After Inspector Curran had left, Charity Cottage felt oddly unfriendly. Antonia stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him walk across the park, then closed and locked the door. He had not seemed to think the murderer would return tonight but she had not needed his final reminder to lock the doors. After she had done this she went systematically round the house, placing chairs and stools directly in front of the doors and the downstairs windows. If Greg Foster’s killer–who was presumably the same person as Antonia’s intruder–did try to get in, he would trip over the chairs and the noise would alert her. If that happened she could shut herself into the bathroom with the mobile phone and summon help; Curran and his officers were only across the park at Quire. And if the killer sustained a viciously painful injury trying to get in–a pulled hamstring or a chair-leg jabbed into the groin–it would be no less than the bastard deserved.
This reasoning made her feel better, and she made a cup of tea and then switched on the television for the late-night news. She did not take in very much of it, but it gave her the feeling of being still a part of the ordinary world. There was probably not much point in trying to sleep tonight, and to go to bed was unthinkable: she would lie awake listening for the sounds of someone trying to get in. It was annoying to find that she was counting how many hours there were before Jonathan reached Amberwood. This was purely because he was a good friend, and would continue to be a good friend no matter what she was thought to have done. He would come in to bat on her side–he always had done.
After thought, she decided to spend the night on the sitting-room sofa with a book. There might even be a late-night TV film she could watch. She could keep the sound turned down very low so as to hear any stealthy footsteps outside, or the sounds of doors being tried or locks being tampered with. With any luck she might even manage to stop seeing Greg Foster’s body with the knife sticking out of his chest where someone had stabbed him in exactly the same way Don Robards had been stabbed when he had attacked her that night. And exactly as Richard had been stabbed. The music was there as well: don’t forget that Richard’s music was lying next to Greg Foster’s body. Whoever he is, this madman, he knows all about me. He knows all the vulnerable spots. Antonia spent several fruitless moments wondering about the identity of the man but could not come up with any useful possibilities. If Don Robards had had family she might have speculated whether this could be some warped revenge-plot, but all through his clinic sessions he had been definite about not having anyone and certainly no relatives had been called at the trial.