.

  Dom always thought about what could go wrong. He knew the route pretty well, and so could swerve around the two portions that were rough and holed. But he’d once seen a squirrel dart across the road just feet from Andy’s spinning wheels. If that happened to him, he’d either strike it and spill, or panic and grasp the brakes, which would probably result in a skid and crash.

  There was one area of road halfway down that had slumped, kerb bowing down the hillside and road surface cracked and dipped where it was starting to collapse. Trees shaded the road for the last mile of descent, and in those shadows it was harder to see the surface. He might get a bee trapped in his helmet or, worse, behind one lens of his glasses. A puncture at over forty miles per hour could be catastrophic.

  At the bottom of the descent was another bend, not too severe, but at those speeds he’d have to steer on trust: trust that there was no car coming the other way in the middle of the road; no cows crossing; no crows feeding on the slick remains of a crushed badger, or—

  But as he switched his hands to the drop bars and the wind rushed past his ears, Dom realised that today felt different. Maybe it was the three straight weeks of record-breaking heat and cloudless skies. It could have been the thrill of being out so early, enjoying almost traffic-free roads for the first hour of their ride.

  Or perhaps it was because he and his wife, Emma, had made love on their patio the night before. He’d been worried about being seen, even though the garden of their modest detached home was hardly overlooked. She’d soon seen away his fears.

  As his speed increased and he reminded himself to be loose and relaxed, he yelled in delight.

  Andy still beat him to the bottom, disappearing around the bend twenty seconds before Dom.

  Dom moved into the centre of the road and raised himself slightly, trying to see through the trees and shadows and make out whether anything was coming in the opposite direction. He swept around the corner and drifted back towards the left, and as his momentum decreased he switched down a few awkward gears and started pedalling. He’d have to get his gearing sorted before the descents. One more thing he should work on.

  Andy was waiting for him half a mile further on. He straddled his bike in the village hall car park, gulping down a drink and looking cool in his expensive shades. Dom came to a stop beside his friend, breathing hard, not from exertion but from the thrill of the descent.

  ‘Fifty-one!’ Andy said.

  Dom checked his bike computer. ‘Forty-eight. Fastest I’ve done down there. Felt good today.’

  ‘Do one thing every day that scares you.’ Andy was fond of the Eleanor Roosevelt quotation, and it always made Dom smile. On these long rides with Andy, he’d usually manage two or three things, at least.

  ‘Christ, it’s scorching already,’ Dom said. Now that he’d stopped the sweat ran down his face and soaked his jersey, even speckling the hairs on his legs. Andy looked sweaty too, but it seemed to suit him more. His T-shirt was tight and clingy, but whereas Dom’s jersey showed his pudgy waistline and lanky arms, Andy’s clung to his flat stomach and broad shoulders.

  ‘You’ll beat me down one day,’ Andy said.

  ‘Doubt that.’

  ‘Should do. You have a distinct weight advantage.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, thanks.’

  Andy grinned. ‘So, cake and coffee with the Moody Cow?’

  ‘Damn right.’

  Moody Cow was not the name of their favourite pit stop on this particular route, nor the woman who ran the cafe. That was the Blue Door and Sue respectively. But she’d given them enough stern looks to invite the name which had become permanent.

  Andy reckoned she fancied him and was playing hard to get. Dom thought it quite likely. Over the two years he’d known Andy, Emma had called him grizzled, rough, and lived-in, and his string of casual girlfriends attested to his effect on the opposite sex.

  ‘Race you!’ Andy said. He caged his drink bottle, clipped in and moved off without looking back.

  Dom followed. He was pretty good at sprints on the flat, and had been working hard on his turbo trainer over the previous winter to improve his power. Nevertheless, it took the whole two miles to the village of Upper Mill for him to catch Andy, and even then he had the weird feeling his friend let him win.

  ‘Pipped me,’ Andy said outside the Moody Cow. ‘Coffee and cake on me.’ He leaned his bike against the fence and opened the big blue door.

  Dom watched him go, leaning on his handlebars. He was exhausted, breath heavy and burning in his chest, legs shaking. Sweat ran behind his biking glasses and misted them, and he had to take them off. Andy had hardly seemed out of breath.

  ‘Bloody hell, fat bastard,’ he muttered, taking deep breaths and feeling his galloping heartbeat beginning to settle. In truth, he wasn’t fat at all. Compared to most men in their early forties he was way above average when it came to fitness, even though he carried a few pounds extra. But Andy wasn’t most men, and Dom really wished he could stop comparing himself to his friend. They were good mates, but their lifestyles were chalk and cheese, and he wouldn’t change a thing.

  Leaving the bikes against the timber fencing that surrounded the cafe’s front garden, he chose a table in the shade.

  There were a couple of elderly couples having their morning coffee, and at the garden’s far end a group of businessmen nattered over fluttering sheets and a laptop.

  There was also a couple of women, maybe in their early thirties, dressed in tight shorts and vest tops. They’d obviously been for a run, water bottles discarded on the table in favour of tall fruit smoothies. One of them caught his eye. He smiled; she glanced back to her friend.

  Dom unzipped his jersey halfway, self-consciously turning his back on the women. As he sat down and kicked off his bike shoes, one of them laughed softly. It was nothing to do with him. It can’t have been.

  He took the phone from his jersey’s back pocket and slipped it from its pouch. There were no missed calls or texts, but he took a selfie with the cafe behind him and sent it to Emma. Refuelling stop, he typed with the picture.

  Andy appeared and scraped a seat across into the sunlight before slumping in it. ‘The coffee stop of kings,’ he said. ‘Our lovely hostess will bring our morning repast forthwith.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Ahh, this is the life.’ Andy stretched like a cat. ‘Nice spot, this.’

  ‘Sue should start giving us regulars’ discount.’

  ‘Right, I’ll let you ask her.’

  Dom smiled.

  ‘So what’s next week got in store for you?’ Andy asked.

  ‘New kitchen fit-out up in Monmouth.’

  Today, Dom had given himself a rare day off from work. He ran his own small electrical firm, just himself and an apprentice who’d been with him for three years. Davey was a good worker and a pleasant lad, and Dom was pretty sure he’d soon be making a break to set up on his own. He didn�
��t mind that so much. It was bound to happen, and he couldn’t expect the lad to stay working for him forever.

  Andy chuckled. ‘Oh, Mr Electrician, have you come to rewire my plugs?’

  ‘Yeah, like that’s ever happened.’

  ‘Sure it has.’

  ‘Not all manual labourers have lives resembling the plots of pornos, you know.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘That’s just you.’

  ‘Sure, the sordid life of a freelance technical writer.’

  ‘So how is the gorgeous Claudette?’ Dom asked.

  Andy had been on–off dating a French doctor spending a year on a work exchange at the hospital in Abergavenny. Early-thirties and beautiful, Dom had only met her once.

  Andy leaned over. ‘Porn star,’ he whispered, grinning.

  Dom rolled his eyes, and when he looked at his friend again, Andy was staring across the road.

  ‘Take a look at that,’ he said.

  Dom followed his gaze. He was expecting to see the two women jogging away, or another attractive woman perhaps walking her dog. So at first he couldn’t quite make out what Andy had been staring at.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Security guy.’

  A security van was pulled up across the square, and a man was carrying a heavy black case into the local post office.

  Dom had never been in there, but it was obviously a typical village post office, doubling as a newsagent and grocer. It had a selection of wooden garden furniture for sale out front, windows half-filled with flyers for local jumble sales and amateur dramatic presentations, and a homemade display wall of bird tables and feeders.