Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [81]
Maybe it had to be that way right enough.
Tommy dug in Smith's pocket again and found a set of keys. Car keys, house keys, various other keys. He tried a couple before he found the one that fitted the closet chain.
He stripped Smith naked. See how he liked it. Hard work with only one good arm, but Tommy managed. Then he attached one end of the closet chain to the bed and clipped the other cuff on Smith's wrist. Tightened it, put the keys in Smith's pocket and tossed his clothes into the far corner of the room.
He left the sword by Smith's side, hoping the fucker woke up before the police arrived. If Smith had delayed them, as he claimed, so much the better. He'd have to figure out whether to cut his hand off or lie there and suffer the consequences. Of course, if he cut his hand off, he'd probably pass out from shock. Or if not, then he'd pass out at the sight of his own blood. Or maybe it was only other people's that set him off. Tommy kind of hoped the latter was the case. He'd really like Smith to have a good reason to cut off his hand.
Tommy picked up the gun. He was going to get his fingerprints all over a murder weapon, but he didn't care.
He took a last look at his prison cell, turned, and walked out. He scooped up Smith's ski mask off the floor on the landing and put it on. Probably wasn't a bad thing if he wasn't recognised.
But he was forgetting something. Apart from the ski mask, he was naked.
He guessed Smith's bedroom was the room next but one along the landing. He'd heard him in there listening to the TV and talking on the phone.
Tommy stopped in front of the door, turned the handle, eased it open.
And there she was. A small frail woman, salt-and-pepper hair thinning. She didn't deserve to be called Old Mrs Yardie. She only looked about sixty. She was staring at the wall and didn't acknowledge him when he stepped into the room.
She didn't look dangerous. But you never could tell. Some people looked harmless enough and then the next thing you knew they were chopping up bodies.
So maybe this was who Smith was talking to when Tommy had assumed he was on the phone. Although those conversations had all sounded one-sided.
Tommy was only a couple of feet away from her now and she hadn't turned to look at him yet. A naked man in her bedroom and it was as if he didn't exist. Maybe she was blind. Or deaf.
He stopped by the arm of the chair and poked Mrs Yardie's arm with the gun.
No reaction.
"Hey," he said. "Mrs Yardie."
Still no reaction.
He poked her again, harder.
Same result.
Still staring ahead, unblinking, like she was transfixed by a movie playing on the wall.
"You okay?" he said.
Not the tiniest twitch of a muscle on her face.
He waved the gun in front of her. She didn't even blink.
Her expression reminded him of Smith's when he first heard about Grant's accident, sitting in the dark, unmoving, Tommy tied up next to him. A kind of catatonia.
So Smith had a girlfriend. One who really couldn't say no.
Tommy went over to the dresser. Bunch of crap on top of it. Combs and brushes, a jewellery box. No string or parcel tape or anything useful like that. He opened a drawer and found some of Smith's underwear. Put on a pair of socks and a pair of boxer's. Found a sweatshirt in another drawer. Put that on, too.
He tried the wardrobe. Shirts and trousers, couple of dresses, cardigans, some scarves. Put on the trousers. Tight enough round the middle not to need a belt.
The pair of men's trainers at the bottom were too small, but it felt good to be dressed again, even if he was wearing a stranger's clothes and didn't have any shoes.
Armed with a bundle of scarves, he returned to Old Mrs Yardie.
"Sorry about this," he said.
He used one of the scarves to tie her left wrist to the arm of the chair. Didn't seem to bother her in the least, being tied up. He did the same with her other wrist. Even when it came to gagging her, she didn't react. Same indifference. Like she wasn't there. She'd gone. Left this body behind.
He tied both ankles to the