Bad Company

BAD COMPANY JOCELYN DEXTER Copyright © 2023 Jocelyn Dexter The right of Jocelyn Dexter to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. www.bloodhoundbooks.com Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8519-9 Contents Love best-selling fiction? Also by Jocelyn Dexter 1. Penny 2. Penny 3. Penny 4. Penny 5. Penny 6. Butty 7. Butty 8. Butty 9. Butty 10. Butty 11. Penny 12. Butty 13. Butty 14. Butty 15. Butty 16. Penny 17. Penny 18. Penny 19. Butty 20. Butty 21. Penny 22. Butty 23. Butty 24. Penny 25. Penny 26. Penny 27. Penny 28. Butty 29. Butty 30. Penny 31. Butty 32. Penny 33. Penny 34. Butty 35. Penny 36. Butty 37. Butty 38. Penny 39. Penny 40. Butty 41. Penny 42. Penny 43. Butty 44. Penny 45. The Whisperer 46. Penny 47. Penny 48. Penny 49. Butty Acknowledgements You will also enjoy: A note from the publisher Love best-selling fiction? Love best-selling fiction? Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks! Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors? Facebook Twitter Instagram Also by Jocelyn Dexter Shh * * * Uninvited ONE Penny NOW Penny Crisp closed her eyes and stood still in the garden. Remembered way back to when she was fourteen and her father had said, ‘It’s called “hoarfrost”.’ She recalled smirking and had settled her weight on one hip, crossed her arms and made an exaggerated visual scan of the trees, the grass, the shrubs and the bushes. ‘Whore frost? Really? Seriously? Where are they then? The prostitutes?’ In her mind she’d pictured sparkling, frozen women dangling from branches, swinging by their leg garters and suspender belts: stiletto heels, fishnet stockings and red-slashed lip-sticked mouths. She’d laughed. Her father hadn’t tried to hide his smile. He was good like that. Two years ago, she’d lost that sense of humour, lost that joyous sense of the ridiculous that she’d had as a young girl and adult. As she now crouched to touch the needle-like ice crystals on the ground with her mittened hands, instead of envisaging glistening ladies of the night, glittering with alluring promises of the flesh, she could now only enjoy a disturbed and relatively new fantasy as she rocked on the hoarfrost, back and forth on her wellington booted heels, thinking dark, black thoughts. Listened as the frost creaked under her feet and hands. She heard only the sound of death. The icy shards clinging to every blade of grass crackled and yielded to her bodyweight. In her mind, a corpse made that same sound as it rotted – the bones decomposing as she shattered them. So, she hoped, a skeleton would give up that strange little snapping noise in a last attempt to be noticed and heard. That’s what she hoped the brittle, dried bones of the man she’d killed would sound like. And those of all the bastards she would kill in the future. But this early morning cold was a transient thing and already the winter sunshine was destroying the haunting sound of the TWO Penny 2 YEARS AGO Penny, although twenty-eight years old, still slept like a baby. She’d wake in the morning, in precisely the same position as she’d gone to sleep; her fists semi-curled in relaxation on either side of her head, her arms bent at the elbow. In sleep, not one muscle twitched. Impervious to the sounds of the night, she might as well have been dead. However, as she was jolted awake from a deep sleep, she knew she was very much alive. Right at this moment, possibly too alive. Something had awoken her. Someone had awoken her. There’d been a sound – wrong and out of place. Her parents were in bed, and once there, it was rare that either of them ventured out of their room until the morning. Her father’s declining health meant he spent most of his time propped up in bed, as if in-waiting for death, whilst her mother quietly and sadly struggled to cope. So it definitely wasn’t either of them moving around. Penny’s eyes bulged into the black, grey light. Blinking wildly. There it was again. A noise. A noise that didn’t belong. Lying still, lying very still, she realised that she’d stopped breathing. Her ears strained, attuned to anything audible that shouldn’t be. There it was again. Damn it. At first, she failed to identify it, but then she placed it. A muffled footstep. And then the very distinct and instantly recognisable sound of her bedroom door being opened. Shit. Her eyes felt like they were bleeding as she stretched her lids as far apart as was possible, trying to penetrate the darkness and recognise the figure who’d stepped into her room and stood stationary at the door. The male figure who’d stepped into her room: she knew that much from the form of his outline. He turned slightly but quickly to close the door behind him. Sudden light split