Greg Foster had gone down like a pole-axed bull, and Donna bent over him and took the knife from her other pocket, and thrust it into his heart. Straight in between the fourth and fifth ribs. You did not need to be a surgeon to find out the required information to stab someone, and you did not need very much strength behind the thrust, either. Killing Richard Weston had already taught Donna that.
She waited just long enough to be sure he was definitely dead, arranged the Caprice sheet music on the floor nearby, then slipped out and went through the park to Charity Cottage. The portable CD-player with the Paganini disc was slung around her neck, Donna had not risked leaving it hidden in the grounds for anyone to find.
She had been slightly out of breath as she went through the bushes towards the cottage, but not unduly so because killing Greg had not been especially exciting. There had not been much emotion involved; it had simply been a matter of needing a newly killed body for Weston to find, that was all, and of arranging it to reflect those two other deaths–Richard Weston’s and Don’s. She thought she had done that well: the scene was almost an exact mirror-image of that other night, right down to the music and the glossy piano nearby.
And once again Weston had reacted almost exactly as Donna had predicted. She followed the music, of course, and went into Quire House and found the boy’s body. Donna had been careful to leave the door ajar; she did not think Dr Toy or Professor Remus would be likely to come downstairs once they had gone up to their respective flats, and so it proved.
Antonia had screamed–oh really, Dr Weston, how boringly predictable of you!–and then had run into the main hall to call for help. By that time Donna had slipped through the French windows, and was watching through a chink with Paganini’s music switched off, so that Weston should think her enemy was out of range.
But once Weston yelled for help, Donna left. The next part of the plan was not especially tricky, but if she was not very careful this was the part where she might be caught. It would be necessary to keep her wits about her for the next few hours.
She sprinted around the side of the house going as quietly as she could. The police would be called at once, and they would spend some time interviewing Weston and Dr Toy and Professor Remus. They would search the grounds, of course, and the place would be crawling with scene-of-crime officers for most of the night. But would they search Charity Cottage? Donna thought it highly unlikely, but as she went across the parkland, careful to remain in the shadows, she was keeping the possibility in mind.
The cottage was in darkness as she let herself in, and she made a quick check of all the rooms. They were all empty because Weston was at Quire House, and unlikely to be back for some time, but Donna was taking no chances. She locked the door again, pocketed the keys, and then carried a bathroom stool onto the landing, positioning it directly beneath the attic trapdoor. Under her anorak was the rope ladder she had bought months earlier. It had taken a great deal of searching before she finally found a suitable one in a marine supply shop. The ladder was the kind people used on the sides of boats; it had steel hooks at one end, which allowed it to be secured almost anywhere. Donna had tried it out a number of times while she was living here, and it hooked very firmly and very satisfactorily onto the rim of the attic trapdoor opening and hung almost to the ground.