Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  ‘Do you think Michelle Handley did it?’

  ‘Seems so. A camera caught them heading down the steps into the basement, and a few minutes later, she was fleeing. No one else was seen entering or exiting the basement. He died a few days later.’

  ‘So it’s cut and dried?’

  Luke leaned against the cupboard. ‘I don’t know . . . hard to tell. We really need to speak to Michelle.’

  ‘Maybe Brittany has reason to believe she was innocent.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Following Imogen’s instructions, Brittany reached the top of the hill and turned right. There she paused, held her hand to her chest, urging steady breaths, and waited for her wobbly legs to re-strengthen. As expected, there were fewer shops and more offices, and up ahead was a bridge. At the other side was a sign, private investigators, and on the door was the number one hundred and eighteen.

  She headed to the doorway and glanced through the window. It was smart, clean, and there was a reception desk at the rear. She stepped inside and the bell jangled. A woman appeared. She introduced herself as Imogen and tapped something into the computer.

  Brittany sat on a soft seat, held her hand to her chest, and urged her swirling vision to clear. The interior was simple and stylish and she liked the uncluttered feel and lemony aroma. There was a money plant near the window, a small stone sculpture on a narrow stand in a corner, and a photograph of city lights on a pale-lilac wall.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Brittany said, ‘I like the décor.’

  Imogen glanced up. She seemed to be of a similar age, in her mid-twenties, and had a curvaceous figure, disguised by a loose-fitting blouse and maroon wrap-over skirt. She wore a little make-up and was naturally pretty with a symmetrical face and vivid blue eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ Imogen replied, ‘it’s handy for a lot of people, being in the city and all.’

  ‘Do you do a lot of business?’

  ‘Yes, I have to say we do.’ She glanced to a closed door. ‘I must say though, there are days when I hope for a quiet one.’

  ‘And today’s one of those days?’

  Imogen stifled a yawn. ‘Sorry. I had a big night last night. I think only the coffee is keeping me awake.’

  ‘Good for you. I should do a bit more of that myself. You only live once.’

  ‘Too right.’

  A door opened and a man appeared.

  ‘I mustn’t let the boss hear,’ Imogen said, ‘but I’m out again tonight.’

  Luke frowned.

  ‘In fact, I’m thinking of taking an evening job in a nightclub. Kill two birds with one stone so to speak.’

  ‘Don’t push it,’ Luke said. He reached out his hand to Brittany. ‘Luke Adams. Nice to meet you. Glad she’s keeping you entertained.’

  ‘Oh she is. She’s been telling me how hard she has to work . . . says you’re a bit of a slave driver.’

  Luke raised his eyebrows at Imogen. She winked.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said to Brittany.

  They went into a room at the rear. It was decorated in the same simple and professional manner, yet lacked the refreshing aroma of the reception, and the air seemed a little stale. There was a bed partly disguised by a curtain, dried grasses in a pot in front of the window, a desk with a swivel chair in the centre, and a small sofa to her rear.

  Brittany declined a coffee and accepted a glass of water. She placed it on a small unit alongside the sofa, and rested her weary limbs, sinking into the comfortable fabric cushions.

  ‘So tell me,’ Luke said, ‘what is it you’re hoping to achieve?’

  ‘It’s quite simple really. I had a kidney transplant a little over twelve years ago, and around the same time, a man, Scott Cole, was murdered. My mother confessed and was put into prison. She’s just been given parole. Thing is, she won’t talk to me and refuses to tell me why she did it. I need to know.’

  ‘Okay.’ He scribbled something onto a wad of paper. ‘So you’re looking for her motive?’

  ‘I think there’s more to it. I’ve spoken to Lisa, Scott’s widow, and she told me how they were best friends. She doesn’t believe my mother killed him, and I don’t either.’

  ‘Are you in any kind of contact with your mother?’

  ‘No. I’ve been told that since she’s been out she’s been watching me, so she may live locally, but I wouldn’t know where.’

  Luke was pensive.

  ‘If you're thinking I should press her, I’ve tried. Her mouth is shut tight.’

  ‘Do you think Scott’s death was related to your transplant?’

  ‘I had thought of that, but no, I can’t see why it would be. Lisa assured me he had never been tested to be a match. She was adamant. Something else was going on, something I can’t quite see.’

  ‘When did you receive a transplant?’

  ‘15th January, just over twelve years ago.’

  ‘And when was the murder?’

  ‘I don’t know the exact date. My mother confessed after I had the operation. It may have even been a week later. I was a bit out of it at the time . . . still recovering. It’s a bit of a blur.’

  ‘And that was the last time you spoke to her?’

  ‘No she asked to see me a few weeks ago, in prison, but half way through she went odd and told me to forget about her. She never even mentioned her parole.’

  Luke chewed the end of his pencil.

  ‘She’s hiding something. When I asked her about it, she couldn’t look me in the eye. I have a feeling if I’d never mentioned Scott, we’d still be talking.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. She said she was keeping quiet to keep me out of danger.’

  ‘Danger?’

  ‘Yes. She was afraid, very afraid. It’s made me more determined to find out what’s going on. If you were told you were in danger, you’d want to know why, wouldn’t you?’

  Luke nodded.

  ‘Lord knows why she wanted to see me, but I got the distinct impression it didn’t go to plan. She didn’t know how to handle my questions.’

  Luke scribbled into his notepad then looked up. ‘Can we go back to Lisa?’

  ‘Are you taking any of what I said seriously?’

  ‘Of course I am. I’m sorry you’d think otherwise.’

  Brittany leaned back, forcing herself to relax. He had an air of calmness about him, irritatingly so.

  ‘For the moment I’d just like to get all the facts down,’ he said. ‘Is that okay?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Did Lisa tell you anything else about her relationship with Michelle?’

  ‘She said it was always fun, lots of laughter. There was never any tension. It’s so hard to believe my mum would do such a thing. In fact, my dad said she was stressed. I was not responding so well to treatment and she was struggling to cope. He said she flipped. It was a momentary thing.’

  ‘Did she have a temper?’

  ‘Not especially, but she could lose it. Just like anyone can.’

  ‘Is your father around?’

  ‘He’s abroad. Saudi Arabia.’

  Luke scribbled into his notepad, and then asked her for an assortment of details, from Lisa’s address, to the prison her mother was in.

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ he said.

  ‘What are your instincts?’

  ‘I have to say I do think she’s guilty. There was photographic evidence. Not of the act itself, but of her fleeing.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘She confessed too.’

  ‘Maybe she was bullied by the lawyer. I’ve heard they do these things to get a reduced sentence. Or she could have been set up.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘But you don’t think so.’

  ‘I want to keep all options open . . . just focus on the facts.’

  They wrapped up the interview and Brittany left the room. Michelle was lying about something, and she was going to prove it, with or with
out his help. She headed to the door.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Imogen called, heading to the bathroom.

  Brittany spun around. ‘You too. Don’t let him work you too hard.’

  ‘Unlikely. I have him wrapped around my finger.’

  Displaying a wry smile, Imogen stepped back into the office. Luke was placing the telephone onto the desk.

  ‘You sure wound her up,’ she said.

  ‘You were listening in?’

  ‘I heard most of it. I’m glad you left the door open. It saves me having to listen to the recording.’

  ‘Can you contact the hospital and find out if Scott had a test to be a living donor?’

  Imogen reached in her drawer for a nail file. ‘You think he was a match.’

  ‘Could be. Can you also find out where Brittany’s kidney came from? See if it was local.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And try and back up what you find with paper evidence, if you can.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Then, if you’ve time, see if you can speak to Michelle. You never know, she may just open up.’

  He strode around her desk and donned his jacket, breathing in her alluring smell. She was busy tapping into the computer, searching for contact names and numbers. He had every faith she would find what he wanted by the time he returned.

  Luke eased the car into third gear, turned the corner, and continued along the lane. He knew the road intimately, each dip and bump, each curve and straight edge. He knew the fields, the woodland, he knew the exact location of each remote dwelling, and he knew how beautiful the little lake was on a bright spring day.

  It had been their favourite spot.

  Sarah was a lawyer, and loved everything about city life, from the bustling hordes to the architecture, but she loved this spot too. She was motivated, competent and loved a challenge, and as an added bonus, she was warm and endearing. Often, he would hold her photograph close to his heart and listen to her favourite song, the one that she swayed to, the one that lit her face.

  The road dipped. He hugged the side keeping his foot over the brake, and peered into the eerie and silent woodland, where the bare branches of the deciduous trees shivered and the conifers exuded warmth and security. At a glance, it appeared lifeless; the small mammals hid in the ground litter, the deer stayed near the bushes, out of sight, and the birds disappeared to the cover of the canopy.

  It was the way they had both preferred it. No people; no distractions.

  He stopped the car in a lay by and headed down a narrow path to a boulder. The water glistered, reflecting a near-perfect replica of the hillside, the bed of shingle was sun-bleached, undisturbed and wonderfully desolate, and the trees loomed, stretching to the skies and providing the perfect backdrop. It was hard to believe they were only a few miles from a major city-centre.

  It was his preferred thinking spot.

  The gentle breeze licked his skin, breathing life into his sun-drenched pallor. He loosened his tie and opened his collar, and he shuffled on the hard surface. Should he confront Sarah, announce his feelings of love? Should he wait for her to contact him and hope she seized the moment? Should he ever forgive her for what she had done?

  A bird soared in the blue, cloudless skies, circling, climbing, banking and swooping, before sinking into the top of a tree. Moments later it was greeted by it's mate. They disappeared out of view.

  Life was about unions, about finding a partner and producing offspring. But both parties needed to have the same aim, and how could he ever but sure of Sarah’s? Her blatant lies echoed as clear as though it was yesterday. It was not something he could forget.

  Luke strode into the office, greeted Imogen, and leaned into his swivel chair. ‘Made any progress?’

  ‘You expect great things of me Luke Adams.’

  ‘That’s because you’re the best.’

  ‘Keeping talking,’ she said, smiling, ‘I’m after a pay rise.’

  He flicked on his monitor and switched to his emails. Several more had arrived.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Imogen continued. ‘I’ve found out quite a bit.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘First, I spoke to the transplant coordinator at the hospital. She told me Brittany’s kidney came from Scotland, a woman in her thirties. She was reluctant to send me the details but I persuaded her, provided we don’t show Brittany. They’re sensitive about these things.’

  ‘Could there have been a mistake?’

  ‘No, I asked her that. She was adamant.’

  Luke held his hand to his chin, thoughtful.

  ‘Next I checked if Scott had ever been tested to be a match, just in case there had been a mistake somewhere. He hadn’t.’

  ‘Definitely?

  She nodded. ‘I even checked other places that do this kind of testing, other units. It seems Lisa was right. He had never been tested. And anyhow, as I said, his organs weren’t used for Brittany so it didn’t matter even if he was.’

  ‘Was he on the donor register?’

  ‘No, and his body was cremated.’

  Luke nodded. ‘So his death was unrelated to Brittany’s transplant.’

  ‘Seems so. Must be coincidence.’

  He rotated a pencil between his fingers. There was no such thing.

  ‘I have discovered one thing though,’ she paused, waited for a reaction. ‘I spoke to a nurse in renal and when I said I was working on a private case relating to an ex-patient, she muttered “Bloody Tim Canning”.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Apparently, over the years, he’s made a bit of a nuisance for himself and has been encouraging customers to make official complaints.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  Imogen shook her head. ‘Good question.’

  ‘Have you been able to track him down?’

  ‘No, not yet. She wouldn’t give me the details . . . she was very cagey and regretted her comment.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘It could be that he simply has an axe to grind, or-’

  ‘Or he knows something, and it’s the very same thing that Michelle Handley is trying to avoid speaking about.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Chapter 6

  Michelle sauntered through the supermarket car park, swinging her arm and with her head held high. She was free. Free to walk through a crowd of strangers, free to choose foods that satisfied her palate, free to inhale the fresh air. She weaved around cars and ambled by men and women with brimming trolleys, taking in the finer details, from the hazel colour of someone’s eyes to the scuff on a brown leather shoe. Then there was the noise; the roaring of car engines, the muffled clipping of heels on the concrete, the rush of wind, and the murmuring of voices. It was sensational, an unappreciated liberty.

  Just inside, she stopped and absorbed the huge expense and the never-ending rows of products, and her body tingled. She could buy whatever she wanted. There were no limitations, no rules. She could live again.

  She reached for a basket, and as though magnetised, headed to the clothing aisle. Captivated, she touched the fabric of a thin cardigan and slid her fingers across a blouse, but they were no quite to her taste; too plain, too conservative. She wanted to express herself, needed to look and feel different to everyone else, so she continued along, perusing the products. A vivid pink top caught her attention. It had a plunging neckline with a lace inset, and she held it to her front. The soft fabric flopped in her hands. She breathed in the clean aroma, imagined herself in a bar drinking and laughing, and placed it in her basket.

  Her pulse quickened, her pleasure senses heightened. It was a wondrous experience, something she had dreamed of doing for such a long time, such a simple indulgence. She lifted her gaze, reminded herself she was not dreaming, and looked to the other shoppers. Many seemed immersed in their task and had glazed eyes and blank expressions. A woman and daughter caught her attention.

  ‘Mum,’ the teenage girl cried. ‘Thes
e sandals are perfect. Can I have them?’

  The woman turned her head and frowned.

  ‘Please, I’ll do whatever you ask. I’ll iron for a week . . . and do the washing.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll need them for Spain. Please. I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow as well.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ she said, and hugged her and splattered several kisses upon her cheeks. It was such a natural, untainted response that Michelle could not help but smile.

  Her happiness did not last. She would never go shopping with Brittany, never share in such simple pleasures. Forcefully she told herself she should not mope. She had done what she had to do. Brittany though, had also suffered, an unavoidable consequence, and a lump formed in her throat as an image of her daughter’s extreme anxiety and piercing, sorrowful eyes lingered.

  Her meeting with Brittany had been a mistake. She should not have relented to the plea to meet. Why had she convinced herself that Brittany would be able to let bygones be bygones? She had been foolish and had been thinking entirely selfishly, yearning only to satisfy her own inner cravings. Of course Brittany would want to know more about the murder and the reason for her secrecy, it was a natural instinct, and the gap would not easily be filled.

  Scott’s death had not been planned. She bit her lip and scrunched her face. If he had been difficult to get on with or had had a vile disposition, she would not have felt so bad, but he was a wonderful man with a gentle and easy-going manner. He had always asked about Brittany, and always listened to her woes. His death had been regrettable.

  She blamed Dr O’Riordan. She had spent over twelve years in prison because of what he had done and she could not forgive him. She had had a plan, a way of being with her precious daughter forever, but he had ruined it. It had been working too, damn it.

  She stomped through the store, no longer able to enjoy the experience, and thrust items into her basket. She glared at anyone standing in her way, elbowed past the unfortunate and snapped at the unyielding.

  Watching Brittany close in on death, day after day, had been heartbreaking, and it had taken every effort to keep her adrenaline under control and out of sight. She prayed daily, despite not being the religious type, and she battled with her insidious panic that insistently and perpetually coursed though her blood. Losing her daughter was not something she could have dealt with. It just could not happen.