Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  His mobile phone sounded. He lifted it from his pocket and saw it was Imogen.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Are you ready for tonight?’

  ‘It’s hours away yet.’

  ‘Susie’s looking forward to meeting you so make sure you spruce yourself up.’

  ‘Is that why you rang?’

  ‘Should I have another reason?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Don’t forget to blow dry your hair as I showed you, it’ll give it a bit of lift.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘No need for the sarcasm,’ Imogen said. ‘What you doing anyway?’

  Luke hesitated, taking a quick breath. ‘I’m working.’

  ‘Working? It’s Saturday.’

  ‘I needed to make a start on Leanne Stark’s case. It’s been on my mind.’

  ‘Haven’t you got any hobbies?’

  ‘I’ve plenty. I just didn’t fancy doing them today.’

  ‘You are such a bad liar.’

  ‘I’d rather be working than be like you and spend all day worrying about my appearance.’

  ‘I have to make myself beautiful for you,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, right!’

  ‘Don’t forget to wear that shirt you bought, and add a bit of aftershave too.’

  ‘Do you treat Mark this way?’

  ‘No, just you. You’re such a challenge. Got to go. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  He cradled the phone in his hand and a smile slipped to his face. She was a strange woman and not at all his type, yet he could not help but feel lifted by her call. He was looking forward to the evening, or was it just Imogen he was looking forward to seeing? Would Susie be anything like her? Did he even hope she was? He wasn’t sure, and blanked his mind and stared at the name ‘Honeysuckle Cottage’ scribbled on a sheet of paper.

  Having pressed a few keys, he accessed the Internet and uploaded a map of the area. The house and buildings were extensive, and there were other farms close by. He should make contact with the locals. Maybe the younger generations would be carrying on with the business. Someone must know something about its history and occupants, surely.

  An idea leapt to the forefront of his mind, and after a little bit of investigating, he found a telephone number of a local historian. The man’s name was Mr Bernard Dixon. He made contact and introduced himself.

  ‘I’m trying to find out about Honeysuckle Cottage and its occupants. Can you help?’

  ‘It’s been empty for years. Well-maintained though.’

  ‘Do you know anything about Mr and Mrs Coombs? They lived there years ago.’

  ‘They farmed the land. People say they were a nice couple - couldn’t have kids. They took in evacuees.’

  ‘Evacuees?’

  ‘Yes, world war two evacuees. They were quite attached to one of the girls.’

  ‘Janet?’

  Bernard hesitated. ‘Could have been. I’d have to check.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘They were shot. Killed outright.’

  Luke’s jaw dropped. ‘Shot?’

  ‘Aye. It must be thirty years ago now. I can’t remember the name of the person. I think it was a man, but I could be wrong.’

  ‘Was he connected to them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you remember what his motives were?’

  ‘No. I don’t know if I ever knew.’

  Stunned, he remained motionless and silent.

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ Bernard said, ‘see if I can find out anything more.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes please. And can you check if one of the evacuees was a Janet Smith? I’m trying to find out as much about her as I can. In fact, I’m trying to track down her daughter, Karen.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Have you got my number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks for your time.’

  Blimey! Luke was buzzing with excitement. Janet was a world war two evacuee, and someone shot and killed her guardians. It was starting to make sense. Karen could have killed them, or maybe it was someone connected to her. It would explain her disappearance and her disassociation from the family. But what reason could she have for doing such a thing? Even though Luke sensed he was delving into a past best forgotten, the intrigue it created caused his juices to flow.

  The door into the bar swung open and he stepped inside, his nerves jangling and his eyes darting. As soon as he realised that Mark, Imogen, and Susie had not arrived, relief swept through him, and he progressed to the bar, weaving past groups of men. The bartender, a young brunette woman with pleasant facial features and a slender figure took his order and passed him his drink before progressing to the next customer. He moved away and stood at the edge of the group.

  Most of the clientele were under the age of forty, although there were a few exceptions: there was a middle-aged couple leaning into seats placed against a wall, and four older men surrounding a table in a corner. There was a modern feel about the place, with a glitter ball in the centre of the room and flashing lights around the edge. Each stool set alongside the round top tables had a chrome base with a footrest and a moulded plastic seat.

  He glanced to the door, both urging and fearing Susie’s arrival and felt the throbbing beat of drums pound his body, matching the pounding rhythm of his heart. He could not recall feeling as nervous since his mid-teens and gulped down his beer seeking calmness.

  Then she arrived. Imogen was the first to enter the room and she wore a short snug-fitting blouse and pink- cropped trousers, and her hair splashed with colour. She looked stunning, and his skin rippled and he held his breath as he waited for Susie to appear from her rear. She was slim, not quite as tall as Imogen or as curvaceous, but she had a pleasant face and even skin tone. Uncertainly, he wandered to greet them.

  His tight breaths were drying his throat, and when he moved his mouth to speak, he was voiceless and little more than a grunt came out. Thankfully, a sudden surge in music prevented his embarrassment, and they all laughed at the timely interruption. Luke purchased the first round of drinks and joined them at a table near the centre of the room.

  Susie was quietly spoken and since she appeared unable to make eye contact, he assumed her nervousness. Although agreeable, she clung to Imogen’s every word, drawing her on subjects and opinions. After a while, Luke realised she was doing it to avoid having to make conversation with him, and his self-confidence sank. He could make more of an effort but felt awkward in Imogen and Mark’s presence. He was the outsider, the stranger in the group, and he was the hopeless case. Irritated by the setup and feeling a need to assert his dominance, he made eye contact with a woman on the next table. She smiled at him and lifted her wine glass. He smiled back.

  Imogen noticed and glared. Sheepishly, he looked to the centre of their table, avoiding her penetrating gaze, and willed her to join in the group conversation. When she did, he reaffirmed his gaze on the stranger. The woman, with short neat auburn hair, smiled again, and his blood rippled throughout his body and his skin flushed. He could still pull. It was a huge boost to his confidence.

  Imogen leaned towards him. ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You could at least look as though you are interested. Susie’s made a big effort for you.’

  He looked to his date, whose chatter with Mark looked comfortable. ‘She’s not interested.’

  ‘You’ve not given her a chance!’

  He hadn’t, she was right. He edged forward on the chair, leaned onto the table, and attempted to join in the conversation. It was one night, that was all. He should be pleased that she cared enough to consider his needs.

  The chatter evolved from mindless reality shows on television, which were not his thing, to witchcraft and the paranormal. He had expected as much, but rather than grasping the opportunity to talk about his childhood passion, he tried to change the subject, fearing a mocking. His ex-gi
rlfriend had often chastised him for talking about such nonsense, and the memories held a potent sting. Rarely did he introduce himself as an investigator who took on paranormal cases, preferring the guise of private investigator. However, he wasn’t going to be able to circumvent the subject with Imogen in command.

  ‘We’ve just worked on a fantastic case,’ she said, ‘you might have heard about it. A woman had memories relating to a dead person.’

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear about it,’ Luke said.

  She gave him a fleeting glimpse. ‘Sure she does. The woman knew all sorts about people, things she shouldn’t know. It was so cool.’

  ‘So things just dropped into her head.’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Weird.’

  ‘Weird but exciting. It was as though she was acting on behalf of the dead woman. Just think what it would be like if you could do that. You could correct your mistakes a second time around.’

  ‘Or get revenge.’

  Imogen was pensive. ‘Talking of mistakes . . .’ Imogen looked to Mark and winked. ‘We’re moving in together.’

  ‘Really, that’s fantastic.’

  Susie’s enthusiasm faded as Imogen’s announcement danced around in Luke’s head. His thoughts dominated; there was no sound in the room and no heated bodies shuffling past. After a few moments, Mark caught his eye, offering a curious stare.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Luke mumbled.

  Mark nodded.

  ‘She’s quite a catch,’ he added.

  Luke stood up, exhibited the most enthusiastic expression he could muster, and sauntered off to the bathroom. He needed to be away from the oppressive atmosphere, and Imogen’s jovial mood and Susie’s try-hard attitude, and stepped through the door and into the cooler air. There was a faint smell of disinfectant, and he scanned the floor and the urinals and progressed about his business.

  The evening was not working, and the more he pondered the set-up, the more annoyed with Imogen he became. He should not have agreed to the blind date; he had already proven he wasn’t a helpless case. If it weren’t for Imogen and her daft ideas about what he needed and liked, he would have already pulled the auburn-haired woman. He did not need any assistance.

  With a frown upon his face and his lips nearing a pout, he headed back to the table. The women were still chatting about Imogen’s news and the imminent move, and he yearned for a male companion, preferring instead to talk about something that had more of a male focus, such as football or jet aircraft. Not that he was into either, but it would be a start and might alleviate his sour mood.

  However, his attempts to talk about the afternoon match on television did nothing to blank out Imogen and Susie. He kept his gaze fixed on Mark or else the other clientele, yet their scent still wafted towards him, distracting alongside their lively banter. His focus was lacking, his beer ever more engrossing. His moment of relief came with the vibration of his mobile phone. He glanced at the little screen. It was Bernard Dixon.

  Luke pointed to his phone and rushed outside, stepping into the chilling damp air and hurried to a wall, away from the bustling individuals and spirited car drivers.

  ‘Mr Dixon,’

  ‘Hello. The man who killed Mr and Mrs Coombs was a Trevor Parry. It was a random attack. There was no apparent motive. He went to prison and died thirteen years ago.’

  ‘He didn’t have a connection with them then?’

  ‘Apparently not, but don’t quote me on that. Also, my father was a headmaster of a local school, and before he died, he gave me some essays that were written during the war years. I’ve had a look through – Janet Smith wrote a couple. I thought you might like to see them.’

  ‘That’s great news. So Janet was one of the evacuees.’

  ‘Yes. They are well-written, given her age. I’d say she was talented.’

  ‘I’ll be over in a couple of days to see them if that’s okay.’

  ‘It is.’

  With a smile lingering, he was returning the phone to his pocket when Imogen appeared, irritation coating her face.

  ‘You’re in a mood tonight,’ she said, ‘what’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, I’ve just got a lead on a case.’

  ‘Can’t you forget about work for just one night?’

  Grinning, he shadowed her back to the doorway. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to have to. We’ve decided to go back to my Mark’s place to do some proper celebrating.’

  ‘Is Susie going?’

  ‘No, it’s going to be a threesome . . . of course she is.’

  Swiftly, he headed inside, passing into the dimmed light to hide his blushes. ‘Pity.’

  Imogen nudged him in the ribs. ‘Cheeky.’

  Chapter 9

  1940-41

  Her legs were swinging and her pencil was rotating between her fingers, her focus lacking. She glanced around the classroom, looking at her friends and the other children; some had glazed expressions, others were keen to learn. Then she caught Alice’s eye and mouthed that the lesson was boring. Her best friend feigned a yawn.

  Mathematics always struggled to generate interest in Janet, and she often bemoaned her concerns to her parents. They didn’t seem to care whether she learnt anything or not, and told her that so long as she could do the important task of totalling rationing coupons for purchases, everything else was superfluous.

  Bacon, butter and sugar were the first food items rationed, and there was worse to come. She recalled her parents talking about it, complaining that it was unfair, and saying that the rich would get more. It puzzled Janet. Her teacher had told her that rationing would ensure that everyone received equal amounts of food, yet it seemed that that was not the case. Why would her teacher lie?

  Her belly started to rumble as she copied the sums from the blackboard to her notebook. It was not as if they were even missing out. Food had always been scarce for them; they struggled to afford to buy all that had been set aside, let alone more. Fighting her hunger pangs, she yearned for a bar of chocolate, its fine taste melting in her mouth. It had always been a rare treat, an indulgence, and never more so than now.

  The air raid siren sounded an undulating howl, and Janet jerked. It was a timely interruption, and whilst the teacher instructed the class to form a queue, she thrust her belongings into her bag, a well-practised response, and chatted in a high-pitched enthusiastic tone to Alice.

  It was such a familiar routine that she knew where to go and what to do, and her eagerness reflected in her steps. Struggling to obey the command to walk, as was the case with the other children, her pace grew faster until there was a mad charge to the school shelter.

  It was dark, smelly, and cold inside, and not a place to look forward to visiting, yet for some reason she did. It was a change from her routine, and a chance to talk to her friends, even if it was only until the teacher regained command and forced everyone to recite lessons or sing.

  Having positioned herself on the cold concrete, she strained her ears to listen to the sound of planes and explosions. But it was difficult to hear anything above the racket, and in particular above the animated noises and impressions of aircraft coming from the boys. The girls, on the other hand, huddled in groups.

  Alice nudged her in the ribs. ‘I heard on the wireless that children are going to be evacuated.’

  ‘Evacuated?’

  ‘Yes, sent away. We’ll leave our families behind and everything.’

  Shock stilled Janet. ‘Who’ll look after us?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Will we be able to go together?’

  ‘Mum says not. She said it’d be like a holiday, just until the bombing stops. They can’t keep us safe anymore.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘We won’t have a choice.’

  ‘But my dad’s not gone to war,’ Janet said, ‘he’ll keep me safe.’

  Janet drew strength from the sorrow that slipped to Alice’s face and assumed that sh
e would be able to stay with her family, her sister and brothers, her mother and father. Even so, life was different now. Due to her father’s weak back, he no longer worked for the council but as an air raid precaution warden, protecting civilians from harm. It was a commendable role, and for the first time in years, he seemed fulfilled.

  Janet leaned back against the wall, pride enriching her face, and thought of him bravely patrolling the streets at night, searching for lights in the blackout that could guide the Germans to targets.

  ‘Is your mum going to work?’ Alice said.

  ‘She doesn’t want to, says she has enough to do in the house.’

  ‘My mum can’t wait. She’s loving the chance to do something else.’

  ‘Have you heard from your dad?’

  ‘No. Mum worries all the time. She won’t talk about it, though. You don’t know how lucky you are, having him around.’

  Janet’s secreted smile faded as the teacher started talking again, but her words dissolved into insignificance as the screeching sound of aircraft flew overhead. The explosion nearby caused everyone to scream and jolt, their hands reaching out to their neighbours and griping with desperation.

  In an attempt to maintain calm, the singing began, but it was difficult to acquire any enthusiasm. The teachers guided, and one by one, the small squeaky voices of the children broadened and the violent sounds coming from outside no longer held the same significance. Janet focused on the words of the familiar song, pleading with herself to stay calm and believe that she was safe inside the shelter. Images of her family sprung into her mind, from the lively banter of her brothers and sister to the concerned expressions of her parents. She prayed for their safety, fearing she could not cope if anything happened to them, and wondered about the evacuation.

  Why could they not all leave together? There must be safe places somewhere nearby. They should do it immediately whilst they still had the chance. It was all too difficult to comprehend how her separation from the family would be a good thing. Without them, she was nothing; they were her life, her only desires.