by Jo Fenton
Paparazzi
A Becky White Thriller
Jo Fenton
Copyright © 2021 by Jo Fenton
Artwork: Adobe Stock © Николай Григорьев
Design: Services for Authors
Editor: Sue Barnard
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of
the author or Crooked Cat Books / darkstroke except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Dark edition, darkstroke, Crooked Cat Books. 2021
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To my wonderful mum, who’s coped so brilliantly with huge challenges this year.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone who has made this book possible.
Firstly, as always, I’d like to thank my amazing friend and incredibly talented editor, Sue Barnard. We’ve worked together on four books now, and it’s always a huge pleasure.
Sue is also one of the Manchester Scribes, who have helped with monthly critiques of the earlier chapters, and made sure I was on the right track, despite the difficulties of moving to critiquing via zoom! The other awesome Scribes are Pauline Barnett, Louise Jones, Karen Moore, Claire Tansey, Awen Thornber, Helen Sea and Grant Silk.
Another critical step in the writing process is Beta Reading. My fantastic beta readers were hugely important in making sure the story worked on all levels, and ensuring there were no plot holes. Massive thanks to Sue Barnard (again), Pauline Barnett, Louise Doyle, Ray Fenton, Katy Johnson and Karen Moore.
As always, my family are essential in supporting me through writing my novels. I could not do without my fabulous husband, Ray, for all his help and advice, reading, sharing ideas, and continuing to do far more than his share of housework so I could have valuable writing time. My lovely boys, Michael and Andrew also listened to me bounce ideas around, and were very honest with their feedback.
Thanks also go to my mum, Rhoda Myers, who helped again with my final proofread despite treatment induced fatigue.
Finally, a humungous thank you to my publisher, Darkstroke, and particularly to Laurence Patterson and Steph Patterson for believing in me, assisting with cover art and marketing advice, and for everything they’ve done to launch this novel.
About the Author
Jo Fenton grew up in Hertfordshire. She devoured books from an early age and, at eleven, discovered Agatha Christie and Georgette Heyer. She now has an eclectic and much loved book collection cluttering her home office.
Jo combines an exciting career in Clinical Research with an equally exciting but very different career as a writer of psychological thrillers.
When not working, she runs (very slowly), and chats to lots of people. She lives in Manchester with her family and is an active and enthusiastic member of two writing groups and two reading groups.
Paparazzi
A Becky White Thriller
Chapter One
As I watch from afar, I know this is the one.
I allow the camera to hang by its strap as I wipe clammy hands on my black jeans. The camera returns to its position, ready to snap the essential photos.
The music blares out in the club, and no one notices as I move around to capture the necessary angles. Once complete, I relax my grip and admire the view. The object is perfection; there is only one flaw. Possession is not yet in sight…
Chapter Two
There’s a loud bang outside, and I drop the vase I’m drying. The flowers died three days ago. The vase lies in smithereens on the floor. Instead of clearing up the mess, I crouch down on the floor and clasp my trembling arms around my chest.
The doorbell rings. I can’t move.
“Mum, are you getting that?” My younger daughter Cheryl pokes her head around the kitchen door. “Blimey, what happened? Okay, stay there. I’ll get the door.”
The bell rings again, and I hear Cheryl fumbling with the latch.
“Mum, it’s for you. You’ll have to come to the door, sorry.”
I take a deep breath. The bang must have been a car door. Calm down, Becky, no gunshots. Not here.
I stand up and walk towards the kitchen door, crunching glass under my trainers. In the hall, Cheryl still guards the door, but stands back when I arrive, to reveal a petite woman in a sodden grey jacket and trousers. She looks vaguely familiar.
“Becky! How are you doing, hen? Do you remember me?” It’s the Scottish accent that takes me back to when I was a student.
“Joanna! Oh my God, how are you?” I step back, realising that my unexpected visitor is dripping in the torrential, freezing rain. “Come inside and get warm and dry.” I regret the words as soon as they’ve left my mouth. Manners before survival? That won’t keep me alive for long.
Joanna picks up a huge black suitcase and brings it in. I stare at it in shock. Is she planning to stay?
“Thanks, hen. Sorry about the baggage. If you can’t squeeze me in, I’ll find a hotel…”
I hesitate. I should let her get that hotel, but I look at her more closely. She doesn’t look well. We were close friends for a couple of years before life and distance got in the way, and we drifted, as people often do.
“Don’t be daft. Anyway, my other daughter is away at Uni. I’ll make up her bed for you.”
“I’ll do it in a bit, Mum. You take your friend into the lounge by the fire. I’ll sort out the kitchen and put the kettle on.”
“You’re a sweetie, Cheryl, thanks.” I glance down at my hands. The trembling has eased off now. I take Joanna’s coat from her, hanging it over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. “Come in and make yourself comfortable.”
Seated in the brown leather armchairs, as close to the gas fire as possible, we sit in silence for a moment. Thousands of questions race through my brain, but I focus my gaze on my visitor. She hasn’t aged particularly well. I seem to recall she’s a year or two older than I am, so fifty or thereabouts. She looks more like sixty; her hair is still black, but now streaked with grey. She’s too thin, and lines cross her face, marring the beautiful features that I remember. There’s a wariness in her expression too, though perhaps that’s from her sudden intrusion on an acquaintance whom she’s not seen for nearly thirty years.
“How did you find me?” I ask the most important question first, my heart hammering loudly as I wait for the crucial answer. I’ve done my best this year to wipe away any traces of my existence.
“With difficulty. You didn’t make it easy, hen. You’re not on Facebook or Twitter or LinkedIn. I found Dan, but he said he couldn’t give me your contact details. I wasn’t sure if he meant couldn’t or wouldn’t, but I sensed I wasn’t going to have any success with him. I finally tracked down your brother, Ian, through your dad’s business. I remember you telling me about them, and I was desperate. Ian took pity on me, but he did warn me it was for my use only.” She looks faintly guilty, but it’s not her fault. Ian was always a soft touch. I need to remind him of the importance of keeping my secrets.
“Okay. You’ve found me now. I’ll explain properly one day, but you need to understand. Anonymity is crucial round here. We’ve changed the family name, returning to my maiden name. Perhaps that was a mistake, but then Ian wouldn’t have differentiated between whether you’d called me Becky White, or Becky Wiseman. I was never big on social media, but it was handy for keeping in touch wi
th the likes of Dan and Sanj. I’ve lost touch with everyone else from Uni.” I fall quiet, and silence reigns until Cheryl walks in with a tray of tea and biscuits.
“I forgot to ask, are you okay with tea?” she asks Joanna anxiously.
“Yes, sure. Thanks so much.” Joanna smiles at her, and she retreats out of the room.
Bless her. She’s not used to visitors other than her own or her sister’s friends.
“How old is she? And how old is your eldest?” Joanna accepts the cup of tea I hand to her, but declines a biscuit.
“Cheryl’s fourteen. Alison is just nineteen and is at University in Nottingham. She wants to be a pharmacist like her dad. He’s at work now, but he’ll be back soon.” I glance at the window where the rain continues to beat down. It’s nearly dark, as expected for late January in Manchester.
Matt will be home at five, when he finishes his shift at the supermarket Pharmacy where he’s providing cover for someone with norovirus. He works at the local hospital during the week, but is almost always on call for extra cover in the area – particularly at the moment. While I’m not working, we need to get money somehow. Uni’s not cheap, and the girls always need clothes.
I rouse myself to ask Joanna, “Do you have kids?”
“One son. Will. Grown up now. He’s twenty-six and has a little one of his own. Although he doesn’t see his daughter very often. Her mum ran off with another man while she was pregnant with Chloë. Bitch.”
“What about your husband?” I ask tentatively. I suspect all is not well, but if Joanna’s going to stay here, she needs to be open about what’s going on. There’s a limit to the number of secrets that one house can hold.
“He ran off when I was diagnosed with breast cancer.”
I can’t hide the shock from my face. But it helps to explain the shortness of her hair and that pinched, unhealthy look.
“I’m okay now. All surgery, chemo and radiotherapy are done. But I had a falling-out with my landlord and needed to get away.”
“What about your house? You had a house, didn’t you, from your dad? Don’t tell me the witch got it in the end?”
“My stepmother? God no. Do you know, I’d almost rather she had. Instead, I married the prick who fathered Will. I put up with him through his gambling and alcohol addictions, and his many affairs with blonde bimbos. The bastard gambled away all our money, until we had to sell the house to pay his debts, and to live. Six months after that, I got my diagnosis, and he buggered off.” She grimaces. “At least the bastard got his comeuppance. I heard he’s in prison now. Locked up for debt, and GBH – he beat up the bailiffs when they came round to his new girlfriend’s house. Git!”
I’m speechless. I can’t help feeling sorry for her. Impossible not to. But how long will she want to stay?
“What made you decide to come to Manchester and find me?”
“I want us to set up a detective agency together,” she says with a grin. “You’re the only detective I know.”
My head fills with images, flashing and intense. They creep in any time of the day or night. A warehouse. Gunfire. A colleague dead on the ground.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and glance at Joanna.
“I can’t do it.”
Chapter Three
“What do you mean, you can’t? Why not?” Joanna looks at me in shock.
“Why would you want to set up a detective agency? Last time I saw you, weren’t you working as a teaching assistant or something?”
“I used to, but then I did a degree with the Open University, and got into lab work. I dabbled a bit with Forensic Science, but the head of the department near where I lived was a dick, and wouldn’t employ me. I moved into medical research instead, and I did that for about fifteen years until I got diagnosed. Then, what with all the time off, and feeling so rough, then having to sell the house to pay off all the bastard’s debts, well, the job didn’t seem to hold any interest for me any more.”
“But why a detective agency?” I dunk a biscuit into my tea, hoping Joanna doesn’t notice my hand trembling again.
“I’ve always watched the crime dramas, and thought of you. It was something I’ve fancied doing for a long time, but having to leave home seemed a good trigger. I figured I’d look you up again, and we could get started. I changed my name after I kicked him out, so I’m now Joanna Knight. With you being Becky White, I thought we could be the White Knight Agency. What do you think?”
“I love the name. The idea sucks though.” I take a deep breath. “I left the police last year. There was… an incident. I can’t tell you about it just now, but detective work is not for me any more.”
She opens her mouth as if to ask another question, but the latch clicks loudly from the front door.
“That’ll be Matt,” I say, glad for the interruption.
Seconds later, he walks in.
“It’s disgusting out there. Why’s there an enormous suitcase—?” He stops, and colour drains from his face as he looks at Joanna. His hand clutches his chest, and he turns from pale to grey as he drops to the floor.
“Oh my God. Get an ambulance,” I shout at Joanna, who is standing there looking dumbstruck. “Matt, Matt, are you okay?” I crouch down at his side and check his pulse. It’s beating erratically. Joanna snaps out of her reverie and takes out her phone. Matt is losing consciousness rapidly, and panic grips me.
By the time the ambulance arrives, my arms are aching from performing CPR, and my heart is beating loudly enough to drown out the emergency siren. The paramedics take charge immediately, and two shocks from the defibrillator bring my much-loved but infuriating husband back to life. He regains consciousness briefly, and I catch him glancing at Joanna with terror in his eyes. I’ve no idea what caused that reaction, but now is not the time to investigate.
Joanna looks at the floor, but then glances at me tentatively. “Maybe Cheryl can help me get some things together for you and your husband. We’ll bring them to the hospital in a taxi shortly.”
The female paramedic looks across from getting Matt strapped onto a stretcher.
“We’re taking him to Fairfield Hospital. Even the Uber drivers should know where that is.” She turns to me. “You can come in the ambulance with him.”
I reluctantly hand my keys to Cheryl, who’s hovering in the doorway.
“Will Dad be okay?” She looks terrified.
I give her a hug, and as much reassurance as I can manage, before leaving her, out of necessity, in the care of a woman I’ve not seen for thirty years and who appears to have been responsible for my husband’s heart attack. If I could think of an alternative arrangement, I would, but we’ve only lived here for four months, and I don’t know the neighbours well enough to ask for help.
Matt remains stable on the brief journey to the hospital. It’s just as well it’s short; the lack of suspension combined with the shock leaves me feeling nauseous, and I’m the one requesting a sick bowl before we arrive. I hold it in, but the paramedic is looking a bit anxious by the time we reach the hospital. Matt, on the other hand, is gaining a little colour in his face, although he still looks very unwell.
Although it’s only early evening, A&E is full, and all the cubicles are occupied, except for the one at the very end. The paramedics wheel Matt in and transfer him to a trolley, and as soon as he’s settled, I hold his hand. Now that I’m out of that rickety ambulance, my nausea subsides.
The paramedics leave as a nurse pops her head into the cubicle, informing me we’ll be seen very soon. Matt’s fully awake now, but there’s fear in his eyes. I pretend not to associate this with my afternoon visitor, and instead hasten to reassure him of his safety now that he’s in hospital.
“You’re in the best place now. They can do marvellous things these days for heart attacks.”
I’m rewarded by a slight receding of the haunted look. “Sorry, Becks. I had a hard day at work. I think I’ve been pushing myself too hard, and then…”
“It’s my fa
ult. If I could work properly, and bring in a bit more money, we’d have less stress and you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
A young nurse interrupts, coming in briskly and performing observations, and taking blood with an efficiency that belies her apparent youth. I can’t tell from her uniform what grade she is, and when a doctor follows her in a few moments later, he addresses her only as ‘Ruth’.
Matt’s had an ECG, bloods and an ultrasound scan, and is in bed on the Cardiology ward by the time Cheryl pokes her head around the door.
“Dad! Are you okay?”
“Yes. I will be anyway. They’re admitting me for some procedure or other, which may or may not be done on Monday.”
“You’re medical, Dad. You ought to know what they’re going to do to you.” Cheryl rests her hip against the edge of the trolley and holds her dad’s hand. I’ve long since retreated to the chair in the corner, unwilling to compete with nurse, doctor or daughter for my husband’s attention.
“Well, yes, I suppose. They’re going to put in a stent to open the artery they think is blocked. But I need to have other tests first so they can see what the damage is. For now, they’ve given me an injection to dissolve the clot that caused it.” His voice quietens by the end of the sentence, and I leave my seat to stand at his other side.
“You’re too exhausted to be answering all these questions, Matt. Shut your eyes and rest for a while. Cheryl, come and sit down for a bit. The porter will be here shortly to take Dad up to the ward.”
“Okay, but…” She points vaguely toward the waiting area, and I hasten to interrupt.
“I know. We’ll sort everything out when your dad’s settled.” Now is not the time to draw attention to Joanna’s presence in the hospital.