Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  Alternatively, Perhaps Ron had killed Saskia, and Verity knew about it. She could be protecting him, but for what reason? It wouldn’t be for love, as she had no evidence they were an item. In addition, Verity loved Saskia too, meaning she would have wanted her murderer brought to justice, something that would have been a top priority.

  'Why are you spending time with Larry?' Verity asked.

  'He's a friend.'

  'Stay clear. He has a history.'

  'We all have a history.'

  Verity reached across to Megan's wrist and gripped it tight. 'He has a record of stalking woman.'

  She shook herself free. 'He told me.'

  'What?'

  'Yes. He said he regretted what he'd done.'

  'Did he tell you he followed her everywhere? To the gym, to work, out shopping. His house was plastered with photos.'

  She swallowed her unease.

  'I thought not,' she continued. 'He's a creep . . . obsessive . . . nothing like he seems.'

  'He's not like that with me.'

  'Not yet.'

  'He's a decent man. He said it all happened a long time ago and that he’d changed.

  She harrumphed. 'Boy, you're naïve. Saskia was too . . . didn't have a clue what she was getting into.'

  'With Ron?'

  'Remember Megan, anyone who knew Saskia is going to protect themselves first. Don't say I haven't warned you. I've done what I can, but I can't be responsible for what happens next. Keep probing and suffer the consequences.'

  'I don't like what you're implying.'

  'I'm not implying anything.'

  'Go home, pack your bags, and get out. Then you may live.'

  Bewildered, she remained in position and watched Verity turn a corner and walk along a street that was not in her general direction. Her strides were lanky and her arms swung in a semi-circle motion. She turned into what seemed like someone's garden, but Megan soon realised it was a narrow path set between two houses. With her pulse racing, she trotted after her, her mind swirling with questions.

  Verity was walking at quite a pace and glanced at her watch and then reached into her pocket for her phone. With her ear pressed against it, she turned her head. Megan flattened herself against a wall and turned her head to one side. Regretful of her covert actions, her heart thumped and she started to perspire. Verity appeared not to notice and carried on chatting. Had her plan failed? She was sure that Verity had never intended to be sighted, nor had she planned to walk her home. Something had gone wrong, something she now shared. Who was she working with? Was the person she was talking to her associate? Was it Ron?

  Longing for the safety of her home, she fled home.

  As quietly as possible, Megan closed the door, dropped her belongings and crept to the kitchen, craving normality. Little had changed since she’d left; there were saucers scattered across the worktop, a couple of mugs near the sink, and breadcrumbs next to some spilled milk. Having switched on the kettle, she leaned against the radiator and listened to the gentle thud of steps descending the stairs.

  Determined not to let Ben see her anxieties, she tried to force herself into an emotionless state, yet still, her body involuntarily tightened as she prepared herself for an onslaught of questions and reprimands. Surprisingly, however, the moment he realised she had returned his faced slipped into a smile. He welcomed her with an appreciative hug. Stiffly, she returned his kiss.

  'Where have you been? I've been worried.'

  'Larry gave me a ticket to an art exhibition at the gallery. Didn't I tell you?'

  'Oh sorry, I must have forgotten.' He smoothed away strands of hair from her face. 'How was it?'

  'It was good. He's a nice man.'

  'Do you trust him?'

  'Of course I do. I wouldn't have gone out with him otherwise.'

  He raised an eyebrow. 'Please be careful.'

  Stiffening, she reached for the kettle, poured the bubbling water into the coffee mug, and swirled the liquid around with her spoon.

  'I'm not sure I trust him,' he said, 'he is keen to impress you.'

  'You're being ridiculous . . . and paranoid.'

  Holding an impassive gaze, he followed her to the dining room and sat across the table. He seemed too quiet for her liking and gazed out of the patio doors, his expression pensive. She had expected him to complain about her meeting with Larry and thought he would be screaming and shouting. His behaviour was strange and out of character.

  'Verity warned me away from him as well,’ she said. ‘But you’re both wrong. My intuition is good. It's never let me down before.'

  'What reason did she give?'

  'She could only come up with an incident that happened twenty plus years ago. He stalked a woman.'

  'Perhaps you should listen to her.'

  Her back stiffened. 'He's the one person supporting me without suffocating me.'

  His shoulders slumped and sorrow covered his face. For a moment, she wondered if her words were too forceful, but as she pondered her statement, she decided that she was being fair. Ben had a way of generating panic. To him, everyone and everything was a danger. She could not live like that, terrified of her own shadow. If someone was going to attack her, so be it. She wasn't going to hide away.

  The outer door opened and David strode into the living area. He peered across to Ben, gave him a curious glance and a slanted smile, and then turned his attention to Megan. 'Enjoy the gallery?'

  'You were spying on me!'

  'Course not. I was just passing.'

  'And why David? Why would you be passing the art gallery?'

  'I am allowed to go out, you know.'

  Ben reached across for her hand. 'Megan, please.'

  She flung it aside. 'You knew about this?'

  Sheepish, he looked away.

  'Well?'

  'He was heading out anyway.'

  'You condone this? Lord, I'm such an idiot. I couldn’t understand why you’d been so calm . . . this explains it!'

  'I understand how stressful this is for you, but try to understand I'm just-'

  'Don't patronise me Ben. I'll be glad when this is over, and then you'll both be gone. You deserve each other.'

  She stomped towards the patio doors, thrust them open, and stepped towards a bench a little distance away. There was no one else around; the other houses seemed to be unoccupied or else the people were not in view. Grateful for the solitude, she folded her arms, crossed her legs, and smoothed away her scorned expression.

  Out of her eye corner, she could see Ben at the table in the house. He rested his head on his hand, and with a glazed look in his eyes stared into another part of the garden. Had he any idea how much his actions hurt her? By encouraging David to follow her, he was exacerbating his son's perverted behaviour. Obviously, he continued to ignore her comments, and she wasted her breath. How could they share a future when there was so little trust and understanding between them?

  Her disappointment sat heavy in her stomach. Despite everything, she loved him: his shaggy hair, his askew nose, and his confident, masculine demeanour. Their future, or apparent lack of it, burned.

  She had believed they would travel through Europe in a camper van, and that they would share many family moments alongside children and grandchildren. She expected them to combine pastimes and social outings. She thought they would have a long fulfilled life, and together they would grow old.

  Puffing out, she watched a butterfly meander aimlessly across the herbaceous border before settling on the small blue flower. It rested with its patterned wings extended, feeding and soaking up the dying rays of the sun. It had a short, simple life: eat, feed and reproduce. It seemed a fine choice.

  Ben strode towards her, yet she remained in a trance-like state and continued to absorb nature's beauty, pretending not to notice. In the past, she had craved a few tender words after arguments - a confession, an explanation, and a promise to resolve the situation - but she had expected too much. His silence seemed to be the o
nly apology he was able to offer.

  He did not speak and sat beside her, and reached for her hand as though craving a spiritual joining. His grip was firm and his hand warm and sticky. He shuffled closer, pressing his leg against her thigh and rubbing shoulders. Inside, she sensed herself stiffen but resolved to accept his silent plea. The alternative, the perpetual arguments resulting in further stress was too difficult to tolerate right now.

  Time passed and they remained together, speaking in quiet voices with neither, she sensed, wanting to argue. However, their silent agreement meant that many subjects were off limits, and rather than risking an eruption of fury, they stayed with the inconsequential speaking only of the garden, music, and films. After a while, her mood lightened. It was good to eradicate the mess from her mind and free herself of her anxieties, even if it was a temporary respite.

  The shade stealthily crept towards them, shrouding the plants into relative darkness, and causing her skin to cool. She rubbed her hand across her bare arm and felt a ripple of cool air around her neck. It was time to move.

  She turned to Ben. 'Shall we go inside? It's getting a bit chilly.'

  He nodded and so she led the way, passing into the house and perching on a chair at the dining table. David was slouched on the sofa under the spell of the television and unaffected by their sudden appearance. She frowned at him. His life was carefree.

  Ben took her hand, refocusing her attention, and stared into her eyes. 'I do love you, you know that, don't you?'

  She looked away, nodding feebly.

  'When this is over, I'd like you to come back to Halifax with me.'

  He leaned towards her, his warm, stale breath closing in on her face. She wanted to back away, but for some reason felt trapped, her body inflexible and frozen to the chair.

  'I've been thinking long and hard about our situation,' he said. 'I am going to sell our house, and we can buy a new place together . . . anywhere you want. We can even buy new furniture. It'll be fantastic Megan. I want you to have a room where you can draw and paint. I know, one day, you'll be a famous artist.'

  'I don't have problems with the house.'

  His face dropped. 'Wouldn't it help?'

  For a reason unbeknown to her, she felt unable to crush his enthusiasm. He was trying hard to appease her, but he had missed the point. Was he that blind, or was he hiding from the issue she had with David? She chewed her lip and played with her ring. Maybe when David started university, a year from now, they could try again.

  Reluctantly, she agreed to his comment.

  'Fantastic. Where do you fancy looking? In the countryside or one of the towns?'

  'I . . . I don't know. I haven't thought about it.'

  'How about we try villages on the outskirts of Halifax? There are some very pretty places. Then we would have the best of both worlds.'

  'Okay.'

  'I'm so proud of you Megan. You're a fantastic woman.'

  She gulped. 'Don't say that.'

  He shuffled his chair closer to her and cupped her face in his hand. 'It's true. Believe it.'

  'I've done some bad things.'

  'Haven't we all?' He eased away a floating strand of hair. 'You're a good person and very brave.'

  'Not foolish?'

  His eyes wandered across her face before resting on her eyes. 'No, definitely brave.'

  He loved her. She loved him. So why was it so hard?

  'Let’s go out. Grab a takeaway or something.'

  'Agreed.'

  After a few minutes, they left the house and headed into the town centre, strolling side-by-side and absorbing the tranquil atmosphere and late evening sunshine. The roads had few cars and the streets almost entirely devoid of pedestrians. It was peaceful and stress-free, another pleasant evening.

  They wandered by the first section of restaurants and pubs, none which appealed, and continued along the main street, passing a pizzeria and an English takeaway. Both were quiet. It was early and contrasted with the bustling afternoon when queues had formed and vacant seats been scarce.

  'Have you anywhere in mind?' he asked.

  'There's a café along a side street that looks nice. It specialises in vegetarian cuisine.'

  He pulled a face.

  They turned a corner, walking along a narrow street. Along one side were shops, and on the other was a high wall. She lifted her head, looking up to the looming trees and the tip of a building. There was no indication what it was, but it looked prestigious. They entered the café.

  Gentle music played and there was a wonderful aroma of cooking food. They stepped towards a table at the window and squeezed into the seats. It was cramped, but given that they were only one of three small groups of people there, claustrophobia was not an issue. There was no imagery on the walls and no elaborate or ornamental décor; it was simple and down-to-earth and served a purpose.

  Megan studied the menu but struggled to choose between an asparagus and lentil tart and a pancake filled with spinach and ricotta. After much pondering, she decided on the pancake dish and placed her order.

  'Nice place. Pity they don't sell meat, though,' he said.

  'It'll do you good.'

  'I'm willing to do it once in a while, but I must say I do like a bit of flesh.'

  'I doubt you could kill your own.'

  'Of course I could.'

  'I don't believe you. I've seen you struggling to kill mice. You're a big softy inside.'

  He placed his fingers to his lips. 'Don't tell everyone. I have an image to uphold.'

  He was smiling, beautiful and wide, and his eyes glistened. She reached across to his hands and pressed them into hers. They fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He was kind and funny, and she loved him.

  Her head jerked and she stared out of the window. Two people strode along the pavement passing at the other side of the glass pane and deep in conversation. One was Verity, the other Ron.

  'I knew it,' she said. 'Verity lied. She told me she hadn't spoken to Ron for years.'

  'Perhaps they just bumped into each other.'

  'No way! Don't you see how they’re talking? It’s intense and they look concerned. They’re not discussing the weather, Ben.'

  'So what are you saying?'

  'Something’s going on and I’m going to find out what it is.'

  He kissed her hand.

  'You're not going to stop me?'

  'Would I be able to if I tried?'

  'No.'

  She leaned back into the chair. Perhaps her future with Ben was worth fighting for, after all.

  Chapter 21

  Luke strode through the reception area, straight into the office, and looked at the reduced amount of clutter and the dust-free surfaces. Binders and books were their rightful places in the cabinets or on shelves, empty boxes that had contained reams of paper had been discarded, and the kitchen area had been scrubbed clean. It smelled lemony, refreshing and stimulating.

  He placed his jacket on a peg near the door, ambled to his chair, and his gaze wandered across to the bookcase, focusing on the section on reincarnation. Sensing he was nearing a breakthrough, his pulse quickened and his excitement rose. He could smell it and taste it; it was a breath away. He would write papers showing his achievements, he would receive accolades and he would speak confidently at interviews and at functions. Sarah would be proud of him.

  The evidence would speak volumes. It was what she needed and it was what he wanted. There would be no more talk of him abandoning the paranormal side of the business, and no suggestion that his yearnings were ridiculous and immature. He had proof and as the session with Megan replayed in his mind, a smile stretched across his face.

  She had described the setting surprisingly unambiguously, from the colours and textures to the emotions displayed by the family. Saskia’s anger towards her mother and Verity was particularly clear, and understandably so. She was a young woman with hopes and dreams, yet with no means of fulfilling them. Therefore, she had looked for an al
ternative. She had looked at Ron.

  Struggling to contain his excitement, he fidgeted and he twitched, and he looked at his notes, impatient to carry out another session. He was certain he would resolve the issue surrounding Saskia's disappearance, and he could barely wait.

  The doorbell sounded and Imogen stepped into the office wearing a blue short pleated skirt and a white top underneath a navy blue cotton jacket. Her complexion had a peachy glow and hair rested upon her shoulders, smooth and unadorned. She had an air of sophistication about her.

  'Blimey,' he said, 'you look different . . . much more mature.'

  'Cool! I always wanted to look like an old woman.'

  'I didn't mean-'

  'So what did you mean? That I usually look like a little girl.'

  'No . . . I think you look good.'

  'You're blushing.' She swirled around. 'Do you fancy me dressed like this?'

  'No, I . . .' His voice trailed. He couldn't think of what to say.

  'So you don't fancy me. You think I look too refined?'

  'You look really nice.'

  'Nice? Is that the best you can do?'

  'I think you look good whatever you wear.'

  'But you prefer this outfit.'

  Imogen was standing a little distance away with her hands on her hips and her breasts pushed out. Every few seconds, he scanned the curves within her white top, and every few seconds he reprimanded himself. She did look much better . . . very pretty.

  'You look less tarty.'

  Her jaw dropped.

  Ashamed, he looked away, regretful of his comment. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean that.'

  'You are so on form today. I think I prefer the old Luke, miserable and self-pitying.'

  She dropped onto her chair and switched on her computer. He tried to hide his face and wriggled a little way down his chair, and even though he was almost out of view, he could still feel her eyes pressing into him. Searching for a distraction, he made an effort to concentrate on his work, but his embarrassment would not disperse. He had to do something about it. 'I'm so sorry. I was trying to compliment you.'

  'Cool. I like a compliment.'