by Mark Ayre
Because this lover was Francis' wife.
It was only a theory, but it filled in a pleasing number of blanks. For one, it explained how Danny had stolen such a large sum of money from Francis' home. Second, why Francis might want to steal his wife's phone. He could be looking for evidence of his wife's complicity in the robbery, or of her affair, or both. Third, Danny's murder. To Abbie, it had made no sense that Francis would have Danny killed with the money still in play. But if Francis had discovered Danny had bedded his wife, fury might have trumped reason at this most grievous and potentially heartbreaking insult. There was every chance he had thought, Damn the money, and had prioritised Danny's murder. There was even a chance Francis had himself plunged the knife into Danny's stomach and stabbed him to death. Repeated stabbing, the kind of which Danny had suffered, was more likely to indicate a crime of passion than it was the work of an assassin.
It certainly gave Abbie plenty to go on, but what should she do next?
She had to remember this was about how much danger Eddie was in. Everything had to flow from there.
To him and Jess, Abbie said, "Did Francis visit you himself? And what did he say?"
"Not Francis," said Jess. "Leona."
"She's one of his people?"
Eddie said, "She's his wife."
Okay. Interesting. Abbie tried not to give anything away via facial expressions. Was Eddie trying to do the same? How much did he know about Danny's love interest?
Former love interest.
"And what did she say?" Abbie asked, thinking a question she would not verbalise, Do you think Francis sent her or was she acting without her husband's knowledge?
"She said the Dean family owed her and her husband a hundred grand," said Jess. "She said she was sorry for our loss, but Danny's debt did not die with him."
"Did she confess to his murder?"
"She said Danny's death had nothing to do with Francis, herself, or anyone connected to them. She claimed not to know what had happened."
"Lying bitch," Eddie hissed. His free fist clenched even tighter, and he pulled his other hand from Jess, who did not admonish him, though worry had crept into her expression. How far would Eddie go to avenge his brother's murder?
"And the money?" pushed Abbie.
"She said if we could pay it back this year, there would be no interest. That was their way of showing they understand we were not to blame for the theft. But they needed to see movement immediately. Leona told us she hoped we would find the money by the end of tomorrow. If not, she expected us to meet with an estate agent by the end of Monday and that there should be a for sale sign up by the end of next week. We would have three months to sell the house and pass anything we made to Francis and Leona."
There were tears in Jess's eyes. Her hand was circling her belly faster than ever. Eddie's face was blank. Just beneath the surface was a tornado of barely repressed rage.
"We only bought this place a year ago," said Jess. "We put everything into it. When we sell, we'll be lucky to get out ten grand. And from next month, they want a grand a month until we've paid them off. Where are we supposed to find a grand a month while raising a child and paying rent and bills? We told Leona it wasn't possible. She told us we would make it possible or find the money Danny lost. Those were our choices. She didn't need to tell us what would happen if we could make neither work."
Jess' voice rose as she spoke. While Eddie hovered on the brink of fury, his wife slid towards despondency. They had told Abbie everything they knew. Even if Abbie suspected there was more to learn, now was not the time to press for answers.
"You don't yet fully trust me," Abbie said. "So this might mean little, but I want to say it anyway. I am going to do everything I can to help you. If I can, I'll find the money Danny lost so you can pay back Francis. If I can't, we'll sort something else."
Abbie prayed neither Jess nor Eddie would ask her to estimate the chance of finding the money. Abbie would try, but if Danny had revealed its location to someone in the bar on the night of his last binge, Abbie could see no way to find out who that might have been. Especially a week later. Much more likely was scenario B—her finding another way to help them. What would that way be? Difficult to say. In short, whatever it needed to be.
Neither Jess nor Eddie asked the dreaded question. Neither of them spoke. Jess surprised Abbie by struggling to her feet, rushing across the room and swinging her arms around Abbie's neck, pulling the woman she had mistrusted in for a tight hug.
The mum-to-be tried to speak but choked on her emotion and sobbed instead. Didn't matter. The hug said everything. Abbie tried to respond but found she could not speak either. Jess' bump pressed against Abbie's abdomen. Abbie could feel kicking, the almost-here-baby, and recalled her own baby's kicks days before it was due, so many years ago. Waves of nausea overtook her, and she had to ease Jess away.
"I'm going to see what I can do," she said, her words rushed, garbled. "I'll be back in touch as soon as I can be. I promise."
Before either of them could say anything else, Abbie had rushed from the house. Eddie caught up to her as she was opening her car door.
"We need to talk," he said.
"Is that not what we just did?"
"No. Later. Please. Jess thinks I'm just saying goodbye, so you have to say now. Will you meet me at midnight, where you found Danny and me fighting. There are things we need to discuss."
"The money?" asked Abbie.
"I think I can find it. I need your help."
Jess appeared at the door. Abbie would have liked to take the time to ask a few more questions, but there was none. If Jess came out, Eddie would clam up. He might change his mind about meeting her later, and if he had valuable information, she needed to hear it.
Dropping into her car, she said, "I'll be there."
Closing the window, she held up a hand to wave at Jess, started the car, and drove away.
Fifteen
Returning to the hotel, Abbie hoped she would find Bobby behind the counter. Not because she wanted to resume with him a conversation that might end in a date—or not just because of that—but because she suspected Glenda would not be happy that Bobby had given her another room for the night after Abbie had left such a mess in her first. If Glenda was already unhappy, how would she react when Abbie revealed she had no key to her room and needed to borrow a spare?
Stepping through the door into the lobby, Abbie expected to see Bobby or no one. If Bobby was absent, Abbie expected to press the bell and wait an agonising minute for Glenda to appear, regard Abbie with disdain and mistrust, then possibly disappear back into her room.
Her expectations were subverted when she found Bobby absent but the desk occupied. Glenda stood there, hands on her hips, looking towards the door as though she had been there for some time, waiting for Abbie to show.
“Afternoon,” Glenda said. Her voice was flat, containing none of the infectious warmth it had last night when Abbie had rung at near enough three in the morning. Clearly, that tone was reserved for people who did not invite strange men and, inadvertently or not, killers up to their room.
“Glenda,” Abbie said. “I wanted to apologise for last night.”
“Is that a confession?”
“It’s a confession of an error in judgement, allowing Danny to stay in my room. Your room, I should say. He was in danger. I was trying to protect him.”
“That went well.”
“Yes, quite,” said Abbie. “What I mean is, whether he had died or lived, it was a poor call on my part. I shouldn’t have brought him here.”
“You should have told me the truth,” said Glenda. “I’m not a monster. Had I known the young man was in danger, I would have been more vigilant about last night’s comings and goings. I would have stayed on the desk and kept watch.”
“In which case, I’m glad I lied,” said Abbie. “Bad enough my poor attempts to protect Danny ended with his murder. Had they also led to your death, I should never have been able
to forgive myself.”
“If you had given me all the facts, and I had made the decision, knowing the risks, and had then died, you would have had to be a fool to feel guilty.”
“Then I’m a fool,” said Abbie. “Because guilty is exactly what I’d feel.”
Glenda frowned, shook her head. Abbie felt like a schoolgirl who has been chastised by the imperious headmistress. But the conversation had still gone far better than expected. As such, Abbie felt brave enough to approach the desk.
“I wanted to thank you for letting me continue my stay here.”
“That decision was made by Bobby, not me, and I fear it was a decision made not with his brain but with another organ.”
Well, that was embarrassing.
“If you want me to go…”
“I would have allowed you to stay,” said Glenda. “Your pretty face would not have made me giddy enough to suggest a double rate when you had already offered triple.”
“Pretty face, cool. I’ll still happily pay triple.”
“And how will you do so without your wallet?”
Now, Abbie felt like a schoolgirl who has been chastised by her imperious and psychic headmistress.
“My wallet?”
Glenda reached beneath the desk and pulled from some hidden shelf Abbie’s drawstring bag. Dumping it on the desk, she said, “A young man brought it in, claiming it contains your phone and wallet, which he found while searching for something to identify the bag’s owner. He also found your hotel key—“ pointed glance “—so dropped the bag off here.”
Picking up the bag, Glenda extended it to Abbie, who took it gratefully.
“Thank you.”
Glenda shrugged. “No point thanking me. You’re lucky it landed in the possession of one so conscientious.”
“Yes,” said Abbie, thinking of all the ways she would like to damage Travis for stealing her things. “Very lucky.”
“Not many out there these days who would be so thoughtful.”
“It is a world of crooks and rogues.”
“And murderers,” said Glenda, pointing to the ceiling. Abbie hoped she was referring to Danny’s demise, not pointing to a room where she knew slept a modern Jack the Ripper.
“Well, now I can pay you,” said Abbie. As she reached into her bag, Glenda waved a dismissive hand.
“You’re fine.”
“Pretty face is working on you too, eh?”
“That it must be. Although if you really wish to wow me, I’d take a shower. You look scruffy.”
Upstairs, in a different room to the one in which Danny had died, Abbie planned to follow, rather than be offended by, Glenda’s advice.
First, she removed Travis’ mother’s trousers and hung them up. Her blood-stained jeans she’d binned, and she didn’t have a spare pair. She would need to find something new. Her hoody she pulled off and ditched on the bed. Her blood-stained top she scrunched into a ball and threw by the door, so she didn’t forget to take it when she left.
Travis was not altruistic. When he had taken Abbie’s bag, he had not done so for fear Ronson might steal it. Therefore, it stood to reason his motives had been unpure when he returned the bag to Glenda.
From the drawstring bag, Abbie removed her toiletries, a spare set of underwear, a top, and a thin jumper. The toiletries and underwear, she dumped on the bed. She hung the top and jumper with the trousers to remove some of the creases imposed by their confinement in the bag.
Beneath the clothes, Abbie found The Stand and burst into tears. With as much caution as ever, she freed the book from her drawstring bag and unwrapped the pillowcase in which she kept it. Travis had almost certainly yanked it out. As he could not know the emotional value it held for Abbie, he would have disregarded it immediately. If he had tossed it to the floor while he continued his search, the pillowcase had blissfully kept it in one piece.
Though she still needed to check the rest of her bag, Abbie clutched the pillowcase wrapped book to her chest and fell to the bed. Once she was still, she dried her eyes, opened the makeshift bag to make sure it really was The Stand, and resumed crying when it was.
Abbie knew she needed a better storage solution for what had been Violet’s (and what was now Abbie’s) most precious possession. But what? She used to keep it in her rental. One night, three years ago, during a mission to protect a seamstress, Abbie had arrived in the lot of the hotel in which she was staying. She had left the book, left the car, locked the door, and made for the hotel. Halfway there, she had stopped, turned. If intuition whispered in her ear, Abbie remained unaware of its influence. All she knew of was a sudden, powerful urge to read some of The Stand, though she had read it many times before. She returned to the car, collected the book, locked the car, and proceeded into the hotel. That night someone broke into and stole the car. Joyrode it around town for an hour. Once they’d had their fun, they set on fire and abandoned the vehicle.
In the morning, when Abbie learned of the fire and burned-out shell that was her rental, her thoughts immediately rushed to The Stand and how close the book had come to cremation. She had rushed to the toilet and been violently sick while crying her eyes out.
Not since then had she left the book in her car or allowed it to be more than a few metres from her person. She feared if left in her permanent residence, it would be destroyed in a burglary. If she paid to store it in a self-storage facility or even a bank, an earthquake would level the building in question, and her book would be gone. No insurance could cover the sentimental value.
For some time, Abbie held the book to her chest. When she was sure her hands could be relied upon not to shake, she removed the book from the pillowcase. Laying it on the bed, Abbie peeled back the front cover as one might peel back the lid of a case containing a volatile explosive. She peeled back another page and another until she reached the dedication. The Stand was dedicated to Tabby, Stephen King’s wife. Beneath the dedication was the name Violet, scrawled in the scruffy hand of a girl too young to be reading such an adult novel but who had done so none the less.
With her index finger, Abbie pressed lightly upon the page, over her sister’s name, and whispered, “Love you, little sis.” She was unsure when this ritual had started, but she did it now more often than not when she opened the book.
With her finger to her sister’s name, Abbie would close her eyes, and the memories would come flooding back.
Even as she soaked her cheeks with tears, Abbie would welcome each and every recollection as though Violet herself had walked through the door, arms outstretched, ready for a hug.
Sixteen
When she felt strong enough, Abbie returned the book to the pillowcase and placed it on the bedside table. Returning to the bag, she removed her phone and wallet. Travis had left her cards but taken the cash. Fine. The phone screen revealed a message from an unknown number waited. No prizes for guessing the sender.
In the bottom of the bag was, presumably, every paper scrap that had been there before Travis got his grubby mitts on Abbie’s stuff. Possibly one was gone. A scrap containing her current phone number. Also fine. But Abbie found the scrap on which Bobby had written his number and took stupid comfort from that.
The black book was missing.
Closing her eyes, Abbie took a deep breath. This was as expected. That didn’t make it any less frustrating. With everything that was going on with Michael, Eddie, and Francis, this was a distraction she did not need. But that was her fault. She would have to deal.
Restraining from any form of self-flagellation, Abbie moved to her phone. Unlocking the device, she went first to the call log. Yes, Ben had called. After deleting the item from her phone’s history, she moved to the messages screen.
She had only one text.
From an unknown number.
It read: Lets start with a tit pic
No apostrophe in “let’s”. No concluding full stop. It was one thing being psychotic enough to blackmail a deadly criminal and solicit illegal pornog
raphic images from a woman who has proven herself a dangerous foe, but when the youth of today cannot even utilise correct grammar, what hope is there for humanity?
The message was further proof of Travis’ blend of intelligence and stupidity. He was stupid to again attempt blackmail after taking a beating for his last go. But there was an intelligence displayed in the message’s simplicity. Most thieves would have penned a sprawling essay about how they had Abbie’s black book, how they knew it must be precious to her, how she would have to do everything they said to ensure its safe return. Right at the end, if one could be bothered to get that far, they would make their first demand—the, to use Travis’ phraseology, tit pic.
With his off-kilter intelligence, Travis had realised not only that he did not need the essay, but that the one-sentence approach would be more effective. Within that simple line of text was the essay implicit. Abbie knew what he had. Abbie knew he had deduced the black book had some value to her. That he had not spelt all this out made the message more menacing, and made Abbie warier of Travis.
From the phone, Abbie looked to her body. Because she spent more time than was usual in altercations with people like Ronson and Kline, Abbie spent many hours each week doing endurance, speed and strength training to ensure she was always in peak physical condition. As such, her body was unlikely to disappoint Travis. Then again, for someone like Travis, who had an obsession with power and getting one over on people, her physique was probably less important than was her bending to his will. Regardless of how her breasts looked, extreme arousal would arise from the victory of her sending a picture.
Unfortunately for Travis, there would be no picture. In the spirit of simplicity, which he had begun with his text, Abbie replied. It was nearly five pm. She typed: You have five hours to return what’s mine.