Bex Wynter Box Set

by Elleby Harper

  Suddenly his engine gave a roar as he gunned the accelerator, so loud she heard it over the traffic passing in the far lane. At first the car remained stationery, growling like a hungry lion as he kept the pedal hard to the floor. Then he revved the motor again and the car shot forward, its trajectory heading straight for Clara.

  Leaping to her feet, Evie screamed Clara’s name. She was just a few short yards away but horror rooted her to the spot. All she could do was watch helplessly. In a split second she saw Clara turning towards her as Bon’s car jumped the curb. The front bumper connected first with Clara’s legs, buckling them from under her so her torso snapped forward. The hood struck her pelvis and her head crashed against the windshield before her body shot into the air over the roof of the car, the impact tossing her like a rag doll to land behind the car on the road surface, almost directly in front of Evie.

  The powerful engine wasn’t deterred by the stone bridgework, instead it acted as a fulcrum, aiding its speed to launch the car over the railing to sail through the air.

  As the silver streak of Bon’s coupé disappeared from view, outside sound faded from Evie’s consciousness. A howling wail buffeted her mind like a hurricane as her eyes locked on Clara. Her own body sagged, her legs buckling so she had to crawl over the sidewalk to collapse beside her daughter, oblivious to the van traveling in the opposite direction screeching to a halt just inches away. Cars piled into each other, bumper against bumper, some slewing into the opposite lane, which was clear around Evie, thanks to Bon’s earlier actions.

  “Terrorists! Terrorists!” Tinny-sounding screams punctured her bubble of grief, but they were easy to ignore. Streaks of motion blurred around her peripheral vision like annoying insects, as drivers abandoned their stalled vehicles, joining fleeing pedestrians to leave Evie and Clara as stranded as though they were alone on a deserted island.

  The keening wail welled up Evie’s throat, strangling her even as her nursing instincts kicked in.

  Clara lay still on her back, her limbs splayed brokenly, black-clad legs twisted like a contortionist’s, one arm bent behind her. Evie tenderly stroked her forehead where a bruise colored the skin, as she gingerly tipped her head to check for airway obstructions. Blood oozed from a laceration on her cheek, dripping down into her black, Betty Boop curls. Bereft of her sunglasses, her startled eyes gazed sightlessly back at Evie.

  The sobs now broke through, as Evie placed her fingers against Clara’s neck, desperately willing herself to feel a carotid pulse. There was none. She bent her head, listening vainly for any breath or heart beat. Gulping down her whimpers, she raised herself over Clara’s chest, the heels of her palms pummeling rhythmically against her torso. How many times had she seen crash victims in the emergency ward? She’d dealt with lacerations, fractures, concussions, hemorrhaging, hematomas, contusions, abrasions, torn ligaments. Too many times to remember each case clearly. She’d done her best to repair all those injured bodies. Why couldn’t she fix her own daughter?

  Tears dripped onto her hands. She concentrated on counting her compressions.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday 4 July

  Vaguely Evie became aware of a soft buzz of sound as a few bystanders approached, breaking away from the cluster of people milling across the street.

  “We’ve called emergency services. They’re on their way.” The words broke against her concentration as jumbled sounds. She was panting now as she forced her hands and arms to keep pumping against Clara’s chest.

  “Here, let me help.”

  Someone’s hands tugged gently at her shoulders, pulling her away while she watched another pair of hands take her place.

  A red mist crept into Evie’s vision almost as though the blood vessels in her eyeballs had burst, coloring her view. Where was Bon? For the first time, she lifted her eyes from Clara. Shrugging herself away from the woman who was trying to wrap a jacket around her shivering body, she stepped back onto the sidewalk, moving towards the edge of the bridge. Scrambling over the broken stone, trying to locate Bon’s car, she didn’t feel the roughness catch at the skin on her hands and legs, scraping like a cat’s claws.

  The car had virtually flown through the air, like a stone flung from a catapult, to crash nose first into the steps, a good ten yards below the bridge. The steps lead down to the water where a row of skiffs had rested, roped together, stern to bow. That chain had been busted by Bon’s car, which teetered on an angle, driver’s side now plunged into the water. From her vantage point she could see the driver’s head listing out the open window. It looked like the car was slowly sinking sideways. If it did it would take Bon with it.

  She fought against hands grabbing hold of her clothes and yanking her back from the precipice. She hadn’t even realized she had been clambering over the shattered stonework to get to him until they pulled her back to the pavement.

  “Take it easy, lady. The ambulance is almost here. They’ll do their best to make sure the injured survive.”

  Evie’s nostrils flared, as though the words were a pungent odor. Survive. Yes, as a nurse she was dedicated to empathizing, to listening, to nurturing, to ensuring the injured survived. Evie was known for her focus. In the emergency ward, it was imperative to focus on the life-threatening injuries before dealing with the superficial wounds. So that the patient would survive.

  Cocking her head to the side she heard the faint wail of the ambulance siren. Would it reach them in time to save Bon if he wasn’t already dead? The way his head lolled his neck could be broken. Had he survived?

  In a frenzy she pushed past the faceless crowd gathering with ghoulish curiosity, to locate the steps leading down to the embankment. Running full-pelt, she stumbled over the last steps, grabbing the railing to save herself from a nasty tumble. There were fewer people on this side. She caught herself thinking it was just as well, because on the Richmond Boathouses side the wooden-topped tables and flimsy chairs were crowded with people drinking their chardonnay or beer, sharing cocktails and conversing, reading their tablets, texting on their phones or listening to music through headphones. A car crashing into their midst would have been disastrous. Her breath hiccupped.

  If only Clara hadn’t got upset about seeing Bon and stalked off, they would be down there right now. Clara would still be alive. Perhaps not smiling and laughing, but at least scowling and texting while Evie sipped a white wine and perused the menu.

  Survive. Using the railing, Evie dragged herself upright, running over the grass straight towards the steps leading into the water. The Rolls Royce looked like it had snagged itself on the line of boats, and their buoyancy was the only thing stopping the heavy engine pulling the car fully under the water. The river lapped over the hood, trickling into the interior over the window rim on Bon’s side.

  The sight drew her forward like a magnet through her red mist. Someone clutched her sleeve. Maddened, she ripped her arm away. She must focus. She was good at focusing. She did it every day at work. Her vision narrowed to a tunnel as she rushed down the steps into the water.

  “Hey! Stay away! The car could collapse any second!”

  She paid no attention, plunging on through water up to her hips, now her waist until she was level with the back of the car. She pushed herself through the water to get around to the driver’s window, fighting through the broken splinters of one of the skiffs. Her breathing was so loud in her ears she couldn’t hear anything else.

  She could see the back of Bon’s head slumped out of the window, resting on the water, strands of darkened blond hair floating like a halo around his head.

  She reached forward, grabbing Bon’s hair to lift his face up, feeling the car rock precariously as she did so. Water streamed from his pale skin. His forehead was lumpy and bruised, blood leaked from his broken nose, diluted by the water into a pink rivulet. Straining to hang onto him with one hand and balance herself against the boat with the other, she struggled to see if he had a pulse. Had Bon survived? The thought pounded in her head
and throbbed through her veins. Had Bon survived?

  * * *

  High above, on Richmond Bridge, people gathered. “Look at that! The crazy woman in the water!”

  “What’s she doing?”

  Strangers drifted over. Someone pulled a smart phone from a pocket, training it in the direction of the car.

  “It looks like…”

  “Is she giving him mouth to mouth?”

  Their words rippled through the crowd, attracting more people to the edge, pushing and shoving to get a look. The sinking sun cast long shadows across the dappled gold-streaked waves. Street lamps flared with illumination, sparkling along the edge of the riverbank and across the bridge span. Eyes strained through the expanding gloom to see more clearly.

  “She’s trying to resuscitate him!”

  “Who is she? Why doesn’t she wait for the paramedics?”

  “Isn’t that dangerous? Oh, my God, what if the car tilts over and drowns both of them?”

  “She’s risking her life to save that guy! The woman’s a freakin’ saint!”

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday 5 July

  The glare of sun bouncing off the stonework of London Tower stung Bex Wynter’s tired eyeballs but didn’t stop her noticing the lanky youth with the navy Wimbledon cap pulled low over his forehead to hide his eyes. Despite the warmth of the day, which had tourists in summer dresses and short sleeves, he was wearing a denim jacket over a torn T-shirt.

  Sandwiched between hundreds of other tourists as she snaked her way towards the Chapel Royal of Saint Peter Ad Vincula, Bex saw him casually bump against a woman as he passed through the line, then disappear into the crowd. She had noticed him earlier, prowling around the edges of the line.

  Relax, she told herself firmly. Suspicious behavior didn’t always equate with crime. Today, she just wanted to be a tourist.

  Her British Airways flight had arrived in London shortly after 7:30 a.m. and she had caught the express train into the heart of the city where she had reservations at the Parkwood Hotel. Too early to check into her hotel room, she had dropped her luggage with the porter, grabbed a handful of tourist brochures from the lobby and, after a few minutes’ perusal, decided she would visit Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, the Tower of London.

  For the past six months this had been her mantra: keep occupied with trivia, keep putting one foot in front of the other. Move so fast there was no chance for past memories to creep up on her, no opportunity to dwell on the black hole of despair that had replaced her future.

  Like an annoying fly, the youth in the Wimbledon cap buzzed back into her peripheral vision, approaching her line from behind and cutting straight between Bex and the woman ahead.

  “Excuse me, just passing through,” he muttered.

  The woman in front of Bex had a tangled ponytail curling down her back and a big straw tote hanging from her shoulder. Lanky Youth knocked against the bag. Bex kept her eyes peeled to his hands, seeing one flash against the bag as though to steady it before slipping inside his jacket. No one else had noted the quick movement, especially not the woman.

  “Hey, there, you haven’t accidently misplaced something have you?” She tapped the teenager on the shoulder as she spoke, so he knew she was addressing him. Beneath her hand, she felt his muscles tense under the denim.

  He jerked his head back so that for a second she had a clear view of his face under the brim of his cap, his eyes wide with shock. He was young, barely fifteen or sixteen, Bex guessed. Around the same age as the young offenders she accommodated in the halfway house she had set up with her husband’s life insurance money back in New York. She read fear and uncertainty in the youth’s face and that was enough for her to know he wasn’t yet a hardened crim.

  Then he twitched out of her grasp, lunging into the crush of tourists.

  Bex leapt after him, her eyes fixed on his gangling body as he darted between sightseers. She had no doubt his spider-long legs would have outrun her with no problem, but he hit a bottleneck as they approached another archway. She noted an opening to his left and, anticipating his dash sideways, squirmed between bodies to ram into him with a sharp elbow to the ribs.

  As she tackled him, she could feel his frame hadn’t yet filled with muscle, so she managed to use her bodyweight to slam him against the rough brickwork wall of the archway, knocking the breath from his lungs. Wrenching his arm up his back she kept control over him, forcing him to his knees.

  There were a few squeals of alarm and apprehensive mutters from those standing around.

  “It’s okay, he’s my brother. We’re just having a little family disagreement.” Bex bared her teeth in what she hoped passed for a smile, and nodded in the direction of the nervous, suspicious looks. “Right, bro?” She squeezed the tender part of his elbow until he gave a yelp of agreement. As people moved aside with wary misgiving, she tugged his collar to bring him to his feet, manhandling him along the tunnel to a quieter spot.

  She could see his clothes were good quality, his shoes worn but not castoffs, leading her to assume he wasn’t homeless so he didn’t need crime to survive. More than likely he was simply hooked on the excitement of thumbing his nose at the law, unless he needed money to fuel a drug habit. She wondered if his parents were even aware he wasn’t at school.

  Using her free hand, she patted him down to ensure he was unarmed. Then she ran her hand over his jacket, yanking a wallet from his inside pocket between her fingertips.

  “Hey, you can’t —” he protested, his English accent phrasing the word as “carnt”.

  “Watch your language!” she interrupted, squeezing the tender part of his elbow until he yelped again.

  “Bloody hell, you can’t —”

  “I said, watch the language.”

  Still using her fingertips, she flipped open the wallet, checking the driver’s license in its clear plastic sleeve.

  “I suppose you’re going to insist your name is Gloria Benton?”

  The youth grunted. “Who are you, lady? You the scum? I ain’t done nothing.”

  Bex poked a thumb into a pressure point on his shoulder until he was squirming. Scum? That was a name she hadn’t been called before.

  “Okay, okay, ease up,” he panted. “You want the wallet, take it.”

  “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “School’s for losers.”

  Her experience had taught her that street kids didn’t appreciate leniency, they needed tough love and a tight rein or they simply walked all over you.

  “You’ve got it wrong. Jail’s for losers. And it sure seems like you’re doing your best to become some inmate’s favorite girlfriend.”

  “I ain’t never been caught. Scum’s not going to send me away for a first offence.” His voice was cocky with conviction. “You can’t do nothing to me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, you can’t do nothing to me.”

  Finally registering the word in a full sentence she realized how she had previously misunderstood him. It almost made her smile.

  “Maybe you won’t get sent away the first time, Gloria. But you keep lifting wallets and jail’s where you’ll end up before you know it. Even youth prisons are full of murderers and rapists and they like to screw the young and vulnerable. I’d say you’re going to tick all the boxes for them. You know what young inmates tell me? That the hardest part is no one comes to your rescue when you scream. You have no friends or family in jail.”

  The teenager stood still under her hands while she spoke and she was hopeful he was absorbing her words.

  “I don’t want the wallet. I want you to show some respect for hard-working people who earn the money that goes into wallets like this. What you’re going to do now is walk back to that line, find Gloria Benton and hand back her property.”

  In answer, he expelled a string of obscenities as he bucked his loose-limbed body, almost breaking her handhold. She jabbed her elbow sharply into his back, then clipped him
around the ear.

  “Quiet down! What did I just say about showing respect and some gratitude? I caught you red-handed with Gloria’s wallet and I’m an eye-witness to you taking it. But let’s just say I give you the benefit of the doubt that you came across this wallet accidentally. What’s the right thing to do?”

  “You’re crazy, lady! I’ll never find that woman again.”

  “Oh, I think you will. Those lines don’t move that quickly and I have a very good eye for a face. You’d better hope we can find her, otherwise I’m dragging you into the nearest police station to hand it over. Then you can explain just how it came to be in your possession. Are we agreed?”

  “Okay, okay. Just get your elbow out of my back.”

  Bex was satisfied by the resigned tone. “Respectful people use the magic word.” She knocked his cap to the ground, grabbed his hair and tugged his head towards her. “Please.”

  “Please,” he repeated, mimicking her American accent.

  She allowed him away from the wall, but insisted on frogmarching him out of the tunnel towards the Chapel Royal. When she picked pony-tailed Gloria Benton out of the line up, she released him, placing the wallet in his hand.

  “What do I say?” She heard panic and indecision in his voice.

  “First, you apologize. Then you explain that when you bumped into her you accidentally knocked her wallet out of her tote. Don’t worry, she’ll be so impressed at your honesty and pleased to have her property back, you won’t have to say anything more.”

  Hovering two steps back, she watched him shuffle forward. His head flicked both left and right. She tensed, rising slightly on her toes, prepared for another sprint. She saw his chest rise as he sucked in a deep breath before mumbling a few words as he held out the woman’s wallet.