Fear No Evil Read Online Free Page A

squatted down, held open the flap of the letter box and stared through. A wide hallway, black and white tiles on the floor, a coat stand draped with all kinds of outdoorsy gear. Raincoats, umbrellas, walking boats lying on their sides. But no people, no telly, no radio. No Rottweiler either, which was encouraging. Dimples are no defence against a mad dog.
    I stood up and knocked again for good measure. Still no answer. Hmmm. Well, I hadn’t come this far for nothing, I thought, glancing around to make sure a dog-collared octogenarian hadn’t mysteriously appeared from the bushes bearing a trowel. Shielding the door with my body, I tried to turn the handle. Locked. How very suspicious of Father Dan – bearing in mind we were in a very isolated spot. Maybe he had something to hide.
    While I am shamefully proficient at breaking and entering, I do try to save it for special occasions. Instead, I reached my arms up, pretending it was a travel-weary stretch, yawning in case anyone happened to be watching me from a passing spy satellite. I let my fingers do a surreptitious run along the top of the door ledge – no keys. There were too many plant pots to look under and maintain any level of innocence, so I decided to have a gentle snoop around the grounds.
    Gravel crunching beneath my feet, I headed to the side path trailing around the bulk of the cottage. At first all I could hear was the sound of my own footsteps, but as I walked on, I paused to strain my ears – there was definitely something going on back there. A dull, regular thudding, with small beats between. It could be an active priestly type doing some DIY. Or hacking somebody’s head off with an axe.

    On that pleasant note I proceeded, walking round into a large garden. Well, you couldn’t really call it a garden – it was vast. It was the wilderness. It was the kind of place Ray Mears would go to make first contact with native tribes. The clearing was set against the backdrop of a huge hillside, covered in pine trees so dense it looked like a prickly, deep green picnic blanket had been thrown from the sky. A stream tumbled downwards, gurgling and bubbling its way towards the lower ground, and sheep were dotted on the slope at improbable angles, like tiny balls of off-white cotton wool that could blow away at any minute.
    The area immediately behind the cottage was obviously functional – a neat vegetable patch seemed to be producing carrots, potatoes and other green-topped mystery items. There was a small greenhouse. A well, with a wooden bucket dangling over its brick-edged rim. A weather-battered stone shed that probably contained tools I wouldn’t know how to use. And right smack bang in the middle of this rural idyll was a man. He was holding an axe, but thankfully he was chopping logs, not heads. Which was a real bonus on the health and safety front.
    I say ‘a man’. But that wouldn’t be quite accurate. In all honesty, this wasn’t so much a man as a Greek god made flesh incarnate.
    The sunlight was streaming down like a spotlight from the angels, splashing gold over a rippling, muscular back as he moved. Stripped bare to his jeans, he had the broad shoulders and narrow waist of a swimmer, and his arms were perfectly sculpted as they rose and fell with the axe. His Levis rode low on his hips, and a tiny trail of golden hair ran down his torso, over the six-pack (approximately – I didn’t count), and disappeared off into the denim waistband to…well, I can only imagine.
    Getting a hold of myself as best I could, I coughed gently and he straightened up, using a lean, corded forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. I was rationally thinking that with a body that good, he was probably cross-eyed or missing his front teeth – in my experience nature has a way of evening these things out. But no, nature was playing silly buggers with this one – he was truly blessed – arctic blue eyes, of the classic Paul Newman variety. Dark blonde hair, slightly