And Justice There Is None Read Online Free

of St. John’s Church. Once Dawn had loved this Victorian house with its pale yellow stucco, its superbly proportioned rooms and beautiful appointments, and for a moment she mourned the passing of such an innocent pleasure.
    Tonight the windows were dark as she turned into the drive, the blank panes mirroring her car lights. She had managed to beat Karl home, then; she would have a few minutes’ respite. Turning off the engine, she reached for her parcels, then paused, squeezing her eyes shut. Damn Karl! Damn Alex! In spite of them, she would find a way to deal with this, to keep the child she wanted more than she had ever wanted anything.
    She slid out of the car, keys in one hand, bags in the other, ducking away from the wet fingers of the hedge that lined the drive.
    A sound stopped her. The cat, she thought, relaxing, then remembered she’d left Tommy in the house, despite Karl’s strictures to the contrary. Tommy had been ill and she hadn’t wanted to leave him out unsupervised, in case he got into a scrap with another cat.
    There it was again. A rustle, a breath, something out of place in the damp stillness. Panic gripped her, squeezing her heart, paralyzing her where she stood.
    Forcing herself to think, she clasped her keys more tightly in her hand. The house just across the drive suddenly seemed an impossible distance. If she could only reach the safety of the door, she could lock herself in, ring for help. She held her breath and slid a foot forward—
    The arms came round her from behind, a gloved hand pressing cruelly against her mouth. Too late, she struggled, tugging futilely at the arm pinning her chest, stomping down on an instep. Too late, she prayed for the flicker of Karl’s headlamps turning into the drive.
    Her attacker’s breath sobbed raggedly in her ear; his grip tightened. The carrier bags fell unnoticed from her numb fingers. Then the pressure on her chest vanished, and in that instant’s relief, pain seared her throat.
    She felt a fiery cold, then the swift and enveloping darkness folded round her like a cloak. In the last dim flicker of consciousness, she thought she heard him whisper, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

CHAPTER TWO
    Portobello was our family’s shopping street. There were lots of kosher butchers … eight or nine quite close, and Jewish delicatessens where you could get lovely bagels and Jewish bread.
    —Whetlor and Bartlett,
from
Portobello
         
    She sat on the stoop, idly swishing her skirt between her knees, listening to the faint sound of the new Cliff Richard song drifting from the open window across the street. This was not how she had imagined spending her twelfth birthday, but her parents did not believe in making a big fuss of such occasions. Nor did they think she needed her own record player, which was the one gift she desperately wanted. “A frivolous expense,” her father had called it, and none of her arguments had swayed him
.
    Sighing gustily, she hugged her knees and traced her name on the dusty step with her finger. She was bored, bored, bored, and hot, filled with a new and strange sort of discontent
.
    Perhaps when her mother came home from visiting friends, she could wheedle permission to see a new film at the cinema, as a special birthday treat. At least it would be cooler in the dark, and she could spend her pocket money on sweets from the concessionaire
.
    She was wondering if Radio Luxembourg would play the new Elvis record tonight when an engine sputtered nearby. A lorry pulled up to thecurb in front of the house next door. The lorry’s open back held mattresses, an orange sofa, a chair covered with a bright flower print, all jumbled together, all blistering in the hot August sun
.
    The driver’s door opened and a man climbed out and stood gazing up at the house. He wore a white shirt and a dark tie, and his skin was the deep color of the bittersweet chocolate her mother used for baking
.
    A woman slid from the passenger side, her