by Jacqui Rose
He passed the chapel and walked through the wet, lush green grass until he reached the tiny gravelled path, which took him up to the rose garden. There, he stopped to pick a single yellow stem, popping it in his buttonhole, smelling it as he looked up at the light blue sky, keeping his eyes open as the rain fell, watching the cotton-white clouds float by as he thought of Alice Rose. An angel who had given him life and freed him from his tortured existence.
He made his way to the bubbling stream, wading across to where the willow trees swayed and bent in the warm breeze. By a small earth mound with a pebble stone upon it, Abel lay down, draping his arm over it.
‘Natalia, I’m here. I’m back.’
Then from one of his pockets Abel took a bottle of sleeping pills, tipping them all into his mouth. He swallowed them and smiled.
‘Natalia, I’m coming. I’m coming to be with you. It’s finally over.’
And with peace in his heart, Abel Gray closed his eyes, ready to join his Natalia.
And the devil who had deceived them was thrown into the lake of fire and sulphur where the beast and the false prophet were to be tormented day and night for ever and ever.
Revelation 20:10
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thank you to the fabulous team at Avon books who have supported me and cheered me on from the sidelines – what a difference that makes. It’s such a team effort it’s great. Thanks to Victoria Oundjian for helping me with this book and thanks to my new editor, Katie Loughnane, for taking over so seamlessly and filling me with excitement for what the future holds. A big shout out to Sabah Khan who continues to work her magic and of course Dominic Rigby, who assures me he’ll never rest until we have world domination……!!!!!! And as always huge thanks go to my agent, Darley, his wonderful assistant Pippa, the readers who have been so supportive and my amazing family. And lastly but by no means least, my horses, who make me smile each day. Happy days.
If you loved Fatal, turn the page for an exclusive extract of Jacqui Rose’s thrilling new book Sinner, coming Summer 2019…
Click here to buy now.
1
SOHO
LATE LAST NIGHT
Alfie Jennings gulped down the last drops of the bottle of whiskey as he watched the glowing orange and yellow embers of the fire fade out. Pulling his gaze away, he stared at the letter he held in his hand, reading it once more as he tried to stop himself from trembling whilst feeling the same clawing terror he’d felt over the past ten months or so when the letters first started to arrive.
Leaning over the neatly cut-up line of cocaine that sat on top of the black, hand-carved mantelpiece in the front room of the large Georgian house in Soho, Alfie snorted the coke up greedily, hoping it would somehow make him feel better. Make him forget.
Closing his eyes, Alfie swallowed as the white powder hit the back of his throat. He tasted the bitterness as a rush of euphoria raced through his blood stream and – for just one fleeting moment – his crippling fear subsided before it came crashing back all too hard, all too quickly a few seconds later.
About to snort another line at the same time as making a mental note to pull up his friend Johnny Taylor for selling him low grade coke, Alfie felt his phone begin to vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he stared at the screen: number withheld. He frowned as he answered.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Getting no reply and trying to ignore the cold, clammy dread creeping over his body, Alfie attempted to convince himself that his racing heart was just down to the bad batch of coke. He spoke again. ‘Hello? Hello? Hello? For fuck’s sake. Listen – whoever this is – let me tell you something. I don’t appreciate being prank-fucking-called, and when I found out who you are, I will make sure I get—’ He stopped suddenly. Hearing slow breathing on the other end of the line but not wanting to show alarm, Alfie cleared his throat, now aware of his own breath; short and shallow, his voice smaller, quieter, fear mixing into his words. ‘Who is this? Look, this ain’t funny anymore. You hear me? I don’t know what you’re trying to do but if you think you’re going to scare me, playing the old heavy breather game, think again, ’cos you’re wasting your time. You don’t scare me … You think a few phone calls and a few letters are going to get me going? Do me a favour. You seriously can’t know who I am. I’m Alfie-fucking-Jennings. You hear that? I’m Alfie, and I never get frightened about anything. So why don’t you do yourself a favour and call someone else.’
Hurriedly, Alfie clicked off his phone, throwing it across the room as he took deep, long breaths, wiping the prickles of sweat off his face, trying to calm his trembling, trying to stop the wave of nausea overwhelming him as he swallowed back down the vomit along with his panic.
It was stupid. Fucking stupid. How could a few letters and calls put him so on edge? Maybe it was just the coke making him twitchy. Paranoid. Christ Almighty, he was going to make sure he made it his business to give Johnny a good slapping when he saw him; selling bad shit was not okay in his books.
But as Alfie stood in the large, newly-decorated front room, his handsome face pale and strained, he was still holding the letter in his hand. It felt like it was burning a hole in his palm, and he knew the real problem wasn’t Johnny and his substandard gear. The real problem was he was scared – really scared, and he hated himself for it. He was disgusted at himself for it, though God knows he’d never admit it to anyone. The worst thing was, no matter how much he drank and snorted coke to take away the panic, the fear still sat there like a stone in his stomach.
He couldn’t even tell Franny about it, although it was clear she knew something wasn’t quite right. She’d asked him on several occasions if there was some kind of problem, even going as far as suggesting that he took a break, went back to Spain, set up again there, anything to make him feel better, but all he’d said to her was that he was fine. That everything was just fine. But fine couldn’t have been further from the truth.
It was a joke – he was a joke. The shame of it all sat on his shoulders like a weighted barbell. And besides, even if he wanted to tell Franny, what would he actually say to her? How would he say it? And how could she look at him afterwards with any kind of respect when he told her he was afraid? Afraid of the calls. Afraid of a letter. A fucking three-line letter. It was pathetic because after all, when it came down to it, he was the great Alfie Jennings, the same Alfie Jennings that had put fear into so many men over the years and the same Alfie Jennings that had taken on gangs and notorious crime families to become one of the biggest faces there was. Yet here he was, trembling like a girl over a poxy note, which this time had been left on the window of his car. But then, it wasn’t just any note from just anybody, was it? He was certain he knew exactly who the note was from. The note was from him…
Shaking and with his thick, dark hair stuck to his sweating forehead, Alfie glanced down again at the letter:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I’m your worst nightmare and I’m coming for you.
Screwing it up tightly and throwing it into the flames, Alfie rested his head against the fire place.
The letters had been one of the reasons he’d moved back up to Soho from Essex; Essex made him feel safe, or rather he’d hoped it would’ve done. He’d thought the familiarity of the place – seeing the people he’d grown up with and throwing himself back into his old ways – would make him feel better, make him forget. But it hadn’t. Not one little bit. He was still looking over his shoulder, still drinking more than he should do to stay as sharp as he would’ve liked to, and still taking too much coke, all behind Franny’s back. The only thing it had helped him do was forget Bree Dwyer.
A sound in the hallway cut into Alfie’s thoughts. For a moment he froze, before quietly stepping back towards the hearth, his eyes fixed on the lounge door.
Feeling his heart begin to race again, Alfie carefully slid his hand behind the bronze clock on the mantel piece, pulling out a large, jagged knife. He paused, listening again, then mad
e his way slowly around the room towards the light switch, gently flicking it down and plunging himself into darkness. He could feel the tightness in his chest as he gripped the leather handle of the knife.
Moving across the room towards to door, careful to avoid banging into anything, afraid to make a noise, Alfie stiffened as he heard the sound again. Someone was coming. He could hear footsteps, and they were getting nearer…
To read on, order your copy now…
Bree Dwyer is desperate to escape her husband, take the children and run. But he’s always watching. And she always gets caught. Until now…
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A gritty Romeo and Juliet story of bitter feuds and unbreakable bonds from bestselling author Jacqui Rose….
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‘I was hoping you’d be able to help me. I’m looking for my baby.’
Another compulsive thriller from bestselling author Jacqui Rose …
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About the Author
Jacqui Rose is a novelist who hails from South Yorkshire. She first came to appreciate the power of the written word when as a child she charged her classmates a packet of sherbet dips to write their essays for them. Adopted at a young age and always a daydreamer, she felt isolated growing up in a small mining village and it was her writing which kept her company. Jacqui has always written for pleasure whether it be screenplays or stand-up, she is the author of seven bestselling novels as well as the author of two political thrillers written under a male pseudonym. She is a keen equestrian and the owner of two horses and spends most days riding.
Also by Jacqui Rose
Taken
Trapped
Dishonour
Betrayed
Avenged
Disobey
Toxic
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