stood, closed the kitchen door, then went around all the units, opening the drawers and rummaging about inside. Tea towels. Coasters and mats. Assorted bits and bobs. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Ethan. Very swish.’ Cutlery … I pulled out a steak knife and a fork. Next drawer: cooking implements. Helped myself to a heavy wooden rolling pin. There was a little blowtorch in the last drawer, perfect for making crème brûlée.
‘Ever heard of DIY Dave? Killed about eight people so far. Tortures them.’ I arranged everything on the table in front of Ethan. ‘We call him “DIY” because he never brings anything to the scene, just uses whatever his victims have lying about the house.’
I picked up the steak knife and stabbed it into the tabletop; when I let go it stayed upright, quivering.
‘Mmmmmmphmmmph!’
‘Yeah, thought you’d say that.’ I took out my own set of handcuffs: shiny stainless-steel hoops with a rigid plastic handhold in the middle. I fastened Ethan’s right arm to the chair, then unlocked Rhona’s cuffs on one side, so they dangled from his left wrist.
I grabbed the rigid plastic bar and hauled his arm up onto the table.
‘Mmmmmph nnnph!’ His fingers spidered on the wooden surface, as if his hand was trying to get away. Which wasn’t a bad idea.
The rolling pin was nice and weighty. I tapped it against his wrist. ‘You’re a southpaw, that right, Ethan? A lefty?’
‘Mmmnngh …’ His eyes darted from the rolling pin to me then back again. Little drops of sweat beaded his forehead, making it shine. The smell of old garlic got stronger.
‘So, when you’re fantasizing about how you used to beat up my wife, this is the hand you wank with.’ I raised the rolling pin. ‘What did I tell you last time?’
He stared up at me, eyes glistening with tears. ‘Mmmn gnndnnn nnnnngh mnnngnnng!’
I slammed the pin down on the back of his hand. The jolt radiated all the way up my arm to my shoulder. The bang echoed around the kitchen.
A small pause.
Then Ethan screamed behind the gag, jerking back and forwards in the chair – unable to go anywhere.
Didn’t blame him: must have broken a few bones.
‘You promised last time, didn’t you? You promised me you’d never go anywhere near Michelle and Katie again.’ Another go with the rolling pin.
Another scream.
‘Curl your fingers up. Now.’
‘Mmmmmph! Mmmmmph!’
‘CURL YOUR FUCKING FINGERS!’
His hand trembled, the fingers fluttering and twitching, then he dragged them into a loose fist.
‘Bastards like you are all the same: you think women are gagging for it, don’t you? Think you can do whatever you like and it’s OK, because you’re so big and special. Think they’ll love you for it. Right?’
I smashed the rolling pin down on his raised knuckles, hard enough to knock the fork and blowtorch off the table.
‘MMMMMMMMMMPHNNNN!’ Tears streamed down his face. The scuffing sound of feet scrabbling on the tiled floor. ‘MMMMMMMMMMPHNNNN!’
‘You know what, Ethan? Looks to me like you’re gagging for it.’ One more go, putting my weight behind it.
‘MMMMMMMMMMPHNNNN!’
I dropped the rolling pin, let it clatter on the tabletop. His hand was already starting to swell, the skin a deep angry red, blood oozing out from what was left of his knuckles.
‘Mmmmmmmmmmnnnph … Mmmmmmmmmmnnnph …’ Head back, eyes screwed shut, tears running down the sides of his face, breath whistling through his broken nose.
I let go of the handcuffs, and he curled his shattered hand against his chest, rocking back and forwards.
I filled the kettle and put it on the range to boil. Waited for Ethan to stop sobbing.
‘Michelle’s still got the scars, did you know that?’ Three mugs from the cupboard, one tea, two coffees. Boiling water made a plume of steam in each. ‘I saw the photos in the case file. What was it, a cigar? Too big to be a cigarette.’
‘Mmmnnph …’ Voice small and low, as if he wasn’t really trying any more.
‘The only reason you’re not mouldering away in a shallow grave right now is Michelle begged me not to do it. Can you imagine that? Didn’t want your blood on her hands, even after everything you’d done.’ The fridge was one of those fancy American double-door ones – I sloshed milk in the tea and one of the coffees.
‘I wanted to carve you up like a Sunday roast. I mean, it was bad enough you moved into my fucking house, you had to pull that shit too? And I don’t give a toss who your dad is: if I thought you’d laid a hand on Katie, all the begging in the world wouldn’t save you. Understand?’
I pulled out the chair opposite and sat back down. Two coffees, one tea. I lined them up on the table, not bothering with coasters. Knew Ethan wouldn’t mind.
‘You’re going to give me your car, Ethan. You’re going to tell me where the registration documents are, and you’re going to sign the Merc over. Then you’re going to tell me where you keep your cash. You’ve got cash here, don’t you Ethan?’
He slumped forwards in the chair, folded around his hand. ‘Mmnnnph …’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Jewellery too. You’re going to throw that in too, and you’re going to be grateful I took it off your hands. Well … hand.’
Ethan’s eyes narrowed above the gag, pink flushing his cheeks.
‘And in case you’re thinking, “Why should I give this bastard anything? Why shouldn’t I call the police?”’ I reached into my jacket and pulled out the gun. Surprisingly heavy for something so small. Only took a couple of minutes to put it back together last night. ‘Doesn’t look like much does it?’
The hissing sound stopped – he was holding his breath.
I hauled back the slide, racking a round into the chamber. Click, clack.
Ethan’s eyes went very wide.
‘Beretta ninety-two G. It’s French.’ I pointed it at his face. ‘You want to see how it works?’
‘Mnngh, mnnnghmmmphnng!’
‘You’re going to hand over everything, aren’t you?’
A nod, quick, jagged, never taking his eyes off the gun.
‘And you’re never, ever, ever going to bother Michelle and Katie again.’
He shook his head. ‘Mnngh!’
‘And if I think
