"Littleford, Clare - Death Duty" - читать интересную книгу автора (Littleford Clare)

what she made of me, and whether she would like the same assessment to
be done in her own front room.

PC Short said, "We'd like you to come down to the station tomorrow and
look through our photos, see if this chap's known to us. We'll pick
you up. You can make a proper statement then, too."

"Okay," I said, but I felt a little weak, a little dizzy at the
thought. I walked the police back to the front door and once they had
gone I shut it and leaned against it and tried to get my breath back. I
didn't want to go to the police station. I didn't want to get in a
police car. What if he saw me in the back of the car and decided he
was going to come after me and shut me up? He had my purse, there had
to be something with my address in that purse, and he could come back,
he could come and find me. I imagined a knock at the door, opening the
door, seeing his face pressed against the crack, grinning at me, the
way he had grinned at me in the street, and a little chain wouldn't
keep him out, he could force his way in and there wouldn't be anyone to
stop him, and screaming wouldn't scare him away, not if he was
determined.

Five

By the time I was due to drive over to Alex and Simon's place, I was
starting to think that agreeing to go hadn't been such a good idea. It
was dark outside. The street looked empty from the front window, but
there were plenty of places where a person could stand unseen, if they
really wanted to. An empty street meant nobody to rescue me and there
were such terrible stories in the newspapers and on the TV mobile phone
thefts at knife point people taken to cash points with a gun in their
back, car-jackings. People attacked as they unlocked their cars, or as
they waited at traffic lights, or blocked-in when they pulled up to
park. And there were the other crimes, too, the ones I didn't want to
contemplate, because I could imagine the hand over my mouth, the press
of someone's body against mine, the sound of their breath and its moist
warmth against my ear.

I stood there by the front window for a long time, my shoes and coat
on. The house was quiet behind me, and there wasn't much traffic on
the main road. A stereo played pop hits somewhere nearby; the music
was softened by distance, a lazy background sound.

I had thought about not going to Alex and Simon's at all. I could make
an excuse; they would accept that. I could tell them I had a headache,
that I was tired. I could sit in front of the TV instead I had a
bottle of wine, and something to smoke. I could relax; it would be
nice just to relax.

But something rebelled against that idea. If I started lying about it,
if I hid behind a headache, didn't that say that the attacker had won?