Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  ‘I wonder what Mrs Leanne Stark is like . . . a fine figure of a woman I should think.’

  Colour rose to his cheeks. He looked to his feet and scuttled back to the office.

  Leanne parked the car and switched off the engine. Across the street, next to a large stone-fronted building, was a sign. It said, ‘Luke Adams: Private Investigator’. Beneath the sign was a large window, and although a blind partially obscured the view inside, she could still see that it looked spacious and free of clutter.

  Whilst waiting for her confidence to build and the clock to tick by, Leanne watched the movement further along the street. She was at the edge of the town centre, a little distance away from the enticing window displays, heaving crowds, and youngsters that skipped between the shops. Folks meandered across the road inattentive to the fact that cars passed by, and twice she held her breath as two different individuals dodged a vehicle by the narrowest of margins.

  A crowd of teenage girls crossed the road, heading towards the main street and chatting enthusiastically. Her mind wandered. She had been that girl, full of expectation and energy, carefree and light-hearted. Every weekend, accompanied by friends, she would attend the bars and clubs, and more often than not, they would introduce themselves to a group of young men. Sometimes they would see them again, although mostly their companionship would end towards dawn. Through drunken eyes, the world was a never-ending party.

  Tyler was a constant reminder of those heady days. Leanne thought she had loved his father, and even now, as she recalled his stream of pathetic excuses that absolved him of all participation in her pregnancy, her sorrow flickered. Darren told her that he didn’t love her, told her that he would be a bad influence on their child, and told her that he knew nothing about babies. It was a distressing time, never more so than when he suggested that the child might not be his.

  Heartbroken, Leanne denied Darren contact. It proved to be a wise decision, and for years, they remained out of touch. When he finally decided he wanted to see his son, a couple of years after the birth of his own daughter, she received his request with displeasure. The hard work of raising a baby was over, and Phillip supported her emotional needs. She did everything she could to make him keep his distance, making excuses until the novelty of fatherhood passed, and it did, many times.

  After sixteen years of remaining in obscurity, he finally decided to cement the relationship with his son, choosing a time when Tyler would be vulnerable and yearning for a father figure. He claimed it was coincidence and said he knew nothing about Phillip’s death. Leanne knew it was a lie; the paragliding accident was in the local papers as well as on the news.

  Darren was manipulative, weak, unreliable and selfish, and he had her son. She looked to her handbag, to the place where her phone resided, and she thought of Tyler. He loved the gifts, the spending and the extravagance, and he loved every minute of the attention. His new family doted upon him and his sisters had a new big brother. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself?

  Soon, it would end in disaster. Darren would grow bored of his son’s teenage anxieties and he could discard Tyler as though he were a used toy. He would find himself a new pastime, one that fulfilled his masculine urges and satisfied his adrenaline rushes. Tyler would be an obstruction; he would cast him aside.

  Leanne dared not consider the alternative.

  Dispatching with her bitterness, she reached for her handbag, exited the car, and headed across the road to Luke Adams’ office. The chilling air tightened her skin, aided by the gentle breeze that tussled with her dark-brown hair. She flicked it aside and strode towards the door. Her pulse quickened and her apprehensions heightened.

  She opened the door. A bell sounded and a tall woman appeared from a room on the left, introduced herself as Imogen, and they shook hands, the cool sophisticated feel of her palm contrasting with her own sticky hand. She looked to be in her early twenties and wore black tights, a short pleated skirt, and a tight fitting blouse emphasising her rounded breasts. Whilst she had a warm, approachable demeanour, Leanne still tensed, feeling fat, frumpy, and old in comparison.

  Imogen talked her through the procedure, and then, whilst she was tapping something into the computer, Leanne’s eyes wandered. There was a man talking on the telephone in an office to one side. She presumed it was Luke Adams. She hoped it was, warming to his plain appearance, an untidy desk, and confident yet unpretentious manner.

  After a few more moments of general chatter, she started to relax. There was a welcoming feel about the place, and as she absorbed the clean lines, a small stone sculpture, and a sketch of a vagabond on a city street, her decision to hire them gained strength.

  ‘Do you like the drawing?’ Imogen asked.

  She spun around. ‘It’s good . . . life like.’

  ‘It was done by one of our previous clients. Megan Armstrong. She’s very talented.’

  ‘I heard about that case. It was quite extraordinary. In fact, it’s what drew me to you.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  Luke stepped into the reception area, apologised for the delay, and welcomed her before guiding her into another room at the rear. A sensational lavender aroma filled the air, tickling her nostrils. She glanced at the table and the dried blooms and scanned the room, simple and unadorned, with swivel chairs, a sofa, and a bed partially hidden by a curtain.

  ‘Please sit down,’ he said.

  She rested on a blue fabric sofa and placed her arms across her middle. For a few minutes, he made easy chatter, asking her about her journey and commenting on the cool autumnal weather. Then he progressed to the case and asked her what she expected.

  ‘It’s simple. I want to find my mother.’

  ‘You said on the phone your mother’s name is Karen Jefferson. Is that her maiden name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know if she ever married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have her last known address?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Okay, not to worry. When was the last time you had contact with Karen?’

  ‘I think I was about five.’ She looked to her lap. ‘My grandparents told me that she had died. They raised me. I’ve only just found out that . . . that she might be alive.’

  ‘Your grandparents’ were Karen’s parents?’

  She gave him a questioning look.

  ‘In other words, not from your father’s side.’

  ‘Oh.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘I don’t know anything about my father, not even his name.’

  He remained impassive. ‘What are your grandparents’ names?’

  ‘Roy and Janet. They’ve both died.’

  ‘Who told you that Karen may be alive?’

  ‘Gran . . . just a few weeks ago.’

  Leanne raised her hand and fingered the soft tissues around her mouth. It sounded ridiculous, all her needs and desires resting on a dying woman’s admission of guilt. Why did she want to contact someone who had chosen to remain hidden for thirty years? He must think her stupid.

  She held her breath as he made notes on a sheet of paper.

  ‘I’ve just inherited a house. It was Gran’s but I didn’t know anything about it. It’s all rather strange. They inherited it from a Mr and Mrs Coombs years ago. I think they all lived there, me too for a while, but it’s been empty ever since. In fact, I’m planning on staying there for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Could I have the address?’

  She gave him the details.

  ‘Who were Mrs and Mrs Coombs?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Your great-grandparents perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know much about my grandparents, and now . . . now it’s too late. Gran was a private woman, didn’t like talking about her feelings, her life, nothing.’

  ‘That’s not unusual.’

  ‘There’s much I should have asked her. I can’t believe I never suspected she had lied to me about Mum.’

&
nbsp; ‘People can have strange reasons for doing things. Maybe she also wanted contact with Karen, but if she couldn’t find her, she may have thought it pointless telling you about her.’

  ‘Are you saying you won’t be able to do it?’

  ‘No, not at all, but I can’t make promises. It can be easy to go into hiding if someone is so determined.’

  Disheartened, she leaned back into the sofa.

  ‘Of course, we will do all that we can,’ he said. ‘Now, you said you think you lived in this house. Did you remember it?’

  ‘The layout of the house was familiar, but it was dark inside – there was no electricity and the windows were boarded. And it’s furnished, strangely enough. Why are you asking?’

  ‘I’m just looking for anything that may trigger memories. It could provide us with clues. Did you recognise anything, or have any unexpected memories?’

  Leanne thought of the moment with the torch when she passed through the darkness, sweeping each room. ‘A bedroom was familiar. It must have been mine. I felt lonely. I think I missed my . . .’ she hesitated as her recollections relating to several people spread across her mind, ‘. . . my mum.’

  ‘Any ideas how old you were when you last lived there?’

  She fiddled with her necklace. ‘I don’t think I was old. Up until I visited I only ever remembered living in the house I grew up in.’

  He scribbled in his pad.

  ‘There was one more thing, when I was outside, I thought I heard a noise and headed to the barn. There was no one there, but I felt as though I could still hear screaming and shouting. I was dragged away . . . locked in a room.’

  ‘Any ideas what had happened?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure something awful happened. I think that’s why we left. As I said, my Gran told me that my Mum had died in an accident. I think that was the one she was referring to.’

  ‘But she hadn’t died.’

  ‘No. I think it was the last time they’d had contact.’

  Luke was casting an eye over his notes. Leanne could see his thoughts whirring, and believed he was wondering how she could not have known what had happened. Why had she never asked questions, never tried to squeeze the truth out of her grandparents? She felt ridiculously incompetent and edged herself into a smaller space.

  Little more was said, bar extracting addresses and names of family and friends. It all seemed a little pointless; Leanne was aware Roy had a nephew, but they had not had contact for at least fifteen years to her knowledge, and so he was unlikely to know anything about Karen. As for friends, there was no one close, no one who would be privy to the darkest of family secrets.

  They wrapped up the interview. She left feeling despondent and more isolated than ever, and not at all excited by the prospects of what was before her. There may be little to discover and there could be a simple explanation for the lies; in the meantime, she would have to wait. Even the prospect of seeing Steven could not lighten her mood.

  Nevertheless, as was her plan, she made her journey to Honeysuckle cottage, the vision of her childhood bedroom, and her feelings of intense loneliness remaining in the forefront of her mind.

  Chapter 6

  Leanne’s mood brightened when she arrived at the house. The window boards had been removed, the broken glass replaced, and the services reconnected. She silently thanked Ted as she lifted the envelope from the mat, presumably the bill, and walked across the lobby and opened a door.

  Greeted by a band of light, which was more uplifting than the darkness she had first experienced, she scanned the room with new eyes. The carpet was a dark green, the wallpaper had a yellow and green floral pattern, and there was a large sturdy table in the centre. Her hand rested upon the coarse gritty surface and her mind filled with images of family life.

  A man wearing a grey suit and a collar and tie poured water into glasses, and a woman with gentle features, a warm smile, and a rounded figure leaned over and spoke to the children. There was fear in their faces, apprehension and disorientation in their eyes. The woman spoke with tenderness, urging the youngsters to feel safe and share in her love, and happiness prevailed.

  It had been a family home and it should be again.

  Curious as to where such thoughts had come from, she removed her jacket, placed it onto the coat stand, and thought of the photograph she had found in her grandmother’s closet. It may have provided her with clues of the occupants, or, if she were lucky, it may have given her a point of reference for seeking out relevant locals. Nevertheless, it was too late to do anything about it now. She would have to collect it the next time she returned home.

  She passed into a room. The open space was luxuriating and her steps lightened. She ran her hand across the glossy shimmering wood of the piano and left a trail of finger marks on the cover. A delicate tinkle of sounds resounded in her head. She had strained her legs and stretched out her arms to reach to Janet. Her grandmother looked down, her familiar face so warm, so pure. Janet laughed, her chuckles echoing through the walls. Leanne laughed too, and then snuggled into the older woman’s breast and straddled her body.

  How long had her grandmother lived here? Had she known the house intimately, its creaks and groans, its walls and recesses? Leanne’s own recollections were vague, experiencing only moments of familiarity, from trotting through the vast house to climbing onto an older woman’s lap. She could almost smell Janet’s fine figure, a comforting maternal aroma, safe and reliable. However, such memories relating to her mother seemed non-existent. Where had she been? Why was she absent from her memories? Had she erased her for some atrocious reason? It was also possible that she never had a relationship with her mother, and her disappointment rose and her decision to search for her seemed like a foolish and rash quest.

  Unable to blank her wandering doubts, she considered her conversation with Luke and wondered if he acted with honesty and was as supportive as he had appeared. Had she seen derision hidden behind his eyes and dishonesty behind his words of support? Uncertain of her response, she thought of Imogen, her perfect figure, and beautiful mellow skin tone and lush eyelashes, and wondered about her opinion. Did they think her stupid and laugh at her expense?

  Leanne headed into the kitchen, glimpsed at the newspaper and jacket left by the unidentified visitor, and strode to the sink. The water spluttered through the system, first grey, and then clearing. Her thoughts, the mystery surrounding her mother, were still in her mind, and she prayed to Janet, her questions innumerable. Had she carried the answers to her grave? Had her last words been an accidental mumble? Maybe there was wisdom in her intended silence; maybe she was better off in her ignorance.

  There was a sharp knock at the door. Startled, Leanne hurried through the lobby, her longing directing her towards images of Steven.

  She opened the door. Her heart sank. ‘Hello, Ted. Thanks for doing the work.’

  ‘You get my invoice?’

  ‘Yes. I can pay you now if you like.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She reached for her handbag, retrieved her wallet, and headed to the table.

  He hovered beside her, his eyes wandering around the room. ‘Anything else you need doing?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I haven’t been here long. How can I find you?’

  ‘You may see me in the fields, but failing that, my house is along Birch Lane.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Just off the main road . . . can’t miss it. Mine’s the one with farm buildings.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She counted out the notes and then straightened her back. He was staring at the jacket.

  ‘Do you know who’s that is?’

  He turned away and plodded to the outer door. ‘I know nothing.’

  Questions regarding his acquaintance with her mother edged towards the tip of her tongue. She held back, her foolishness overriding her inquisitiveness, and followed on his trail.

  A gust of air rushed into the house. There was a blanket of grey clo
uds overhead, and a gentle sway of branches nearby. Grasses were withering and leaves were turning brown as the dark winter days approached.

  ‘A man passed by the other day,’ she said, ‘his name is Steven. Do you know where I can find him?’

  Ted stopped and turned. ‘Steven George?’

  ‘I don’t know his surname. He has a dog.’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be him. He lives on the edge of the village. He often passes this way . . . usually about this time.’

  ‘Have you seen him today?’

  ‘Not for a few days. I heard his missus is giving him grief.’

  ‘I thought he was separated.’

  Ted grinned. ‘Is that what he said?’

  ‘So he’s not?’

  ‘Not for me to comment.’ He headed away, stepping through a weave of trampled grasses.

  Forlorn, she returned to the kitchen to make a sandwich and reprimanded herself for putting her expectations on a man she hardly knew. She should never have had the boards removed, and should have taken the time to consider her actions. What an idiot! What would Ted think when she asked him to replace the boards, as she feared she must? She would be a laughing stock, and rightly so. Would Steven realise one of her primary motives for the stay had been to form a relationship with him? Would he tell his friends, the community? Would her mother hear of her stupidity?

  Leanne dropped to a seat and held a hand close to her mouth, her foolishness grating. Even if a relationship with Steven were to blossom, which now seemed unlikely, it would take time, and that was not something she had. Her life was in the city; Tyler was in the city. She needed companionship and a job. She would not find what she was looking for in an isolated house in the country.

  She leaned back into the chair. A little voice told her she must forget Steven and return her thoughts to her search for her mother. Yet no matter how she tried, she could not eliminate the visions from her mind - the teasing glint in his dazzling eyes, the seductive expression on his face, and the muscular tone of his slender legs. He was a wonderful man. Her chest swelled with sorrow.