might concern. My name is Maureen Bolter. I am dying. I want to get this off my chest about Thomas Westonby. Westonby is a murderer. I heard the truth with my own ears from people in the church when the village got flooded. Thomas Westonby hit my grandson, Todd Bolter. Later that night, him and my beloved grandson got into a fight again on top of the church tower. Iâve been told that Westonby and Nicola Bekk pushed my grandson off the roof so that heâd be killed. As God is my witness, I am writing these words to inform you that Westonby is a murderer and should be in prison.
Kit had difficulty in deciphering some of the sprawling scribble. He doubted that the police would investigate, given the poor mental state of his grandmother when she scrawled this down before she died. What troubled Kit was that he couldnât dismiss what heâd read about Tom Westonby murdering his uncle. Just because the Bolter family were cynically dismissed as thieves, drug-sellers and liars didnât mean that they, themselves, werenât sometimes victims of crime. There were times when Bolter folk told the truth, too.
Kit Bolter wondered how heâd react the next time he met Owen Westonby. Should he tell Owen that the Bolter family believed that Tom had murdered one of their own? Even just a mention of an accusation like this could explode a friendship to nothing. Kit closed his eyes and thought hard about what he should do next. Because all of a sudden, the immediate future looked darker â storm clouds were gathering over Kit and the best friend heâd ever had.
THIRTEEN
S he wanted to talk. Tom, however, knew she must get away from the cottage and back to the car as soon as possible. He finished tying his bootlaces, fastening his coat, and retrieving a powerful flashlight from the kitchen.
The beautiful woman with the coffee-coloured skin and those amazing blue eyes watched him with an expression that blended sorrow with desperation. âMr Westonby. Now that Iâve told you that Iâm Nicola Bekkâs niece, wonât you listen to me?â
âHow do I know that you really are related to Nicola? Journalists have tried all kinds of tricks to get information out of me.â
âMy eyes donât lie. These blue eyes are pure Bekk, arenât they?â June Valko thrust a phone towards him. âThis is a photograph of my father. See his eyes? Theyâre the same blue.â
Tom sighed when he saw the photograph. A man stood with a dark-skinned woman. His eyes were blue, and his hair possessed that same shade of blond as Nicolaâs â an extremely fair blond that wasnât far away from being an ethereal white. He sighed again, because he couldnât avoid the truth any more. This indeed was a blood relative of Nicolaâs.
âSo you do believe me, Mr Westonby?â
He nodded. âCall me Tom.â This time he held out his hand.
Shaking it, she smiled, though her eyes remained deadly serious. âPlease call me June.â
âOK, June. The bottom line is you must get back to your car as soon as possible.â
âYou believe Iâm Nicolaâs niece, so why do you want me to leave?â
âThis forest is dangerous after dark.â
She laughed as if heâd made a joke. âDangerous? Itâs just a forest.â
âIf I trust that youâre a blood relative of the Bekk family, then you must trust me when I say itâs not safe out there.â
Juneâs blue eyes strayed to the sofa. âCanât I stay? I thought we could talk?â
âWe can meet up again. But not here â and certainly not at night.â
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him.
Tom had seen that look before. âYes, I know, you think Iâm insane. But itâs not safe out there. I only go into the forest after dark if thereâs an emergency, and lives depend on it. Do you follow what Iâm saying?â
âPerhaps we could
Learning to Kill: Stories