Free Tick Tick Tick by G. M. Clark Page A

killer, why not just send me a letter telling me who’s next?’
    ‘That would be far too simple – you have to learn to play his game, and play it his way.’
    I think about that for a while, gulping down a mouthful of whisky. My throat burns, but hell it tastes good; so good that I get up and pour another glass.
    Forensics rattle at the door and my flat is soon full of bodies traipsing in and out, asking questions I didn’t have answers to and generally winding me up. They pick up the bags and I’m told – not asked – that extra patrol officers are now being put on watch to cruise past the flat. I don’t think it’ll help, but it sure makes me feel like a prisoner in my own home.
    Perhaps that’s part of the game.
     

CHAPTER 8
     
    Connie sits on the lounge floor, immersed in the two files, a notepad nearby. For a change the sun is out, its watery yellow rays stream through the large bay windows illuminating the room. It’s a large airy space with soft, comfortable leather sofas and an ornate and intricately hand-carved writing table that had been passed down to me through the generations. Still, she prefers to sit cross-legged on the floor. I’m never going to figure out a woman.
    ‘I need space around me,’ she would say, like that answered everything.
    The wooden floors have been stripped bare and the floor oiled and polished; it gleams in numerous hues of browns and golds. A few rugs are dotted around to provide some warmth and something soft to sit on, one of Connie’s little touches.
    I lie in the bath, the hot water easing the tension of knotted muscles and aching limbs. I can hear her talking out loud; she’s like me in that way, she often says that thoughts floated nearer to the surface if you discussed them with yourself. I guess that way no one can answer you back. Maybe that’s why I did it so much myself.
    I notice all her cosmetics and perfumes on one side of the sink, little tubs and pots of creams, silver containers – not that she needs any of them in my opinion, but it’s good to see her stuff beside mine. I like it there, it gives me a feeling of completeness. Whenever she goes home to Virginia the flat always seemed to be so damn bare; so empty, with no life and no sparkle to it. I wish she’d stay forever, but it’s my fault; I’ve never said it to her. Perhaps a fear of commitment – who knows? I know deep down that she wants more, and yet I’m still unwilling to offer it. My job is too damn precious to me; I don’t have the time for anything else. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. Bullshit, I know.
    The phone shrills through the air as I scramble out of the bath and snatch the receiver. It’s Betty, Mack’s wife.
    ‘Would you guys like to come over and join us for lunch? Nothing fancy mind, it’s just that Tracy and Andrew have brought the grandkids over and Garrett’s asking for you.’
    I can hear the shrieks of laughter down the phone; oh yes, I could do with some of that.
    ‘Betty you’re a lifesaver, we could do with a break.’ I start rubbing my hair with a thick towel.
    ‘Say in about half an hour?’
    ‘See you then – are you making the famous apple pie?’
    ‘Don’t I always?’ she laughs.
    I drop the phone back into its cradle and poke my head around the lounge door.
    ‘I said we’d go over to Mack’s for lunch – that okay?’
    She’s so absorbed she doesn’t hear me. I wander over to her, still dripping, the blue towel slightly slipping from my waist.
    ‘I said …’
    ‘I heard you,’ she laughs, whipping the towel from me with one easy flick.
    ‘You’re a bad girl.’ I eye her suggestively.
    ‘Yes I am – real bad.’ She pulls me down onto the floor. I don’t complain. Hell, Betty can wait for half an hour. This is gonna be better than any apple pie.
     
    Mack’s house is much further out of town; Betty had finally persuaded the old man to move out there a few years back, and though you could never get him to admit it