Warhol's Prophecy

62

4.07 P.M.

Hailey glanced at the dashboard clock as she drove, guiding the Astra with one hand, holding the mobile phone with the other.

She finished her conversation with Nicholas Barber, confirming their meeting for the following day. The local MP seemed a little less pretentious and self-important than some she had encountered, but nevertheless Hailey wasn’t relishing the meeting. Still, she reasoned, it couldn’t be any worse than her encounter with Water-hole.

They were to meet for lunch the following day to discuss final details of the charity concert that Barber was to attend.

He said his secretary would be on hand to take notes. Hailey assured him this would be unnecessary, but, despite her protestations, he insisted. She thanked him for his time and switched off the mobile, swinging the Astra around a corner.

Up ahead she could see her home.

There was over an hour before she had to pick Becky up. The little girl was playing a game of rounders after school. Hailey decided she had time to shower and change before she set out.

She was pleased with the way preparations for the charity gig were progressing. Jim Marsh too was delighted with her work.

Even Rob had been asking her about it. His interest seemed genuine, too, she mused.

They had gone through too much during the past year for everything to return to normal soon, but they were making more progress, she felt. They had agreed to suspend their Relate counselling sessions for a time.

Just see how things go.

Hailey smiled to herself.

And there’d been no further calls from Adam Walker.

No calls. No flowers.

No contact.

Just as well.

She had been stupid. She knew that. But at least things hadn’t got out of hand.

Not quite.

She shuddered when she thought how easily the pair of them could have become involved.

How easily she could have become involved with this man whom she hardly knew, but felt she understood so well. And who understood her.

Better to have ended it when she did.

She brought the car to a halt outside the house and sat behind the wheel for a moment, glancing up at the sky – at the dark clouds gathering.

With a sigh she slid from behind the wheel, picked up her briefcase and headed for the front door, fumbling in her jacket pocket for her keys.

Rob had called her at work that afternoon to say that he’d be coming home late. Something about having to meet a customer for a drink. He and Frank Burnside were going along to meet the man together.

When she had asked him what time he’d be back, it had taken a supreme effort not to ask him if it was really Burnside whom he was going with. If it was really a customer he was meeting.

The spectre of Sandy Bennett still remained, like the dying vestiges of a bad dream.

In the end she hadn’t asked. He promised her he’d be home around seven, and she’d believed him.

Perhaps she’d ring the pub later.

Just in case.

Hailey selected the front door key from the others on her chain and pushed it into the lock, then stepped into the hall.

Silence.

She frowned.

Why wasn’t the alarm going off?

She crossed to the key-pad and opened its plastic flap.

She had set it when she left that morning – she was sure she had.

Perhaps there was some kind of fault.

She’d check it now and call the maintenance firm if necessary.

She pressed the reset keys.

Nothing.

She glanced up.

The sensor that normally flickered red in the top right-hand corner of the ceiling was dead.

The alarm wasn’t working.

She wandered into the kitchen to retrieve the alarm-system maintenance firm’s business card from the notice-board.

As she stepped into the room she felt a draught. It was coming from the window over the sink.

Hailey swallowed hard as she moved closer.

The window was slightly ajar.

And in that split second she knew why. Just as she knew why the alarm wasn’t working. The realization set her heart hammering.

Whoever had broken into their house had disabled the alarm first.