When the Evil Waits by M Lee (top fiction books of all time txt) 📕

A fist struck Ridpath’s temple.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

His head went woozy and he thought he was going to black out. He tried to avoid the blows, throwing his arm up to cover his head. But Oram was on top of him now, striking downwards again and again.

Ridpath kicked out blindly, feeling his knee connect with something solid. Oram screamed in pain and, for a second, the blows on Ridpath’s head stopped.

He kicked out again, trying to wriggle free from Oram, but the man was ready for him this time. The kick was blocked and the punches against his head came one after another, Ridpath feeling the man’s hard knuckles strike his head again and again and again.

Ridpath blacked out for a second and woke up to feel the man’s fingers around his Adam’s apple. He felt them pressing in, squeezing ever tighter and tighter.

Ridpath couldn’t breathe. He felt a weight across his chest, weighing him down. The pain was immense, getting stronger. The fingers tightening around his throat, squeezing the breath, squeezing the life out of him.

Words whispered in his ear. ‘Can you feel the pain? Do you know what it’s like to die?’

The pressure increased.

Tighter and tighter.

Hands gripping his throat. He couldn’t cry out, couldn’t breathe. His legs kicking weakly against the floor.

The pain grew less, as if it were being swallowed up by a whale. The weight on his chest became heavier and heavier. And now he was floating above his body, looking down at himself with Matthew Oram’s hands around his throat, slowly squeezing the life out of him.

In his head, he whispered his last words. ‘I’m sorry, Eve.’

Then there was a flash of bright light and the pain stopped.

Chapter 100

Molly Wright and her photographer followed the detectives into the convenience store.

What were they doing here? She hoped to God they weren’t just getting cigarettes for Claire Trent. If they were, Molly had definitely chosen the wrong car to follow.

A young man was standing in front of a green door, staring up at a carpeted flight of stairs.

Molly could hear the noises of a fight coming from above.

At the same time, she could hear the sound of fists pounding on the back door of the store, desperate to get in.

She ordered the young man to open the door and climbed up the stairs, the photographer following gingerly behind her.

The sounds of the fight were getting louder; a gagging sound, feet being kicked against a wooden floor, whispered words.

The inert body of Emily Parkinson was draped across the doorway. She was still breathing but out cold.

Molly stepped into the living room.

A man was on top of the thin copper, his hands around the detective’s throat, choking him to death.

Ridpath’s legs were still kicking but she could see he was getting gradually weaker.

The man leant forward and whispered something in his ear.

The photographer took a shot, the flash going off. As the man raised his head, noticing them for the first time, Molly picked up the baseball bat and swung it wildly, connecting to something soft with a satisfying thud.

The man slumped backwards, blood pouring from his ear and temple.

Behind her, Molly could hear the pounding of heavy feet on the stairs, followed by, ‘Jesus, what the fuck has happened here?’

Two Weeks Later

Sunday, August 23

Chapter 101

‘Dad, do you believe in heaven?’

‘Not really, Eve.’

‘So you think Mum isn’t in heaven, she’s just here, buried in the ground?’

‘I’m not very religious, Eve, I don’t really buy into this heaven and hell stuff. But I think your mum is still with us, in our memories and in you and me.’

They were in Stretford Cemetery standing in front of Polly’s grave. The green granite stone they had ordered from the mason was etched with these words:

Polly Lim Ridpath

1981–2020

Daughter, Mother, Wife, Lover

Taken from us far too early

It was Eve who had added the last bit about being a lover. ‘Well, that’s what Mum was all about. Love. For me and for you, Dad. So why can’t we put it on her gravestone?’

He agreed with her. Polly was about love and so much more.

‘I still miss her.’

‘So do I, every day, but it’s good to come here.’ He looked around at the other graves arrayed in lines across the top of the hill overlooking the floodplain of the Mersey.

‘Shall we go for a walk?’

‘Where?’

She pointed to the river. ‘There must be a path down there.’

‘OK.’

They walked past some newly dug graves, finding a path leading towards the river. Many of the gravestones bore the Irish tricolour or the Gaelic harp, representing the country’s strong presence in this part of Manchester.

‘Dad, are you a hero now?’

‘Definitely not, I just did my job.’

‘But that woman says you’re a hero?’

‘Molly Wright? She’s a reporter doing her job.’

‘Telling the news?’

‘No, selling newspapers. But she probably saved my life.’

‘I should write and thank her.’

‘That would be a good thing to do, a nice gesture. She’s writing a book about the case.’

‘You’re going to be in a book, Dad?’

‘Probably.’

‘That’s so cool. And how’s Emily?’

‘She’s fine, back at work already.’

‘Is she still wearing a bandage on her head?’

Ridpath laughed. ‘Not any more. She’s made of tough stuff, is Emily Parkinson, particularly her head.’

‘She promised we would go riding together when she came out of hospital.’

‘I’ll let her know you’re available, shall I?’

‘I’ll have to get my bike fixed first, the chain has come off.’

‘I’ll do it for you if you like.’

Across town, Molly Wright was enjoying a rather pleasant lunch with her agent in the Midland Hotel. She’d chosen a Chassagne Montrachet and a 2010 Château Palmer. Not the best year, but still far better than her usual Spanish plonk.

He was taking her through the marketing plans for the book she was writing on the Carsley case. ‘We should be able to get you on Jeremy Vine and Radio 4. Piers Morgan is interested in doing a segment and Tiger Aspect are working on plans to film it. I think you were awfully brave, attacking the killer like that.