Hell Hath No Fury by Rosie Harris Read Free Book Online Page A

to go about it. They’d done it at Cubs, but that was before she had started to play an active part there, and she had only a hazy recollection of what was involved.
    Perhaps if she rolled him on to his side, in the recovery position, it might help. She could remember the diagrams about that. Grabbing hold of his shoulders she began to move him.
    It was then that she saw the blood. It was underneath his body in a dark-red mass that began seeping out over the carpet. Rank, red, glutinous. Bile rose into the back of her throat, and her stomach lurched as she gagged noisily.
    For a moment she seethed with anger. Not against whoever had done this shocking thing, but against John for not being able to sort things out for her.
    She needed to hear his calm, placating voice, listen to him rationalizing about what procedures must be taken, providing a satisfactory explanation.
    Why had this terrible thing happened? To him of all people!
    Slowly, the pounding in her temples began to subside only to be replaced by the chilling realization that the murderer could still be in the house.
    She knew she must get help, but who should she call? The police?
    Why hadn’t she thought of that, she wondered guiltily. She should have phoned them the moment she’d opened the sitting room door and found John lying there in that state.
    She looked round for something to cover him over with, then hid her face with her hands and gave an anguished moan. She couldn’t do it.
    The police wouldn’t want her to touch him, she reminded herself. It was important to leave him exactly as she’d found him. Even covering him over might destroy valuable evidence.
    She shuddered at the thought of what lay ahead once the police were notified. All the questions, the probing into their private lives, curiosity from friends and neighbours, and the shame when it was all reported in the newspapers.
    Why, oh why had such a terrible thing happened . . . to John of all people!

FIVE
    T here seemed to be speed cameras everywhere, even on the stretches of the dual carriageway between Benbury and Dutton.
    Maureen Flynn clenched the steering wheel so tightly that her neck and shoulders ached. Her urge to travel in excess of the regulation speed was so great that the calf muscles of her right leg were knotted with the strain of controlling the accelerator pedal so that she kept within the law.
    She had made the fifty-mile journey so many times in the last ten days that she knew not only every twist and bend in the road, but every bump as well.
    She breathed a sigh of relief as her headlights picked out factories and office buildings that marked the start of the industrial estate, and then a black and white road sign proclaiming she’d reached the outskirts of Dutton.
    In ten more minutes she would be home. It would take another ten to unload the car, and after that she would be able to relax in a hot bath and soak away the stress of the past few hours. After that she would have a good stiff drink to celebrate.
    She smiled to herself. That was nonsense, and she knew it. She didn’t feel in the least bit stressed. She felt exhilarated. She always did when she’d completed an undertaking to her complete satisfaction. She prided herself on her competency, on her thoroughness and attention to every aspect.
    Every detail had to be right. One missing bit of the jigsaw and she felt on edge. She would spend days researching or checking one seemingly trivial point in order to make sure that even the minutest detail was absolutely correct. Her work was always flawless, faultless and infallible.
    She was a perfectionist. That was why she had decided to go freelance. The marketing company where she’d worked, after she’d qualified in Business Studies, had grown too large and far too commercialized. They seemed more concerned in providing the results the client hoped to receive rather than ensuring the information they gave them was in-depth and