by Linda Coles
Beads of sweat had long ago turned into rivulets of salty water that ran down his face and neck, joining the growing wet patch on his shirt. He breathed hard; his heart pounded as his feet pummelled the pavement. As he did every morning, he was focusing on his time to beat. It was only ever going to be by seconds, but seconds counted; seconds mattered. Now, on his return journey towards home, sweat stinging his eyes, he was almost back at his start point and he gritted his teeth as he pushed towards his self-imposed finishing line: the store on the corner that sold cannabis on prescription.
As he raced up to its blue door, he pressed the ‘stop’ button on his watch to record the end of his run, then carried on a few steps at a much slower jog. As he caught his breath, he made his way across the grassy dunes towards the sea and, with his hands on his hips, waited for his breathing to return to near normal. He wiped his dripping face with his hand. Seagulls filled the sky, their cries multiplying as more and more birds appeared from all directions. In one giant swoop the mass hit the sand as one mob; somebody was throwing food for them. They were pests; it was the tourists that got pleasure from them. He squinted into the sunshine and even with sunglasses on, it was still bright.
Idly, as he stood there, he wondered about the family of Gerald Baker, and in particular his daughter. He hoped that being seen at the funeral was not going to cause any problems, though in reality, who would ever put two and two together? He was just a man paying his respects, like half the village had been doing that day, and there was no reason for anyone to think otherwise. It was never good losing someone close to you—he knew that from experience. But Gerald Baker had had to be stopped. He had done enough damage already, and the only way to put an end to it was to take him out of the equation.
Alistair Crowley was the polar opposite of Philip Banks. But as happened on every good team, polar opposites worked. The two had known each other since childhood, having attended the same boarding school. Both were the sons of wealthy American parents and had gone on to attend the same law school together. They’d worked together since they’d left law school, though not always from the offices in Abbot Kinney. They’d started out in Philip’s basement, in an attempt to get going and practice law on a budget. Everyone left law school with huge loans, and they were no different.
When Philip had suggested early on that they try and make it on their own, their respective fathers had cleared their student loans off but told them they wouldn’t finance their operation any further. The two young men had to prove themselves, which was fair enough. Ideally, in their parents’ view, Philip and Alistair were meant to have secured jobs at reputed law firms and done the hard yards and gruelling hours like every other graduate. The two men, however, had other plans. They each had met the woman of their dreams and settled into the LA lifestyle, like their fathers before them. That had been a long time ago, and the women of their dreams hadn’t hung around long enough to become permanent fixtures in their lives. Philip and Alistair were both single.
And polar opposites.
While Philip ran every morning, Alistair drank coffee and smoked cigarettes as his way of getting into gear. He knew he needed to lose some weight, but had never had the motivation that Philip had and had long ago given up trying to be anything but himself.
Alistair poured himself another mug of coffee and took it out onto the small balcony that overlooked the ocean. If he knew exactly where to look, he could probably have seen Philip out on his run, but instead he stood gazing at the rolling ocean, the morning sun warming his skin, the morning LA haze lifting with every minute that passed. His thoughts drifted, just like Philip’s had, to Gerald Baker, to the man’s family, but more importantly to his friends who had become victims.
Of Gerald Baker.
Now deceased.
Chapter Sixteen
Each morning at the same time, Philip and Alistair had a catch-up meeting to discuss current workload and what was going on in general. Today was no different, and they sat at the glass table in Philips’ office. Philip poured his first cup of coffee of the day and asked Alistair if he wanted a top-up. Alistair nodded his response, and Philip obliged, though he was probably on his fifth already and it was only just coming up to 9 AM. How the man functioned through the day with his nerves jangling with caffeine, he’d never know.
“How was your run, buddy?” Alistair asked, as he did most mornings.
“It never gets easier. You just get faster.” It was the same response each time.
“What sort of answer is that? You tell me that every day.”
“It’s the truth, that’s why. Felt like I was running with lead weights round my ankles this morning, but it’s good to be back on familiar territory. I think I’m a bit jet-lagged, to tell you the truth.”
“You saw him go, then.” It wasn’t really a question; more a statement of fact.
“I saw a wooden box go and assumed he was inside it, yes.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.” Alistair pulled a donut out of the Dunkin’ Donuts box and bit into it. Sprinkles dropped into his lap, tiny pieces of pink and yellow spattering the dark surface of his suit trousers. He brushed them away with the back of his hand, and Philip bent forward and offered his friend a serviette.
“Here, use that instead of making such a mess, would you?”
As though to set an example, Philip picked up an apple donut, tucked a napkin under it, and bit into his pastry without losing a crumb.
There was a knock at the door and their legal secretary, Carmel, a pretty woman in her early thirties with long, curly red hair, stuck her head round the frame.
“Philip, I’ve got Mr. Tillyard on the phone. He says it’s important and wants to hold, though I told him you were busy in a meeting.” She smiled knowingly at the box of donuts and then motioned to let Philip know he had sugar on his chin.
“Thanks,” he said, brushing his face. “I’ll be right there.”
When Carmel had gone, Alistair gave one of his low whistles. “I swear she gets hotter every day.” He licked his lips for good measure.
Philip ignored him, as he always did; Carmel was already spoken for. She preferred the perfect American male look, and Alistair didn’t own it.
“Best not keep him waiting,” said Alistair. “We need the money.” He waggled two fingers to indicate that Philip should get on his way, and quickly. “Toodle-pip, as the Brits say.”
“I’m going,” Philip said with annoyance. Mr. Tillyard could be a giant pain in the ass at times, but the truth was they indeed needed the money. That money came in a constant stream of referrals via his long list of golfing buddies looking for reputable divorce lawyers, so Philip and Alistair looked after him well. He was an important pain in the ass that deserved their full attention.
While the practice had been going for some years, recent times had been tougher than usual and with the added stress and expense of their ‘distraction,’ as they referred to it, the two men were almost broke. Now their ‘distraction’ was finally dealt with, however, they could return to normal and concentrate on pulling the business back into shape.
Philip wiped his fingers on his napkin and tossed it into the bin as he left the room. The door clunked shut behind him, leaving Alistair to finish his donut off in peace. Even though it was Philips’ office, he rested his feet upon the table in front of him, leaned his head back into the chair and closed his eyes for a moment. The ‘distraction’ had been draining for him as well as Philip, though he couldn’t claim the added jet lag. Gerald Baker, and everything he stood for, was finally done, and Alistair was ready to move on. A cloud passed over the sun as he sat there, and he felt rather than saw the light dim over his head and shoulders. He waited a couple of beats, eyes still closed, for it to return.
He was still sat in the same position when Philip walked in ten minutes later and woke him up. “I was resting my eyes,” he said, sitting up with a start.
“With all the caffeine you consume, I’m not entirely su
re how.” Philip sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers in thought.
“Right. Caught, then. So, what did Tillyard want? Who’s divorcing this week?”
Chapter Seventeen
Chrissy made it home safely. With nearly half a bottle of hooch in her stomach, she was thankful she’d not driven herself over. Although of course if she had done, she wouldn’t have imbibed quite the quantity she had. The afternoon sun was still hot, and the back garden was bathed in its glow. The kitchen, however, felt cool; the windows were in the wrong place to catch the remains of the warmth for the day. Sunshine was always better in a kitchen in a morning, she thought.
She was sitting at the breakfast bar when Adam walked in. He bent and nuzzled the side of her neck.
“Mmm, you smell nice,” he cooed contentedly. He straightened and walked over to the fridge, where he retrieved a beer and a bottle of white wine.
“Fancy a glass?” he enquired as he took the top off his beer. He waggled the bottle at her.
“Always,” she smiled at him. It was her standard reply, and the reason he’d taken the bottle from the fridge. Adam knew his wife well.
“You’re home early,” she said.
“I thought I’d take my lover out to the pub for dinner for a change, if she fancies it.”
“Oh, how nice for her. And what did your lover say?” It was their little joke. ‘Lover’ always sounded more exciting than referring to each other as husband and wife. It raised eyebrows occasionally when used in conversation with others, but of course that was all part of the fun.
Adam poured her a glass of wine and set it down by her elbow. Still standing, he slipped his tie off, opening the top button of his shirt at the same time. It reminded Chrissy of taking her bra off at the end of the day. That feeling of freedom and comfort, life’s little restrictions removed.
“She said yes, of course,” she replied, grinning. “Fancy joining us?” She watched him chug back a long mouthful of beer, his Adam’s apple gently moving up and down. It was mesmerising.
“Absolutely,” he said. “If we leave here at six-thirty, we can sit in the beer garden if it’s still warm enough and everyone else hasn’t had the same idea.”
She swept up her glass and took a sip, then another, relishing the cold tartness in her throat. “Sounds perfect. In that case, I’m going to run a bath and soak for a while.”
“You do that. You look a bit drained—understandably. We’ve plenty of time, so relax a little, unwind.”
Smiling, Chrissy headed off upstairs to the bathroom. She placed her glass on the vanity, poured bubble bath under the running tap and stood for a moment watching the white foam form as the water hit the gel. The smell of rose petals filled the room, one of her favourite fragrances. It reminded her of the roses in full bloom in her mother’s garden.
Was it now Mother’s garden?
It’s always been my parents’ garden.
Your father’s gone now.
Yes, I know.
You’ll get used to it.
When the water reached the perfect level, she stripped off her shorts and T-shirt and slid in under the bubbles, making sure her shoulders were fully submerged. There was a slight sting on the skin under her collarbone where the sun had caught her earlier, likely when she’d had fallen asleep.
You’d drunk half a bottle of whiskey, remember?
How could she forget? She closed her eyes and tried to relax a little, but the first thing she saw was the old biscuit tin, the picture of the boy wrapped up warm against the snow on the front, snowball in hand. Odd that there were photos inside, and of boys. The questions rose again: Who were they? And what were they doing hidden away? Did her mother have any knowledge of who they were or why they were in the old tin? They should have been in Dad’s cupboard, with his diaries.
Or perhaps not.
Chrissy slid completely under the water and held her breath, pinching her nose with her fingers so she didn’t get water up her nostrils and scrunching her eyes shut. She could feel her hair floating around her head in the water, brushing her face gently like fine seaweed. Everything was much quieter under water; she could have stayed there for an hour. . .
She was vaguely aware of someone talking to her, of distorted, dull tones filtering through the water. Adam. She sat back up, wiping her hair away from her eyes, and smiled at him. He smiled back.
“Enjoying yourself in there?” he enquired. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m nipping out for a minute. The boys are stopping over at the Masons’ place tonight and I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Damn, so had I,” she said, slapping her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Are they packed?”
“Apparently so. I’ll be fifteen minutes, tops.” He bent and gave her forehead a peck, then was gone. When she heard the front door bang shut behind them and his car pull away, Chrissy slithered back down into the tub, as far under the water as she could go, and practised holding her breath like she had in the old days. It had been part of her training back then.
Chapter Eighteen
Chrissy was towelling herself dry when she heard the front door slam shut and familiar footsteps on the stairs. Adam was back, right on time. She smiled to herself at how well she knew him.
After twenty years of marriage, you’d hope so.
I know my man.
“Are you still wallowing in the bath?” he shouted affectionately. Chrissy opened the bathroom door to prove she wasn’t and stood there buck naked, posing like a Greek goddess statue, one arm in the air, the other draped across her torso, her face tilted to the ceiling, a slight smile on her lips.
“Holy moly,” Adam said slowly. He took the steps two at a time, wrapped his strong arms around her waist and resting his hands on the tops of her buttocks.
She let one arm fall to his shoulders as she looked him in the eye and theatrically said, “Take me—I’m yours.”
“Madame, I am happy to oblige,” he said in a mock French accent. He scooped her up fully into his arms and carried her, unresisting, through to their bedroom.
The pub Adam had chosen was one of their locals. There were several to choose from, and even though the great British public houses were closing on a daily basis, the ones out in leafy affluent areas like Englefield Green were still doing a roaring trade. Folks liked “a ride out,” as they termed it, and at weekends, the pubs could be chock-a-block full. Their choice this evening was a traditional but newly renovated country pub, with stone walls, a bright and airy feel, high levels of chatter and a menu Jamie Oliver would have been proud of producing. Pubs like these were actually restaurants in reality, with new owners keeping tradition alive, though with a different look than in days gone by. Still, it was good for the community and a profitable business for the owners.
They took their seats in the pub’s restaurant, looking like two young lovers. Adam had chosen a corner spot indoors, since the warmth of the early evening sun had dissipated. And they were later arriving than they thought they’d be.
“We should move the boys out of the house more often,” Chrissy quipped, with a coy smile. Adam winked in reply as their waitress arrived and handed them menus. They gave their drinks order to be going on with—more white wine for Chrissy and a pint for Adam. The waitress reappeared with their drinks then left them to study their menus.
“Same as usual?” Chrissy asked.
“Same as usual. I don’t know why we bother looking.”
“Me neither, but it’s fun.”
“I’ll go and order then,” said Adam, and headed over to the bar to order and pay. She watched him from her spot at the table, thinking back to not an hour ago as they had lain entwined with each other. She was going to miss him next week, but she also knew it was good for them both. Absence did indeed make the heart grow fonder. She sipped on her wine and watched him return. His narrow hips in faded jeans still mesmerised her. He caught her looking.
“You’ll have to wait,” he said. “I need sustenance
first. I’m famished.”
“I can do that.” She smiled.
“Well, I’m going to change the subject before we both flee back home for the bedroom without getting fed,” he said. “How did you get on today, sorting out with Julie and your mum?”
“Ah,” she said putting her wine glass down. “It was a bit weird, actually. We both ended up getting told off, like we were kids again.”
“Oh?”
“Mum went nutty when she found us in Dad’s den, looking through a cupboard. She’d been asleep upstairs, so we’d made a start. Seems that wasn’t the thing to do.” Chrissy told him the rest of the story about the cupboard’s contents but stopped short of her find in the shed. She wasn’t entirely sure why, but her gut told her to keep the box of photos to herself—for now, at least. When she’d finished her tale, she noticed Adam’s mood had changed slightly, a definite shift.
“What is it?” she enquired as two plates overflowing with crispy battered fish and chips were delivered. Adam asked the waitress for vinegar.
“I’ve been keeping something from you. I wasn’t sure whether to mention it or not.”
“Sounds like you’re about to.” She picked a chip up and bit into it while she waited.
“There was a letter. When we called to pick the flowers up before the funeral. I slipped it in my pocket.”
“And?”
“The only thing on the front was ‘Thief.’ I took it so you wouldn’t see it. I didn’t want it to upset you.”
Chrissy’s eyes widened. “What was it about? What did it say?”
“I don’t know who it was from, but it was threatening. Your dad had obviously angered someone. It seemed to be over lost money. There was reference to a scheme, though it was vague.”
“Was it signed?”