Page 78 of Witness 8

They would protect her.

They would make sure John Jackson paid for the murder of Maggs.

The red priest’s voice was in her mind now. She could hear him even when she wasn’t in the Jacksons’ home. It had first happened last night, as she put her mother to bed. At first, she thought it was a fly, buzzing around her. Then the buzz intensified, the tone altered, the pitch changing, morphing, becoming the whispers . . .

Rubeeeeeeeeeeee . . .

It was unsettling, at first, to have the red priest in her head. The pressure felt enormous, and it had caused her to stagger, lose her balance. Almost falling on top of her mother. She’d held on to the bedrail. Closed her eyes, breathed in and out.

‘Are you okay?’ asked her mother.

‘Fine, it’s just a headache.’

‘Take some Advil and drink some water.’

Even at her age, in her condition, she was still her mother. Soon she would have a new home. People to look after her. Washher. Dress her. Feed her. Ruby had to get away. She had to silence the red priest and go somewhere where no one could ever find her.

There was a strange comfort now in the whispers. Somehow, she didn’t feel so alone. The red priest was with her. He was wicked and cruel, but he loved Ruby. And, if she did as he told her, he wouldn’t shout.

Ruby hated it when he shouted. The pressure in her head would build like a boiling pot, her ears felt like they wanted to explode, and the pain . . . and then the blood. Her nose would bleed, but only a little. She told him she would do as he asked. And he would calm down. His voice no longer like a booming mic in her head, just a soothing breeze of whispers.

Ruby’s letters to Ellis and Bale gave them time. They had the money, of course, but they would need time to ensure that it could be paid without anyone else noticing that money had slipped from their accounts.

The letter gave detailed bank account instructions. The money had to be paid today. Noon was the deadline. Ruby had needed time, too, to make arrangements to hide the money from anyone who might try to trace it.

Ruby would need to move the money straight away. She now had accounts set up in more than a dozen banks under different company names. She had watched a tutorial video on how to move money, and in what amounts, so as not to arouse suspicion or trigger any money-laundering inquiries. She just had to wait for the transfer to hit that first account, then she could work.

She would have time. The Jackson trial started this morning, and Ruby was supposed to be looking after Tomas, but only until the end of the trial. The Jacksons were planning to leave town for at least a month, no matter what the verdict. If it went well, John would be coming too. If he was convicted, Alison wouldtake Tomas and get away from the nightmare of media and abuse that would inevitably follow.

Ruby couldn’t wait for them to leave. In truth, she couldn’t believe that they had stuck around for this long, despite the hellscape that their lives had now become. God knows, Ruby had tried to make it as bad as possible.

Once they were gone, Ruby could act.

After that, Ruby was leaving too.

Her mother would be in her new care facility, and Ruby, well, Ruby would be free. She had begun dreaming about open-top cars and long desert roads.

Far away from all of her problems.

33

Eddie

‘What kind of a name is Mr. Christmas? Where’s your red suit?’

The man across from me in the booth smiled. With his ivory skin, milk-blue eyes and sharp suit, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who laughed easily, but his amusement seemed genuine.

‘I’m just beginning to like you, Mr. Flynn. You are endowed with many admirable qualities. Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t kill you, but not now, at least. So you can relax, take your hand off that weapon in your pocket. I can also assure you that I am not the person who injured your mentor, Mr. Ford. I am much more discerning in my professional approach. I am not carrying a firearm presently. There’s a blade in my sleeve, but I don’t foresee the need to use it. Not unless you force my hand . . .’

His voice was deep and strong. It came from his chest. And on the way out of his mouth his lips and tongue moved eloquently to make sure he hit every syllable for perfect pronunciation. While his tone seemed friendly, even though he’d just told me he was planning to kill me, his language was formal. I guessed he was an educated man. His fingers laced together and he placed his palms on the table, extending his elbows. Chin up. Good posture. There was a confidence that oozed out of him. There was an odor from the man, something citrusy, with wood and tobacco. It smelled expensive. Like the suit.

I took my fingers from the ceramic knuckles in my jacket pocket and put my hands on the table. He watched me, his expression neutral. I got the impression that he could move fast if he wanted to. And I had no doubt he could use the blade he had in his sleeve. Who keeps a knife in their sleeve? Someone who had a special sheath made for it, no doubt. A custom job. This wasn’t Mr. Christmas’s first rodeo.

I’d been around killers from the time I was a kid. I remember sitting on a bar stool in a Brooklyn dive, sipping a Pepsi and eating peanuts when I was eight years old while my father shot craps in the back, or played cards. The big guys with moustaches and suits who read the paper in that bar knew my father was working, and they were taking a cut from whatever he could con out of the regular clientele. Those big men kept the Pepsis coming, and I sat and listened to them talk and tell jokes. There’s something about men who have killed other human beings for a living. It’s in their eyes. It’s in their voice. They seem both regular people and completely alien. They understand that there are social conventions, relationships with peers and loved ones, but they also know there’s an off switch. That if they have a problem they can solve it by putting three .22 rounds in the other person’s head.

Mr. Christmas was a killer. And it showed.

But only to those who knew what they were looking at.