The Rules of Murder Read online

  The Rules of Murder

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  A Letter From Rob

  Books by Rob Sinclair

  Copyright

  The Rules of Murder

  Rob Sinclair

  For Nathan

  Prologue

  This is it, it’s time.

  I close my eyes. I try to block everything out. I know what I have to do, but I’m struggling to convince my body to move.

  You have to go now. You won’t have much time.

  I shake my head in despair. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m too scared? What if they find out what I’m doing and why? What if they stop me? What then?

  They won’t find out. Remember, we have this all planned. Nothing will go wrong if you stick to the plan.

  I can’t go back to that place. If I make a mistake, that’s what will happen. I’d rather die than go back.

  You won’t go back. This is what we—

  ‘Get out of my fucking head!’ I scream.

  Then silence.

  I open my eyes and hold my breath. I hear nothing.

  I thought I wanted the silence, but now it’s thick and choking and my heart pummels my ribs as I begin to panic. I try to get up from the bed I’m sitting on, but my legs are weak and aching. I stumble from the room.

  The silence doesn’t last long. There was no respite, no pleasure in its emptiness, because I already know what comes next. A noise. A constant noise. Blaring, grating. Getting louder by the second. Like rats scratching across a hard floor. Hundreds of rats. Thousands, all crammed together, clawing and scratching and pushing and shoving. It’s unbearable. My brain, my insides, vibrate from the din.

  The rats are inside me. They’re tearing around my body; their claws and their teeth scratch and scrape from the inside out…

  I reach the bathroom. I virtually collapse onto the sink. My knee bangs the ground as my legs give way; my hands grasp the dirtied porcelain to keep me from smashing my head. I reach forward and turn the tap, splash cold water on my face.

  But the noise is still there. Still growing. Disorientating. With immense effort I somehow manage to lift myself back to my feet. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the murky glass of the mirror, but I look away.

  I think about smashing my head against the glass. If I pummel my face into the mirror, the wall, over and over, the noise will stop. I might have some peace. I’ve done it before. I know it works. If only for a little while.

  But no. Not this time. That’s not why I dragged myself into this room. I prise open the cabinet. It takes enormous effort. My whole body is tense and contorted. I grab two pill bottles without looking at what they are. I discard the caps and chuck a handful from each bottle into my mouth. I crunch, I chew; I need just a little water to send the whole lot down into my stomach, where the rats are now screeching and screaming as they try to claw their way through flesh and bone, out of me and to freedom.

  It’s too much. My legs give way from under me again. I slump down against the wall. I think I bang my head – on a shelf? – but I’m not aware of any pain, just that my head is now swimming and everything in front of me is blurred and spinning.

  I close my eyes. I didn’t think it possible, but the noises grow even louder and more all-consuming. It feels like my head is in a vice now, being slowly crushed. Just a few more turns and it will surely explode, and those rats will all surge free like lava from a volcano…

  I roar with pain and desperation… And then…

  When I think I can’t possibly take any more, the rats are quietening down. Finally the pills are kicking in. The rats are becoming tired, sluggish. Not gone for good, they never leave me, but they’re soon asleep, and before long I’m not aware of them at all, and that same eerie silence returns.

  As ever, it’s not for long.

  That’s good. You did it.

  But what’s better? The rats? Or this?

  You did it. You have to stay strong. Stay strong for me now. We’re so close.

  I don’t say anything in return. Instead I sit there on the floor, sobbing like an infant.

  You need to get moving.

  I do. Soon I’m on my feet and heading for the front door. I have no choice. I know I have to do this. This is my destiny.

  And they all deserve to die.

  Chapter One

  She stepped off her bike and checked her watch. She was late. Too late. The drinks service was due to start in five minutes. She was supposed to arrive half an hour before that. Sophie slung her bike against the wall at the side of the ivy-covered mansion and hot-footed across to the main service entrance – perhaps the least grand aspect of the manor’s exterior – where one of the cooks, a plump sweaty man in his thirties, who Sophie thought was called Greg but she wasn’t quite sure, was standing vaping.

  ‘Morning,’ he said as Sophie tucked her bike up against the wall. ‘You ready for this nonsense?’

  ‘Nonsense?’

  ‘Over two hundred guests. Food for five times that. Even more wine. They’ll all be rolling on the floor pissed as twats by sunset. I’m just glad I get to go home once the food’s out and the kitchen’s clean.’

  ‘Getting paid to watch a bunch of toffs getting sloshed? Can’t be that bad surely,’ Sophie said with a cheeky smile.

  Greg, or whatever his name was, just rolled his eyes as though she really didn’t get it.

  She moved past him, in through the open service door and made her way through the original servants’ quarters of the house. Well, they were still the servants’ quarters really, even if the number of full-time staff at Drifford House today was most likely considerably fewer than in years gone by.

  Sophie soon found Pamela, a raven-haired woman in her fifties, whose face was stretched with curiously taut skin, and who was busily scanning through a list attached to her clipboard as she stood next to several crates of booze which had been plonked unceremoniously in a corridor.

  ‘Morning, Pamela,’ Sophie said as she approached.

  Pamela looked up from the list the way an old schoolmistress might look at an unruly child whi
le deciding whether or not to fetch the cane.

  ‘You’re late,’ Pamela said without looking at her watch.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘That’s what you said last time. I don’t like making mistakes, but I’m beginning to wonder whether you might be one.’

  ‘I said I’m sorry,’ Sophie said, a little more sternly.

  Pamela looked Sophie up and down, as if she were deciding whether or not she approved of what she saw.

  ‘At least you’ve come ready,’ she said after a long sigh. ‘You’d better get into the gallery quick. Matilda is giving a final debrief. We’re just about ready to start.’

  Sophie nodded and turned and headed off for the gallery – a huge wood-panelled room that sat as something of a go-between, separating the servants’ quarters and the main house. For smaller occasions, the gallery was used for dinners or drinks receptions, but today it was more like a store room with dozens of tables crammed with food, drinks, glasses, plates, cutlery, all waiting to be deployed to the gathering masses somewhere beyond.

  Matilda, the most senior of the waitresses at Drifford House, who, like Pamela, was a full-time live-in employee, had already wrapped up by the time Sophie walked in, and the group of young men and women all dressed up in their suits and black dresses were busy getting trays of drinks ready.

  Sophie slunk across the room, head down to avoid Matilda’s watchful eye, heading for a familiar face. Maisie. Sophie had known her, loosely, for years. Maisie had been in the year above at primary school, but had moved on to a state-run comprehensive afterwards, rather than the expensive Highmount that Sophie’s parents had splashed out on.

  ‘What did I miss?’ Sophie said.

  Maisie gave a little smirk. Sophie wasn’t sure why.

  ‘Just what you’d expect. How privileged we should all feel to be here today. How we’re about to meet the great and the good. How we get to keep any tips we’re given, which can be very generous, particularly if your skirt is short enough and your smile wide enough, and your blouse unbuttoned just enough.’

  Sophie’s eyes wandered down. Maisie’s blouse was buttoned up right to the neck.

  ‘Keep them keen,’ she said with a wink.

  Sophie screwed her face up.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Maisie said. ‘The fact you’re here at all suggests you know exactly what you can get out of an event like this. It’s down to you how far you want to take things. How much you want to make from these cretins.’

  Maisie thanked the pourer then carefully lifted the silver tray from the table and headed away.

  * * *

  Sophie didn’t believe herself to be naive, at least no more naive than other eighteen-year-olds, and yes, she’d heard plenty of rumours about the Redfearnes’ notorious summer balls. Of course, such rumours had to be taken for what they were; little more than tabloid stories. But still, Sophie realised there had to be some truth to it all.

  Yet she’d still willingly signed up for this. What did that say about her?

  What it said was: where else could an eighteen-year-old expect to make two hundred pounds a day in salary, plus however many hundreds more from the punters just by smiling and flirting a little every now and then?

  Determined to make the most of it all, Sophie had taken the first arse-pinch in her stride. Hadn’t even bothered to turn around and glare at whoever had done it. The second one too. She’d not flinched when a guy who must have been in his seventies stuffed a twenty pound note into her bra strap just above her breast.

  The third arse-pinch though, the guy went for a longer squeeze, as she was busy refilling his champagne glass for the umpteenth time. She squirmed to try and release his grip and when that didn’t work she ‘accidentally’ sloshed champagne down his suit arm.

  That got him to let go.

  The guy, a pot-bellied and heavily tanned balding man in his forties, stepped back and was clearly gritting his teeth ready to give her some grief.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Sophie said. ‘Let me fetch you a cloth.’

  She turned and hurried off before he said anything. She glanced at the clock on the wall as she went. Not even six p.m. What the hell were these wankers going to be like in a few hours’ time?

  She didn’t bother to go back with a cloth. Instead she headed into the library with her bottle and for the next hour went to the gallery and back each time, rather than to the ballroom where the arse-grabber had been. Matilda wouldn’t be impressed if she saw, but Sophie needed some respite, and she was happy that the guests in the library seemed a notch or two lower on the loutish stakes.

  But then later, as Sophie was heading along the portrait-covered corridor to the gallery for a new bottle, she saw the arse-grabber up ahead, on his own and sauntering her way.

  His eyes pinched when he spotted her, before he gave a ridiculously smug look.

  ‘You get the cloth yet?’ he said.

  ‘So sorry, sir. I was asked to come serve in the library. I can get it for you now?’

  She made to head past him, but he came to a stop, his frame wide enough to halt her in her tracks unless she wanted to barge past him.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

  ‘Sophie. Sorry, do you think I could get past?’

  She went to duck to the side, but he put his hand out onto the wall to block her.

  ‘Well, Sophie, my clothes are still sopping. Is there somewhere you could help me get out of them do you think?’

  The look he gave her made her insides curdle; his stale alcohol breath made her wince.

  ‘Hey, Arnold, do you think I could squeeze past you there, chap?’

  Sophie recognised the voice. Oscar Redfearne.

  The letch known as Arnold looked somewhat despondently over Sophie’s shoulder and took his hand from the wall.

  ‘Oscar,’ he said, ‘I’ve been meaning to come and talk to you. Your father mentioned about your plans for next summer.’

  Oh, so not only was he a letch, but he was a kiss-ass too.

  ‘Of course,’ Oscar said. ‘But if I may, I just need to steal this young lady away. Pamela was looking for her.’

  Arnold’s face soured. ‘Not a problem. I was just looking for Raf and the others.’

  ‘I think I saw them in the drawing room last,’ Oscar said.

  Arnold nodded and grumbled something as he glared at Sophie before he turned on his heel and headed off in the opposite direction. Sophie spun to face Oscar who had a knowing grin plastered on his youthful and handsome face.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘he’ll be fast asleep on the sofa before long. Last year his wife had him hauled out of here before ten o’clock. He’s an arrogant sod, and a hopeless drinker, but he’s harmless.’

  ‘Harmless? When was the last time he grabbed your arse and then propositioned you in a quiet hallway?’

  ‘Well…’ Oscar’s face turned from playful to serious in a flash. ‘Sorry, I’m sensing you wouldn’t appreciate me joking about it.’

  Sophie shrugged. Oscar looked at his watch.

  ‘When’s your next break?’ he asked.

  ‘It was an hour ago. I missed it.’

  ‘Does Matilda know?’ His face full of concern now.

  Sophie shrugged again.

  ‘You guys get scheduled breaks for a reason,’ he said, as though he was an expert on workers’ rights, and a voice of the people. ‘You’ve got a long night ahead. Come on, why don’t we get some fresh air?’

  Sophie knew exactly what answer she should give to that, but she found herself reaching for the exact opposite.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  Oscar smiled and grabbed the empty champagne bottle from her hand and plonked it down onto a heavily polished side table. The simple gesture made Sophie wince. If her boss had seen her discard a bottle onto the furniture like that…

  Oscar was soon heading off back towards the library. Sophie somewhat tentatively followed. He bounded ahead and back into th
e melee and reappeared a moment later with another bottle in his hand.

  ‘Just in case,’ he said with that same cheeky smile back on his face, before he moved to the side and pulled down on the handle of a set of patio doors that led out.

  Sophie looked over her shoulder, as if checking the coast was clear, then despite herself, she followed him out, at the last moment getting a glimpse inside the bustling library up ahead and noticing Maisie, empty-handed, heading towards her. Sophie was sure her colleague gave her a questioning look.

  * * *

  ‘Come on, follow me,’ Oscar said when Sophie stepped out into the warmth of the sunny summer afternoon. He beckoned her over before taking a swig from the nearly full bottle. ‘You want some?’

  Actually, she really did, but she politely declined. No point in sealing her own fate with Pamela so foolhardily, she decided.

  What was she talking about? Like taking a ‘break’ outside with her employer’s son was an otherwise sensible thing to do…

  They walked side by side away from the house, heading for a thicket of trees across the other side of an expansive lawn. There were no other guests out here, at this side of the house, and Sophie was glad for the respite from it all even if she was uncomfortable about what she was doing.

  ‘You look really beautiful today,’ Oscar said.

  Sophie looked over and caught his eye and he coyly looked away.

  ‘I know you’re not like the other girls here,’ he added.

  Sophie laughed, a little sarcastically. ‘I have no idea what you mean by that.’

  He pulled her to a stop. ‘Of course you do. You’re special, Sophie. You know I’ve always liked you.’

  He’d said pretty much the same thing last time he’d been drunk in her presence, except that time she’d been drunk too, and they’d both been in the VIP lounge of a nightclub in Birmingham. She’d also been within the safety of a group of friends then.

  She’d kissed him that night, and they’d swapped phone numbers. They’d messaged each other plenty since, and she was well aware that he’d had his watchful eyes on her all day today. Yet alone together at his parents’ home, he in his Savile Row suit, she in her waitress outfit, the dynamic felt so very different to at school or in a club.