The Final Minute by Simon Kernick Read Free Book Online

subconscious. She barely had time to grunt before she went limp in my arms. I let her fall to the floor, grabbing the gun at the same time. She lay still and I pointed the gun at her head, my finger tensing on the trigger as a cold rage bubbled up inside me.
    My first instinct was to kill her, but as I looked at her lying motionless on the floor, her eyes closed, her expression peaceful, my rage dissipated. I patted her down, quickly locating the knife she’d used on Jane in her jacket pocket. I took it, along with the radio, but couldn’t find the duct tape. I had no idea how long she’d be unconscious for. For all I knew she could have been faking, but I felt a lot safer now I had a gun. Her partner was coming to pick her up in ten minutes – about nine now – so I was going to have to hurry.
    I removed the batteries from the radio and threw it across the room, then raced up the stairs, no longer bothering to stay quiet. Straight away, I saw that Jane’s bedroom door was half open. She and Tom had clearly been caught unawares by their killers and, given the fact they were half naked, it was a fair bet that they’d been in bed.
    My suspicions were confirmed the moment I stepped inside. The bed, a giant four-poster that looked like it could sleep five comfortably, was unmade, the sheets chaotic, and there were clothes and shoes strewn across the floor where passion had clearly got the better of them. Even after everything else that had happened today, the sight made me jealous. I had many vague recollections of being intimate with women. But I couldn’t picture any of their faces. Nor could I remember anything about any of them. They were like ghosts. I knew I’d enjoyed their nakedness though, and yearned for it again.
    I picked up Tom’s jeans and rifled through the pockets, finding a wallet and a mobile phone. I checked the wallet. A hundred and eighty pounds in cash, a couple of credit cards and a driving licence in the name of Robert Thomas Berman, with a photo of Tom looking suitably sour-faced. According to the licence he lived in South London, in the SE24 postcode. It struck me then that I’d never known his last name, and had never bothered asking. Ours wasn’t that kind of relationship.
    I turned my attention to Jane’s clothes and started going through them. Her jeans pockets were empty but her handbag was on the dressing table and when I went through that, I got hold of another mobile phone and a purse. This time there was no cash but there was a driving licence and credit cards in the name of a Ms Alison Wolfrey. The address on the licence was London again.
    I shoved everything of value into my pockets and then started on the drawers in the bedside table, quickly finding the keys to Jane’s BMW convertible, which she kept locked in the garage, presumably in case I ever got an urge to take it for a spin.
    I was just forcing them into a pocket when the home phone rang, its sound blasting through the house. There was a handset on the bedside table, just next to my ear, and the ringing startled me. Holding the gun, I checked the landing and the stairs to make sure Pen wasn’t creeping up on me, then closed the bedroom door and went over to the phone. I stared at it as it continued to ring then, taking a deep breath, I picked up.
    ‘Hello,’ I growled, trying to emulate Tom’s brusque, gravelly tones.
    ‘Tom?’ snapped a man’s voice in a neutral, educated accent. He sounded stressed.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Put Alison on.’
    ‘She’s not here.’
    ‘Where the hell is she? She’s not answering her phone.’
    ‘She’s out walking,’ I told him, growing naturally into my role as a liar, although not necessarily a mimic. ‘You know the reception’s not very good round here.’
    ‘And where have you been? I’ve been phoning this number for the last hour.’
    ‘I was outside too.’
    ‘Our man’s still safe and sound, isn’t he?’
    I guessed that ‘our man’ meant me. I almost said, ‘Yes I