by Hannah Howe
“But...,” Velvet stuttered.
“Leave us!” Loudon yelled.
I turned to Velvet and offered her my car keys. “Wait in the Mini,” I said. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
As Velvet closed the living room door, I approached Loudon and asked, “Are you all right?”
“She’s gone,” Loudon said.
“Annabel?”
“She’s dead,” he sobbed.
“What happened?”
“Some sort of seizure. A bad reaction to the cocaine. She’s dead,” he repeated. “What am I going to do?” He looked up through opaque, tearful eyes. “She was the most precious person in my life.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Loudon nodded. He sobbed then placed his head in his hands.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
He shook his head and continued to sob.
While Loudon expressed his grief, I stood in silence. Sometimes, I said too much; sometimes, I spoke merely to solicit a reaction. However, in times of distress and sadness, I’d learned to hold my tongue.
In due course, Loudon’s sobs subsided and I ventured, “The diamonds...”
“Take them,” he said. “I don’t want them.” He turned and stared into the middle distance, a man broken through grief. “I want Annabel.”
“I feel your pain,” I said.
“Do you?” he scoffed. Then his voice and expression softened. “You do, don’t you; you empathize with people.”
“I try,” I said.
“And that’s why you’re good at your job.”
I paused while a phone bleeped in Loudon’s pocket. He checked the message, shook his head then switched the phone off.
“You’re sure about the diamonds,” I said; “you don’t want them?”
“I don’t want them.”
“In that case,” I said, “I’ll return them to Mickey Anthony’s client.”
Loudon nodded. He stared at the stone fireplace, at the coals burning in the grate. Meanwhile I slipped the diamonds into my jacket pocket, mindful that the pocket contained a small tear.
“Why are we here?” he asked, his gaze lost in the flickering flames.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“What am I going to do with all this?” He glanced around the room, at the antique furniture, at the gold fittings, at the trappings of great wealth.
“Take time to grieve,” I said; “decide when you heal.”
“All my life,” Loudon said, “I’ve wanted money; I’ve wanted to be number one, the best. I am number one, or close to it; not many are richer than me. But I’m a pauper without Annabel. I have nothing; my world is empty.”
I nodded, then offered my sympathy.
After a prolonged silence, I said, “My card, Mr Loudon, should you need to talk.”
Stepping forward, I placed my card on the Queen Anne table. Then I walked to the door. Loudon didn’t glance at my card or me. He didn’t glance at the diamonds, either. Why should he? After all, diamonds may sparkle, but like a handful of gold coins, they’re cold. Warmth comes from reciprocated love. Loudon had lost the love of his life. Despite his great wealth, he’d live the rest of his days in the freezer, a money-making machine, rich beyond comprehension, though poor in heart and soul.
With a heavy heart, I walked out of Jeremy Loudon’s grand house, closing the door.
Back in my Mini, Velvet asked, “Is it sorted?”
“It’s never sorted,” I said; “life is a series of loose ends. The trick is, to keep those loose ends as neat as possible, so they don’t trip you up.”
Velvet thought about that for a moment. Then she nodded. Then she smiled.
In silence, we drove away from Jeremy Loudon’s mansion, from a dream shattered, to Milton Vaughan-Urquhart, a man who offered hope, and through his generous nature, a great deal of love.
Rich or poor, black or white, we all live under the same sky, a sky that offers thunder and rainbows, rain and sunshine, regardless of our social standing. Wealth can supply an umbrella, but when the storm breaks, as Jeremy Loudon discovered, a hurricane will often tear umbrellas apart.
In his prime, Loudon craved wealth, while Velvet craved music. But what of my ambitions? After our chat with Milton, I had to make sense of them. And to make sense of them, I had to talk with Alan.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The good news – Milton liked the sound of Velvet’s voice; he considered it rich and soulful. So maybe a successful career beckoned; maybe Milton would set Velvet on the yellow brick road. Amongst all the imponderables, I knew one thing for certain – Milton was a music man, heart and soul, and he would offer Velvet sound advice.
Next, I met up with Mickey Anthony and we delivered the diamonds to his client. The simple, sad, truth was I didn’t trust Mickey to deliver the diamonds on his own. In regard to the diamonds, the delivery completed the circle. Maybe Mickey’s client would offer him a finder’s fee and that fee would clear Mickey’s debt. Mickey had a habit of landing on his feet. As my late mother used to say, if he fell in shit he’d come up smelling of roses.
I left Mickey and his client in heated discussion and drove home. There, I caught up with Alan. With the sun high in a pale blue sky, we went for a stroll alongside the river, following the stream as it meandered away from our house, through the bare trees. I enjoyed this walk; the sylvan setting offered a good place to think and examine your soul.
“Penny for them,” Alan said.
“I feel sad for Loudon,” I said.
Alan nodded, “There’s no free ride with drugs, including legal drugs; if the physical effects don’t kill you, the psychological effects can be crippling; I’m counselling a young man at the moment, a businessman who sampled cocaine at a party. The cocaine opened a door in his mind to some very dark places. That door will never close, so my client will have to embrace the darkness, walk through it, into the light. For my client, that will be a painful walk. On the positive side, at the end of the journey he’ll know himself better, but make no mistake, drugs alter the structure of the mind.” Alan paused. He gazed at me and smiled, “Enough shop talk, what’s on your mind?”
“In Amsterdam,” I said, “Mac introduced me to Saskia. She’s a woman who has everything – a successful business, a fine house, a loving husband, and a family.”
“You run a successful business,” Alan said, “you live in a fine house and you have a loving husband.”
“I know,” I said. “But what about a family?”
Alan frowned. He took hold of my left hand and we wandered away from the river, through the trees. “We have Alis,” he said.
“She’s your daughter. Don’t get me wrong, I love her, but she is your daughter.”
Alan paused beside a large oak tree. While caressing a moss-covered branch, he said, “And you want a daughter?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The thought has only just occurred to me. Maybe my hormones are playing up, maybe I’m facing a midlife crisis, but the thought of having a family is troubling me.”
Alan nodded. He said, “I assumed that you didn’t want children.”
“So did I.” I frowned and stared at the tree. It was powerful, sturdy, reliable – like my husband. “Before you,” I said, “there was no love in my life, so the thought of having children never troubled me. But I love you and the thought of having your child does excite me, on one level. It terrifies me too,” I confessed.
“Children alter your priorities,” Alan said. “What if the Continent calls again? How would you respond? How would you juggle a family with your business commitments?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “Maybe it’s all impractical. Yet Saskia, and thousands of women like her, raise a family.”
Alan nodded. He frowned and his forehead wrinkled. He lapsed into deep thought. Then, emerging from his reverie, he smiled, “It’s something we need to think about, over time.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“For practical purposes,” Alan said, “we have a two year window.”
I nodded, “Ample time for thought.”
“For now,” he said, “we have each other.”
With a smile, I squeezed his fingers then outlined his wedding band. “And I’m truly grateful for that.”
Alan placed an arm around my shoulders. He gave me a hug. Then he kissed me, on the lips and the forehead. “You’re a bag of tricks,” he said, “full of surprises.”
“I’m a pain in the arse,” I said.
“You are sunshine, roses, the brightest star in the sky.”
“And you are crazy,” I said. Standing on tiptoe, I kissed him. Then I placed my head against his shoulder. “But more than that, you’re mine all mine, until the end of time.”
SAM’S SONG
by Hannah Howe
Love Hurts. For Derwena de Caro, songstress, female icon, teenage dream, success brought drugs, alcohol and a philandering boyfriend. It also brought wealth, fame and a stalker, or so she claimed. And that’s where I came in, to investigate the identity of the stalker, little realising that the trail would lead to murder and a scandal that would make the newspaper headlines for months on end.
Love Hurts. For me, Samantha Smith, Enquiry Agent, love arrived at the end of a fist. First, I had to contend with an alcoholic mother, who took her frustrations out on me throughout my childhood, then my husband, Dan, who regarded domestic violence as an integral part of marriage. But I survived. I obtained a divorce, kept my sense of humour and retained an air of optimism. I established my business and gained the respect of my peers. However, I was not prepared for Dan when he re-entered my life, or for the affection showered on me by Dr Alan Storey, a compassionate and rather handsome psychologist.
Sam’s Song. This is the story of a week that changed my life forever.
LOVE AND BULLETS
by Hannah Howe
It had been a week since the incident at the abandoned quarry, a week since I’d shot and killed someone, a week since my ex-husband had been murdered. It had been an emotional week. But life goes on. I’d been hired to discover who was sending death threats to Dr Ruth Carey, a controversial psychiatrist. The trail led to two high-powered villains and soon the death threats were aimed at me, threats that increased following two murders.
Meanwhile, after years of domestic violence, I was trying to make sense of my private life. Dr Alan Storey, a prominent psychologist, claimed that he loved me, and I was strongly attracted to him. But the years of domestic abuse had scarred me emotionally and I was reluctant to commit to a relationship.
Love and Bullets is the story of a dramatic week in my life, a week of soul-searching, self-discovery and redemption.
THE BIG CHILL
by Hannah Howe
“Emergency!” “Christ! Who shot her?” “Don’t know.” “What a mess.” “Better call Dr Warburton.”
Bright lights. A sharp, antiseptic smell. Pain. Nausea. Feel so weak. The cat, who’ll feed the cat? “Marlowe.” “She’s babbling.” “She’s lost a lot of blood.” Blackness. “Have we lost her?” I don’t want to die!
A jumble of images, my mother, my father, but his face is so vague. “Daddy!” Nothing. A man scowling, with a needle. “I’m going to put you to sleep. You won’t feel a thing. Just count backwards from ten...” “Ten, nine, eight...”
Aching all over. Can’t move my shoulder or my arm. Very tired. More nightmares; too black to dwell on; make them go away...
Sweating. Drowning. I catch my breath, like breathing for the first time. Eyes blink awake. Gasping. Try to rise, but head hurts too much. I ache all over, but I’m alive!
I was alive. But with a snowstorm gripping the city and with an unknown assassin closing in, I faced the most dangerous moment of my life and the very real prospect of feeling the big chill.
RIPPER
by Hannah Howe
“I love breaking the rules.” – Cardiff Jack
Someone was murdering prostitutes, placing their bodies in the Bay and covering them with roses. To the media, he was ‘Cardiff Jack’, to the rest of us he was a man to avoid and fear.
Meanwhile, I was searching for Faye Collister, a prostitute. Why was Faye, a beautiful woman from a privileged background, walking the streets? Why had she disappeared? And what was her connection to Cardiff Jack?
As questions tumbled into answers, I made a shocking discovery, a discovery that would resonate with me for the rest of my life.
Ripper – the story of a week in my life that reshaped the past, disturbed the present and brought the promise of an uncertain future.
THE HERMIT OF HISARYA
by Hannah Howe
Some people will stop at nothing in their pursuit of wealth and power. Indeed, the greedy will often resort to murder.
“You’ve been through a stressful time recently,” my fiancé, Dr Alan Storey, said. “I’m off to Bulgaria to attend a psychology conference so why don’t you accompany me and we’ll throw in a holiday as well.”
Great idea, I thought. However, when I arrived in Bulgaria my inquisitive nature compelled me towards a mystery dating back to the Second World War. That mystery involved Emil Angelov, the Hermit of Hisarya. As I delved into the past, I stirred up some ghosts, which led to murder and the prospect of spending the rest of my days in a Bulgarian gaol.
The Hermit of Hisarya – a story of corruption, of murder, of a woman and her seventy-year-old dream, offering proof that the past, the present and the future are all intrinsically entwined.
SECRETS AND LIES
by Hannah Howe
Suicide or Murder?
Most of the people I encounter are hiding a secret and many of them are adept at telling lies. However, how do you learn the truth about someone who’s no longer with us?
Author, Barclay Quinton wrote Fabringjay, the story of a man leading a secret life during the Second World War, which was well received by the critics, but was ignored by the readers, and Illicit Lust, a book he hated and wrote purely to satisfy his agent and publisher. Illicit Lust became a bestseller, a fact that annoyed Barclay. However, its success did open doors and he set about researching his next novel, the story of an ageing mobster. Barclay’s research brought him into contact with many unsavoury types, including villains, shady private eyes and managers of strip clubs. The official report into Barclay’s death stated that he committed suicide. However, a close friend insisted that Barclay was murdered and I was hired to investigate.
Meanwhile, closer to home, I discovered a secret, and the truth, about my long-term partner. Was he the man of my dreams, or was our relationship about to end?
Secrets and Lies: a story of love, of deceit, of the many faces we all possess – the public face, the private face and the deeply personal.
FAMILY HONOUR
by Hannah Howe
When the biggest villain in the country makes you an offer you can’t refuse, what should you do? In my case, I decided to accept that offer, made by Mr Vincent Vanzetti. Vanzetti hired me to find his missing daughter, Vittoria, while threatening reprisals should I fail in my task. While searching for Vittoria, I had to deal with other members of the Vanzetti clan: Sherri, Vanzetti’s second wife, at twenty-two the same age as Vittoria. Sherri was an ‘actress’, a porn star with ambitions to appear on Reality TV; Catrin, Vanzetti’s granite-hard ex-wife, the power behind his criminal empire; and V.J. Parks, Vittoria’s boyfriend, a boxer, a young man in his prime, in training for a shot at the world title.
Meanwhile, closer to home, it was decision time for yours truly and my lover, Dr Alan Storey. Alan was keen on marriage while I was still coming to terms with my past and years of physical abuse. Could I find the courage to finally lay the ghosts of my past and pledge my future to Alan?
Family Honour, the story of a villain and his family, the story of a moral dilemma. Should I kill in the name of justice, or should I allow a villain to walk free? In answering that question, I discovered a lot about
myself and the person I longed to be.
SINS OF THE FATHER
by Hannah Howe
For the first thirty-three years of my life I had no knowledge of my father, no idea what he looked like, his name, whether he was dead or alive. Then fate brought us together. Then, a year later, he decided to hire me.
Although we had talked for a year, my father was still Gawain Morgan to me, a stranger, not my dad. Would the task of locating Frankie Quinn bring us closer together, or drive us further apart?
Frankie Quinn was a con-man, a life-long villain, a member of my father’s old gang. That’s right, my father was a villain too, with dodgy contacts, a shady past and sins he preferred to forget. The police wanted Frankie and, if arrested, he faced the prospect of spending his final years in prison. However, he had a trump card, evidence of my father’s indiscretions. Frankie was looking to cut a deal with the police, my father was looking for Frankie. They knew that one of them would spend the winter of their days in prison; which would it be?
Meanwhile, the clock was ticking towards my wedding day. Would I enjoy the happiest day of my life, or be left crying into my champagne?