Page 30 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘First thing would be great. I think I lost a filling.’

‘From what? You haven’t even been doing anything,’ I whisper.

James shrugs. ‘Lost the war with a toffee. It’s been killing me all day.’

Terry rocks in his chair so violently that I think he’ll tip it.

‘James!’ I say, through my clenched teeth. ‘Wrap it up.’

James puts down his biscuit and walks across the room, plonking himself firmly on Terry’s lap. Which makes Terry squeal with James’ dark jeans digging into his fresh thigh wound.

Is this the sort of shit he pulls at his kills? All snacks and easy-osy nonsense?

‘Sorry, Sandra, it’s a little noisy in the pub. Can you repeat that? 10 a.m.? Perfect. Thanks so much, you’re a lifesaver.’

With the way Terry writhes beneath him, James looks like some sort of industrial estate bucking bronco.

James stands when he hangs up the call, tucking his phone into his pocket like it’s not incredibly weird to make dental appointments mid-torture session.

‘Sorry, guys, as you were,’ he says, ripping the towel out of Terry’s mouth before patting him on the cheek. ‘She’s all yours, buddy.’

I get back to my questioning, to no avail.

When Terry doesn’t break, I shave off more skin. It reminds me of Christmas ribbons with the way it curls. All red and glistening.

‘The app,’ he says finally. ‘It came through the app. As an automated instruction. I thought it was routine.’

‘Thought,’ I say.

‘The last time, I was called up. Told to wait until you went into the house and call the police. To say I’d seen a woman with a knife in there.’

‘Who was it?’ I ask.

Terry hesitates, the hierarchy stilling his tongue.

James puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. ‘It’s okay, mate, just tell her, and she can be done with you.’

He’ll be bloody done, all right.

When he still doesn’t talk, I trace my blade higher, angling it between his thighs. ‘Spill the beans, Terry. Or I’ll lop yours off.’

‘It’s someone on the Death Council. All right. They want to undermine you for a vote of no confidence.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly. I’m not privy to any more information.’

I glance at James, who is mid-biscuit.

‘Oi, Mr Kipling, are you paying attention?’ I ask.

James grins. ‘He makes cakes, not biscuits.’

‘Not my point.’

‘It’s a start, though,’ he says. ‘We try to squirrel out a weak link in the most likely culprit’s line and find out more. Let’s face it, with Terry’s involvement, it’s likely the Kavanaghs. They have their nuts in a twist about you taking over.’

‘Or I could just kill them all at the next meeting and be done with it.’