Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  Sarah's decision to abort their baby was significant. If she had only needed a slight push to reform their union, this was it. Nevertheless, she hadn't, and her decision had been easy. If she had taken weeks to mull it over her, it would have softened the blow. If she had asked him his opinion, it would have meant his views were worth something. Yet, the instant she found out, she made an appointment, and within a week ended the little life. It hurt. It hurt so damned much.

  His questions were numerous. Apart from wondering about the sex of the child, he wanted to know what it would have looked like: the structure of its face, the size of its eyes, and the colour of its hair. Would it have been talkative or withdrawn, confident or shy? Would it have been inquisitive, sporty, or learned?

  His body slumped as his misery deepened. There would be no other chance to have a child with Sarah. She had made it clear that their lives were following different tracks. There was no doubt in his mind that she would find an intelligent, sophisticated man, and probably a lawyer. Who could resist her? She was smart, worldly, and fun to be with. They would be queuing up, and probably already were.

  His own prospects seemed somewhat darker. He was plain looking, had a dull personality, and had a passion for the paranormal that few considered seriously. He would struggle to find love, and he would spend his days alone, shrouded in darkness and misery.

  Reprimanding himself for his despondency, he forced himself upright in the chair and searched for solace in his work. Before him was a list of documents relating to Megan's case. Some were interviews and others were observations. He accessed the one that displayed Saskia's letter and he felt a brief surge of excitement. The results of the handwriting comparison should come through the post today. It would be, as near as damn it, evidence of Saskia’s murder. He looked at Imogen.

  She raised her head and their eyes locked. 'You okay?'

  'Fine.'

  'You seem a bit quiet. Have you spoken with Sarah?'

  His heart galloped. 'I saw her last night.'

  'How is she?'

  'Good.'

  'Did the abortion go okay?'

  He nodded, solemn. 'She said she's not ready for a child and wants to establish her career. I have to respect that.'

  'I hope she apologised for not consulting you.'

  'She did, although I don't think it would have made any difference if she had. Her mind was set.'

  'She seems a determined woman.'

  He averted his gaze. 'She is.'

  'You're not going to like me saying this, but I think you need someone more permanent in your life.'

  'I'm happy this way. I like my own space.'

  'Are you sure about that? I wouldn't like seeing someone once every few weeks. I need someone around all the time.'

  'I can cope.'

  Pity crossed her face causing him to look away. He could cope, but for how long? In addition, the day would come when Sarah found someone else, and then she would discard him like an old toy.

  'Luke, you're such a nice guy. You should put yourself on the market again.'

  His eyes wandered around the room.

  'There's no way, if I was pregnant, that I would make that type of decision on my own. It's wrong not to consult the father.'

  'But you're the one carrying it.'

  'So? It shows respect. I'm not saying I would follow any suggestions, but we'd definitely talk about it.'

  'I'm not sure I'd do the same . . . if I was a woman that is.'

  She looked at her fingers and scrutinised her nails. 'I doubt Sarah would have even told you if you hadn't have seen her.'

  Clenching his hands, he steadied his breathing.

  'You should forget her. I'm sorry to say this, but Sarah's using you until she finds someone else.'

  'I don't think she is.'

  His words lacked conviction. To make him feel worse, her expression told him she didn't believe him either. He was pathetic, an idiot, and he should forget her. It would be easier now, than later. But what if she changed her mind? Could he forever close that path that led to a shared life with Sarah? Could he do that?

  'When I saw her in the clinic, she told me it wasn't my baby.'

  'Oh Luke, I'm sorry.'

  'You must think I'm such a loser.'

  Her face burst into life, projecting warmth and kindness. 'Not at all. You're a wonderful person . . . interesting and funny. If I wasn't with my Mark, I'd be after you.'

  He grinned. 'I was starting to believe you too.'

  The door opened and the bell sounded. Imogen stepped through to the reception area had a brief chat with the postal worker and returned to the office with a bundle of mail. Luke watched expectantly as her crimson fingernails flicked through the letters.

  'This could be it,' she said, passing him a brown envelope.

  He slipped his finger into a small gap under the flap and tore it open. Having noted that it was, in fact, relating to the handwriting comparison, he scanned the text.

  'I'm right. The writing was different. There was no doubt.'

  'So someone forged the letters.'

  'Yes.'

  'Verity?'

  'No, it can't have been her. We've seen her writing, remember?'

  She nodded.

  'She must know that this letter wasn't Saskia's. They spent a lot of time together and must have been familiar with each other's handwriting.'

  'I agree,' she said, 'they would have done their homework together even though they weren't in the same year at school. Did the original investigation check the writing?'

  'The letters weren't referenced. There didn't seem to be much of a case at all from what I've seen of the records.'

  She reached into her drawer, retrieved a nail file and smoothed the edges of her nails.

  'There could have been a cover-up,' he continued, 'certainly if Verity was the one to kill Saskia. Jane had already covered for them when Frank died, so we know she’s capable.' He twirled his pen between his fingers. 'In fact, Jane could have written the letters to persuade the investigative team to dismiss the case.'

  'There must have been some evidence of murder.'

  'Not necessarily. Hiding weapons is easy, and blood can be cleaned up too.’

  'Okay, but Ron would have had something to say.'

  'It depends. Maybe Jane persuaded him it was in his best interest.'

  'You mean blackmailed him.'

  'It's possible.'

  He chewed the end of a pencil and thought of the conversation with Megan and the girl. Was she Ron's daughter as she had suggested? It was possible, given his promiscuity. Maybe Jane knew about her, and for whatever reason was able to blackmail him. But how, and why?

  'Megan rang earlier,' he said, 'she had a dream and saw Ron with a girl. Megan thinks it was his daughter.'

  'Wow, that’s so cool!’

  He smirked. 'I'm wondering if this was how Jane blackmailed him. Only thing is, I can't think of a reason why he would want to keep her quiet . . . unless she was conceived out of wedlock and he was ashamed.'

  'That sounds unlikely . . . unless he turned over a new leaf, or found religion or something.'

  'I agree.’

  She stared pensively. ‘What if she was disabled or mentally impaired? He may have thought that it would damage his reputation. Some people are horrible like that.'

  His eyes lit up. 'I think we need to make another trip.'

  'Cool. Whose house first? Verity is more likely to confirm it than Ron.'

  'I want to go to Ron's place.'

  'He's not going to tell us anything different, not if Jane was able to blackmail him.'

  'I'm not expecting him to. In fact, I hope he's not going to be in. There's something else I've remembered, and I want to have a look around and maybe even speak to friends or neighbours . . . anyone who knew him thirty plus years ago.'

  'What am I missing?'

  'I'll tell you later. First, let’s pack up and get out of here.'

  Chapter 27


  Passing through the town centre was tiresome. There were road works blocking the southbound dual carriageway, there was a wine exhibition somewhere to the east of the centre, and there had been an accident at the north. Ambulance and police sirens wailed and impatient drivers honked their horns. Remaining relaxed, Luke tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and edged his car closer to the roundabout.

  Out of his eye corner, he glimpsed Imogen scrutinising her lips in a hand mirror. There was no doubt that she was pretty, but she was a little too fastidious for him. How much time did she spend getting ready to go out? It rarely took him more than five minutes, and in that time he could have a quick wash, change his clothes, and brush his hair. What else was there to do? He glanced at her a second time, searching for evidence for whatever made it a time-consuming role. This time she fiddled with her hair, scrutinising the ends in the reflection.

  Her hairstyle was rarely the same, and today it was crimped. He imagined touching it, running his fingers through her fawn, lush strands, and he breathed in her odour. She smelled delightful, not overpowering and not too subtle. Her skin was soft with pale even tones and her eyes were marine blue. She had a symmetrical appearance, and with the advantage of youth appeared doll-like.

  Sarah was beautiful, but in many ways more natural. She didn't use ribbons, clips, or ties in her hair, and although she wore makeup, it was not obvious. If the wind blew her hair out of position, she would eventually put it back. So long as she had an even cut and it was clean, it did not matter to her if it wafted around. Her style reflected her personality, formal and unfussy.

  Pushing aside his thoughts, he eased across the roundabout, made a quick left turn, then a right, and then another left. He must forget Sarah. She had treated him badly, yet he still hung onto her every word.

  Maybe next time she would tell him, she had made a mistake, maybe next time she would say she loved him.

  Damn it. He was such an idiot. He turned the car into Ron's road, slipped into second gear, and turned onto the street opposite his house.

  'What are you doing?' Imogen asked.

  'I don't want him to see us. I'm going to park along here and watch the house.'

  She shifted up the seat. 'Cool.'

  He turned the car around, found a suitable spot a little distance away, and turned off the engine.

  'What are you looking for?'

  'I'm not sure yet. I want to see if any of the neighbours are elderly for a start, as they might know something.'

  'This is exciting. When I came for the interview, I never thought we'd be doing stuff like this.'

  'When you came for the interview, I never thought I'd be hiring you.'

  She spun to face him. 'What?'

  'You looked a bit of a dreamer.'

  'A dreamer. Why?'

  'Well, you were all dolled up, and wearing that outrageous pink skirt with white dots. I thought you were having me on.'

  Her voice dropped. 'Oh.'

  He turned his head and saw her demoralised expression and sunken posture. He knew he had offended her and tried to retract his comment. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. You just weren't what I expected, that's all.'

  'Should I have come in a grey suit?'

  'You were fine as you were.'

  'I like that skirt,' she said, her voice whiny.

  'So do I - for a party.'

  She unbuckled her seatbelt and stared through the windscreen. 'I'd love to see what you wear for a party.'

  'I would wear the same as I'm wearing now.'

  'Yes, that would be right. You need to loosen up a bit. One day I'm going to take you shopping and make you buy the jazziest outfit I can find.'

  'I enjoy being plain and boring.'

  'You need a new look. A new hairstyle too.'

  'What's wrong with my hair?'

  'It needs a lift and a bit of colour. I can see why they say the colour is mousy. It does look rather like you have a rodent on your head, and not a healthy one at that!'

  'Gee, thanks.'

  She grinned. 'You're welcome.'

  They remained in comfortable silence, gazing at Ron's house, watching the occasional passers-by, and looking into gardens and through windows. They received a few curious stares from people, and tried to act as natural as possible and not give anyone reason for concern. Ron's house, though, remained still and silent, and there was no evidence of him being around.

  'Have you seen Ron yet?' he asked.

  'No. He could be in. His car could be in the garage.'

  'I've been looking at the window into the lounge, but we are a bit far away. I haven’t seen any movement.'

  'Me neither.'

  'What we need is for someone to knock on the door.'

  She spun to face him. 'Are you suggesting me?'

  'No. I wasn't thinking that.'

  'I could. I could knock and run away.'

  'That's a bit childish.'

  'Where's your sense of fun? Oh, I forgot, you don't have any.'

  He pressed his lips together, contemplating her words. She was smiling, teasing, But even so, was that what she believed? Was he a bit stiff?

  'I can do fun.'

  'Go on then, tell me what pranks you've done.'

  'I . . . erm . . .'

  She grinned. 'I knew it. You haven't done any!'

  'Okay smarty pants, what pranks have you pulled?'

  'I once bought a car scratch sticker and put it on my Mark's car and told him I'd had an accident. It was so funny. He hit the roof.'

  'That's a bit tame.'

  'Okay, how about this, I rang up a friend, Josie, claiming to be her boss's new assistant, and fired her. Josie came straight around my house and burst into tears. I don't know how I managed to keep a straight face, but I did, for an entire hour.'

  'That's mean.'

  'No it's not. If I was mean, I wouldn't have confessed and she wouldn't have gone back into work. Anyway, it was funny. Tears rolled down my cheeks for ages afterwards. I don't ever remember laughing so much.'

  'Did she see the funny side?'

  She looked at her lap. 'Eventually.'

  'I'm surprised she even spoke to you again.'

  Sarah wouldn't have appreciated that prank, he thought, and she definitely wouldn't have spoken to him again. But where was the harm? Imogen's friend had not been fired, and it had just been a bit of fun. Perhaps he should lighten up.

  Dismissing his thoughts, he focused upon an elderly woman with a terrier dog, who had just left a house opposite Ron's place and was heading towards them on the opposite side of the road. Despite her age - she looked to be in her mid to late seventies - she was sprightly and marched to the park.

  'I think we should take a walk to see if that woman knows anything about Ron.'

  Imogen peered over her shoulder and then reached for the door handle.

  'Just hold back a minute,' he said, 'I don't want her to think we're following her.'

  'Maybe we should pretend we are old friends of Ron's trying to track him down.'

  'We're a bit too young for that.'

  'You’re right. We could say we recently attended a function of one of his relative’s, and claim we want to catch up with him.'

  'Could do. It must be believable though.'

  She smiled. 'I have an idea.'

  'What?'

  'You'll see.'

  They left the car and headed along the street and through the park entrance. The woman seemed to have disappeared then he spotted her ambling around the perimeter. He decided that they should walk the other way around so that their paths crossed.

  Imogen's heels made a rhythmical clicking sound on the concrete path as they strode side by side across the middle of the recreation area. She seemed relaxed, and her eyes wandered, looking across the playing field and to a small pond. In comparison, he felt stiff and awkward, and uncomfortable in her presence and nervous of her plan.

  Suddenly, she linked his arm, and his temperature rose and his pulse qui
ckened. Nervously, he looked at her and tried to pull free, but she kept him firm in her grasp. He caught sight of her breasts, bobbing under her white blouse, and he saw her hips sway.

  'What are you doing?' he asked.

  'We have to make it look real.'

  'Can't we just be friends?'

  She chuckled. 'Do I scare you?'

  The woman turned a bend. Her hair was curly, her skin rosy, and she had a healthy looking figure, not oversized or gaunt. She was wearing a flowery knee-length skirt and a three-quarter length light-blue jacket, and as she walked, she had a contented smile on her face. She seemed as though she would be amiable, a perfect target.

  'Lovely little dog you've got there,' Imogen said.

  'She's a darling. Wouldn't be without her.'

  'What's her name?'

  'Flossy. I love her to bits.'

  She leaned over and stroked the little dog on her head. 'I can see why. She's a sweetheart.'

  'She is. She would lick you to death if you let her . . . loves her cuddles.'

  'I'll bet she sits on your lap most of the time.'

  'She does,’ the woman said. ‘You're not from around here, are you?'

  'No, we're not.'

  'I thought not. I'm in here every day, I know most folks.'

  'Maybe you can help us,' Imogen said, 'Luke and I are looking for a friend's house, Ronald Maddison. I believe he lives on Bentley Street.'

  'He does. There's an exit across there.' She pointed. 'It's a bit hidden. It takes you onto a street. Keep going, and it's the house at the end, across the road. It certainly will be a surprise for him.'

  'Oh, why?'

  'He rarely gets visitors . . . likes to keep himself to himself.'

  'Really?'

  'Oh yes, not even his friends visit him. I live opposite see, I know what goes on.'

  Imogen leaned over and kissed Luke on the cheek. 'I'm sure it'll be a nice surprise. He introduced us and now we're engaged. We wanted to tell him.'

  'Congratulations. You make a lovely couple.'

  His skin warmed and his mind turned fuzzy.

  'Any ideas why he doesn't have visitors?' Imogen asked.