by Dawson, H A
He grinned. 'Thank you.'
'It would be useful to speak to some of Saskia’s friends too. Maybe they could tell me a bit more about her.'
'You don't want to make it too obvious you are investigating her murder.'
She frowned. 'How else am I going to find out what happened? I have to do this Ben.'
'But I thought you just agreed to let Luke progress it?'
'Yes . . . I will.'
'Who do you think murdered Saskia?' he asked.
The ripples on the water glistened, licking the bank, and beyond, across the dark expanse was the comforting sight of human presence in the form of illuminated houses.
'I think it was Verity.' She gave him the letter, her reply, and allowed him a moment to read it. 'They had argued, so she had a motive. Larry didn't seem to be involved with her in any way, and Ron just seems . . . well, it seems out of character. Of course, it could be someone else, someone I haven't yet met.'
He handed back the letter. 'I wouldn't be too eager to rule out Larry. You don't know him very well.'
'When I met him, I had a strong sense that I did, in a nice way. I wasn't afraid of him. If he had killed Saskia, I would have sensed it.'
'That must apply to Verity too.'
Uneasy, she fingered the ends of her hair.
'I'm not trying to outwit you,' he said, 'just highlighting the possibilities. I did promise I would be there for you. I'm sorry I came down too hard.'
She reached for his hand. 'You did, but I forgive you. I don’t like arguing.'
'Me neither.'
His warm soft lips lingered upon her mouth, caressing, soothing, stimulating. She wrapped her arm around his body and felt his fingertips upon her neck. She breathed harder. Her body was singing and joyous.
'Perhaps we should head home,' he murmured.
Agreeing, she nestled into him. His wavy hair, thick and aromatic, dropped onto her face, tickling her skin, and his scent lingered.
He pulled away. 'Sorry, but I need a wee first.' He scampered into the darkness.
'Can't you wait? We'll be home in a few minutes.'
'No sorry. I won't be a minute.'
The trickling sound filled her ears as she ambled along the path that led back to the road. With her hands resting in her pocket and her gaze perusing the water under the bridge, she was too preoccupied with visions of love to notice a figure emerge out of the trees and push her. She screamed. She stumbled. She slipped into the water.
Ben ran towards her. She looked at the fleeing, hooded figure. He changed tack and ran after the culprit, away from her and into the darkness. It was too late. Whoever it was had moved too quickly.
Megan was more concerned for herself. Her legs were sodden and stinking, her thigh with the fading bruise throbbed, and a pain extended along the length of her leg and up her back. Hollering profanities, she clambered out of the water.
Neither of them had received a clear view of the person, and it was infuriating. They had missed their chance. Biting her lip, preventing her fury from escaping, she stomped towards home.
Ben had a look of I told you so in his eyes.
'See,' she growled, 'even with you there, I'm still attacked. It doesn't matter what I do!'
He held back his words.
She wanted to believe it was a random attack, but inside she knew it wasn't. She had seen the light on the bridge. Someone had made a deliberate move towards her.
Still muttering, she arrived home. She removed her shoes, leaving them strewn in the hallway, and ascended the stairs to change. Halfway up, she glanced into the living area. David was in a chair. When their eyes locked, he looked at his feet. He had black and yellow trainers on, the same as her attacker, and he displayed a proud expression. She stomped back down the stairs.
'It was you! You pushed me!'
Bewildered, Ben turned towards her and then stared at his son.
Disappointment etched into David's face. 'I told you I was making a fresh start. I thought we both were.'
She flung out her arms. 'I saw your trainers. Admit it!'
Ben turned to his son. 'Well?'
'I'm trying Dad, really I am. Why would I do something like that?'
Displayed a disappointed look, David manoeuvred past them and headed to his bedroom. She followed him upstairs.
'It was you, I know it was,' she hissed. 'Why David? What have I ever done to you?'
He went into his bedroom and dropped onto the bed. Strewn onto the floor was a black hooded sweatshirt, turned inside out. She stomped across and picked it up.
'What more proof do I need?'
'Dad won't believe you. He never does.'
'Don't mess with me David!'
She flung it at him and slammed the door, then retrieved her nightclothes from the bedroom and headed into the bathroom for a soothing shower. The water, hot and foamy, trickled down her body, easing away her physical tension. She scrubbed and scrubbed, removing all trace of the stench and replacing it with a sensuous perfume.
Minutes later, she joined Ben in front of the television. He brushed aside the strands of butterscotch hair from her face and dropped a kiss on her cheek. 'Feeling better?'
'I suppose.' She stared at the television, unblinking, and held back her anger.
David would not intimidate her. She was stronger and wiser. With or without Ben's help, she would beat him at his little game.
Chapter 15
The sunlight radiated warmth through the reception area and into the office, creating a passage of light through the doorway and towards Luke's desk. A pale-green blind covered his small window, a necessity needed to keep passers-by from peering through, yet it limited his own needs, especially on a day like today when his motivation was dwindling.
He took a bite out of his Danish pastry, leaned into the back of the padded swivel chair, and reflected on moments of his most perfect weekend. Each time he saw Sarah it was growing more difficult to cross the boundary that separated the two different aspects of his life. Throughout Friday night, his irritation had lingered as he struggled to despatch his passion for the paranormal, but by Saturday, it was as though that part of him hadn’t existed. With Sarah's help, he believed he had found his true path in life. The paranormal was a childish yearning, something he had grown out of, and it was time to dismiss that part of the business.
Sipping coffee, he glanced around the room at the chaos and clutter: the books, the scattered papers, the posters and the photographs of paranormal events. He should redirect his business and take a more serious view of life, and he should make something of himself.
It was what he had discussed with Sarah. He was an intelligent man, wasted on such trivialities as the paranormal. There was no doubt in his mind that she was right, so why, having made a decision, did he lack the inspiration to do anything about it?
Imogen was chatting in the reception area. Her hairstyle had a wild look about it, her purple blouse was so long it could be a dress, and her green, striped skirt seemed as though it would be more suitable as a tablecloth. She was prattling and making jokes and it was unprofessional.
Irritated, he pushed his chair away from the table and headed towards the door. The elderly woman she was talking to was a regular visitor, and she wore a flared blue patterned skirt and a thin mauve anorak.
'Hello Mr Adams,' she said, 'nice day.'
'Mrs Horton.' He frowned at Imogen. 'There's work to do.'
Imogen leaned across the counter and whispered to the woman. 'I'd better go. He's a bit grumpy today.'
The woman chuckled. 'I'll pop in later in the week.' She turned to Luke. 'You be good to her now.'
She ambled through the outer door and shuffled away.
'I'm going to make changes this week,' he said to Imogen, 'we need to portray a more professional attitude and tidy this place up. Start by filing any documents scattered about the place. Then, when everything is in the appropriate binders, box everything on the paranormal. I'm doing away with tha
t side of the business.'
She started the task, her face without expression. It surprised him; he had expected some comment, and in the least an utterance of disapproval. He surmised she must agree with him, and although dissatisfied by her reaction, he took it as confirmation that he was heading in the right direction.
Her skirt swayed as she stepped across the room. It made him think of the meal he’d shared with Sarah on Saturday afternoon. The tablecloths were chequered, the café unpretentious, and the food was flavoursome and homemade. He could almost sense the vegetable soup in his mouth, seasoned with ground herbs, and not at all metallic tasting or bland as he had sometimes experienced. Yet it was the company he’d enjoyed the most.
Sarah had chatted non-stop about sailing. It seemed more of an obsession than a hobby, but he didn't mind; he enjoyed seeing her happy. She noticed his efforts and told him he was a warm and caring man deserving of happiness, a compliment he gratefully received. He had hoped that she would add that she wanted a permanent relationship with him. Of course, she never had.
He returned his attention back to his computer and sifted through a document on marketing options. He should widen his scope. Maybe he could advertise in national newspapers, he could sponsor events, and he could print leaflets for door-to-door distribution. He could ask for radio interviews, and maybe even write a short book on consumer rights to use for publicity.
However, he could not channel his enthusiasm and his eyes wandered, settling upon the paranormal books on the shelves. While he told himself to focus on the future away from such trivialities, his innate yearnings bubbled and he reached to his mobile phone and accessed the image of Saskia.
His excitement lifted and his decision to change the business staggered and swayed as an image of Megan appeared inside his head. Their likeness was too huge to ignore. Who was she? Could his intuition of a reincarnation have a foundation? He glanced at Imogen, who was standing on a short stepladder and reaching for a binder on the top shelf. Her arm extended and her face coloured. She pulled it free and then stepped back to the floor, releasing a puff of air.
'Do you think we should give up the paranormal cases?' he asked.
'It's not my decision. I do as I am told.'
His face pleaded. 'I'd like your opinion.'
'You should do what makes you happy.'
He looked at his notes: the interview with Larry, the interview with Megan, and the background checks. He had barely started, and even though it would not make him money, the thrill of finding evidence of reincarnation may bring rewards in the long term. But what about Sarah? If he had any chance of persuading her that he had changed, he had to brush it aside.
'I am worried about Megan,' Imogen said, 'something horrible is going to happen. It might even be too late.'
'What makes you say that?'
She shook her head and stepped away, and continued to sift through the piles of scattered documents. 'I can't explain it.'
'Try.'
'I can't, okay. Even if I could, there's nothing I can do about it. We can't predict the future.'
'But it's troubling you.'
'It will pass.'
'Should we warn her?' he asked.
She jerked her head. 'And say what? You're in danger, but we don't know how or why. She already knows that . . . and anyway, as you said, you're abandoning the case.'
He rotated a pen with his thumb and forefinger. 'I might not abandon Megan's case, just everything else.'
She held him in her gaze.
Was he searching for her approval or was he searching for a reason to keep the paranormal side going? She was looking at him, straight-faced, unreadable, and his awkwardness grew.
He averted his eyes and looked at the papers on his desk, feigning concentration. His mind was at war, on one side was Sarah and on the other side his childhood dream.
'You don't need my approval,' she said. 'You know how I feel but it's not my decision. This case will lose you money.'
'I'm not concerned about that.' He looked at a photo of Sarah on his desk.
'Then what?' she caught his eye. Her face dropped. 'Oh.'
Shame enveloped him. He lowered his head and held his hand to his face, awaiting her castigation, but her words never came. The silence was worse. He imagined his humiliation as she shared his weakness with the world; she would tell prospective customers, make jokes about him at functions, and snigger behind his back.
His arms clamped to his side and he started to sweat, with the heat rising to his collar. He needed air, a diversion, and rushed out of the room and progressed to the bathroom.
Once inside, he hovered over the washbasin and looked into the mirror. His reflection repulsed him, his flaws and his frailties glaring. He turned on the cold-water tap, splashed his face with water, and urged his confidence to project forth. He was good at his job and reminded himself of the many accolades he had received over the years.
Feeling confident and self-assured, he strode back to the office, shoulders back and head high. Imogen was tidying the office.
'I've made a decision. We'll continue with Megan's case,' he said.
'Cool. I so knew you would. You are so transparent. I better not pack these binders away.'
He frowned. 'You can pack everything away except for reincarnation.'
'No way! You couldn't live without this.' She flung her arms out, pointing to the row of books. 'Just like you can’t live without me.'
'In your dreams.'
She smirked at him.
Sadly, she was right.
Megan eased the car to a halt as she approached the queue at the roundabout. On her right was a supermarket, and up ahead, somewhere on the left, was the road that led to Luke's office. She glanced at the time.
'Perhaps we should have called first,' she said.
Ben glared. 'I thought you had.'
A large truck eased across the roundabout. Looking right, she saw a gap and pulled away. Despite being a steady driver, Megan struggled to turn the steering wheel and had to relax her foot. Maybe she was tired. Thinking no more of it, she continued along the dual carriageway.
'I think it's the next turning on the left,' he said.
She slowed her pace and indicated left, and as she pulled on the wheel she glanced at the road nameplate, confirming it was, in fact, the correct road. Cars parked on both sides of the road and pedestrians meandered along the pavement, obscuring the view. There were estate agents, banks, bookshops, and value department stores, with more shops along the adjoining streets.
As she drove, Ben scanned the row of shops, searching for 'Luke Adams: Private Investigator', number one hundred and eighteen,
'How far along?' she asked.
'Quite a way. We're only at number thirty-six.'
She progressed steadily, giving way to allow a car to join the traffic and a cyclist to cross to the other side. The shops were reducing in frequency, and unblemished facades replaced the colourful window displays. It was altogether quieter; there were fewer pedestrians and less moving traffic.
'I think we’re almost there,' he said. 'I believe it’s near to that large stone-fronted building.'
There was a parking space on the left. She eased the car into the spot, giving herself plenty of room to exit, and turned off the engine. There was a light on inside Luke's building, giving her hope that he was there. The last thing she needed was Ben reprimanding her for wasting time.
Seconds later, they stepped inside.
Imogen's face lit up. 'Megan, lovely to see you.'
The reception area was painted pale lilac and white. There was a desk at the rear and three soft fabric chairs against a wall. It was unfussy and unpretentious, with a comfortable, homely feel. Next to a certificate - she didn't look at what it was - was a beautiful watercolour painting of a family having a picnic by a river. An image portrayed contentment did not normally appeal to her, but there was something about it that charmed and fascinated.
'I love the painting,
' she said. 'Is it by a local artist?'
'I think it is.'
He wandered into the reception area. 'Have you done any more drawing?'
She wanted to say that she was not relaxed enough to be inspired, but instead she fumbled with her reply. Ben saved her by apologising for not making an appointment, before offering a mundane description of their journey. Luke, unconcerned by their unexpected appearance, led them into a room at the rear of the reception.
It was bright and airy with a light breeze drifting through an open window, and lights on the walls and the ceiling. There was comfortable seating along one side, a table and swivel chairs on the other, and a narrow bed on the third. Yet it was surprisingly spacious with little ornamental to distract the eye.
'Do you mind if Imogen sits in?' Luke asked. 'I'm training her to take on more responsibilities.'
'No, not at all.'
'Please, sit down.'
Megan and Ben sat together on the small blue sofa.
'How can I help you?'
'As you know, I went to see Verity.' She reached into her bag. 'I got these letters.'
She gave them to Luke, who read them and then passed them to Imogen.
'Did she give you these?'
She rotated her crossover ring and averted her gaze. 'Not exactly.'
'Can we keep them for a while?'
'Sure.'
'So, what happened?'
'Verity didn't seem too concerned that I had arrived on her doorstep, but she didn't make any effort to make me feel welcome either. She was abrupt, not like she had been when I spoke to her on the other occasions. Something seemed to bother her . . . it might have been me.'
'Does she know about your connection to Saskia?'
'Yes, I told her once before. A couple of times I've had the impression that she felt as though she was talking to Saskia rather than me.'
Luke was leaning back in his chair, holding a relaxed pose.
'Don't you think that's a bit strange?' she asked.
'You do look alike and have similar mannerisms and character traits . . . or so I hear. I can understand why she would be confused. What did you speak about?'