Toxic: The addictive new crime thriller from the best selling author that will have you gripped in 2018. Jacqui Rose

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       16

      Wednesday turned into Thursday and Bree Dwyer found herself hurriedly pushing the trolley round the small supermarket in Saffron Walden. She was trying to push the unease away, trying to forget what she saw in Kieran’s bag, whilst praying that the tribute band recording of Cliff Richard’s greatest hits – which was on a loop and being played throughout the store – would stop.

      She checked her watch. The fourth time in less than five minutes. If she didn’t get a move on the shopping list would go out the window, and she’d have to abandon the packets of crisps, burgers and iced gems, like she so often did.

      Time was always her enemy. An hour and a half. That’s all she had. All Johnny had given her. His present to her. Her time limit. To drive, to park, to get everything she needed, but every breath, every turn, robbed her of time.

      Inanimate objects stealing those precious seconds: her purse to find the change for the carpark meter; her trainer lace needing to be tied. But she’d learnt the hard way. Over time. Throughout many beatings. She’d learnt that preparation was the key.

      And so everything she did was calculated to the minute with military precision. Before she set off the money was already sorted in the glove compartment. The trainers replaced with slip-on shoes. It didn’t matter if there were roadworks or traffic, because it was her job to get back. Because that was the only way. Fail to prepare, prepare to … well, she didn’t like to think of it, to think about one of Johnny’s lessons he liked to teach her.

      She sighed, the grimness of the place exacerbating the sense of emptiness she felt. The half-stacked shelves. The empty aisles save an intoxicated old man. The bargain bins of processed own-brand tins. It wasn’t her choice to come here, she would’ve rather gone to the new shopping centre further down the road, but that was at least another fifteen minutes. And that wasn’t even an option.

      Oh God, how she longed to run. To throw down the spaghetti hoops and run to the car. To keep on driving. Past the petrol station, past the lay-by, past the roundabout and just keep on going. But she knew. Johnny knew. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not on her own. Not now. Not ever. So however tempting it was to get back in the car and never look back, she always did. She always looked back and she always returned home.

      Bree glanced down at her watch again. It was getting late. She was annoyed with herself. Thinking had slowed her down, and now the line at the checkout had three people in it.

      Deciding to leave the washing-up liquid, which was over in the next aisle, Bree rushed over to the till, behind the drunken man, behind a pregnant woman whose basket was filled with discount vodka and Cherryade.

      Watching as the checkout man – Steve, according to his name badge – chewed and blew bubbles whilst trying but failing to get a packet of porridge oats to scan, Bree pushed down the sense of panic.

      Indifferent to the rising impatience of the queuing customers, Steve excruciatingly slowly picked up a grey phone which was partly hidden under the five-pence bags. He spoke into it. His voice crackling over the store’s speakers cut into a Grazioso version of ‘The Young Ones’. ‘Anyone got a price for this?’

      Lacking any sign of enthusiasm, Steve waved the porridge oats in the air, resting his arm in his other hand as he did so.

      A woman with thinning grey hair, wearing a nylon blue-checked tabard, shuffled towards the till. Speaking with a lisp owing to missing her top teeth, she sniffed, asking, ‘Price for what?’

      ‘These.’

      She nodded, taking the packets of oats, and shuffled away as slowly as Steve had picked up the phone.

      Bree, seeing that this could take some time, spoke warmly. ‘Hi, I’m in a rush and I’m just wondering if there was someone else here who could go on the other till.’

      Blowing another bubble, Steve, with cutting derision, stared at Bree. ‘I don’t know, let’s see, shall we?’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.

      Steve then proceeded to get up from his swivel chair and search under the counter, before reappearing to lift up the leaflets and plastic bags on the side. He turned back to Bree, coldly. ‘Doesn’t look like they’re there.’

      ‘Please, I’m in a real hurry.’

      ‘Look, СКАЧАТЬ