Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

‘You don’t know the first thing about me, so how can you claim to know that?’

  ‘You’re still the same Brittany . . . still my daughter.’

  ‘That doesn’t give you any rights.’ She headed through the open door. ‘Leave me alone . . . leave us both alone.’

  Brittany scurried away as fast as she could, refusing to relent to the plaintive cries. She did not turn around. She did not stop. Then her guard broke and her tears streaked her ashen face.

  ‘Isn’t that Brittany?’ Imogen asked.

  Luke fleetingly glanced out of the side window, and then reverted his attention back to the traffic. There had been an accident and they had been queuing in the traffic for a while. ‘Yes, I think it is.’

  ‘She looks like she’s crying. Maybe I should go see if she’s okay.’

  He turned to her and frowned. ‘Why? It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘It’s what people do.’ She flung him a harsh stare. ‘I wonder what it’s about.’

  ‘Most likely, nothing. You women are good at turning on the tap.’

  ‘We have emotions, which is more than I can say for you.’

  ‘I have emotions. I just keep mine in perspective. I’ve seen you cry when you’ve split a nail.’

  Imogen’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘And what about the time you laddered your tights. I thought the world had ended.’

  ‘I didn’t have a spare pair. And anyway, they weren’t tights, they were stockings.’

  He edged the car forward, keeping his eyes fixated. ‘You could have gone without.’

  ‘It was mid-winter!’

  ‘You must get a draught up there with stockings, so what’s the difference?’

  ‘Luke Adams! Clean your mind!’ She brushed a floating strand of fawn hair away from her small upturned nose.

  ‘What do you expect me to think,’ he said, ‘when you tell me you’re wearing stockings.’

  ‘I’m not today. I’m not wearing anything.’

  He caught her eye. She guffawed.

  The traffic started to move. ‘Finally,’ he said, and thrust the car into second gear, turned into Michelle’s street and searched for a parking spot.

  ‘You look like you need some air . . . getting a little hot under the collar?’

  He pulled on the handbrake and glanced into the rear view mirror. His skin was a greyish colour and his mousy-coloured hair was plastered to his head. He looked no different to normal.

  ‘Your games are not going to work anymore,’ he said, exiting the car. ‘I’m a content man.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  He waited on the pavement. She tottered towards him, hardly able to walk on her ridiculously high heels, and then thrust out her breasts as she proceeded to remove her jacket. He told himself not to look; she was doing it deliberately.

  Luke knocked on the door of number six, and within seconds, it opened. He introduced himself and Imogen and followed Michelle to the living room. She was limping.

  ‘You foot looks bad,’ he said, ‘what have you done?’

  She flung him a dogged look. ‘None of your business!’

  He glimpsed at Imogen and sat on the sofa. Michelle was gathering the scatterings of photos and other memorabilia from the table into a loose pile, and dropped them into a box.

  ‘You’ve got some nice photos there,’ he said.

  ‘Gavin never took any of Brittany during her teenage years. I was furious.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  Michelle nodded. ‘He wasn’t into taking pictures. I’d told him to take some as well. He . . . he said he was too busy. I accept he was a single father and often worked double shifts at the hospital, but that’s no excuse.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  She hesitated, her eyes flitting. ‘He processed the blood tests. It was quite handy, because when we were searching for a living donor he could do it right away and pass on the results. It eased the pain of waiting.’

  ‘Does he still work at the hospital?’

  ‘No, he left about ten years ago. He didn’t like the set up. He worked in laboratory for a while, and then got a job on an oilrig. He’s in the Middle East now.’

  Luke opened his leather bag and extracted a notebook. As she continued to chat about her ex-husband and their decision to divorce, he made a few notes. She seemed forthcoming; he hoped for a swift result.

  ‘As I mentioned on the phone,’ he said, ‘we’re working on a case connected to the renal department and I’m going to have to ask you a few questions. I hope it won’t be too painful.’

  ‘If you’re thinking of asking me about Scott Cole, then don’t. I have nothing to say.’

  ‘So there’s no point in asking why you did it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or what the connection to Brittany was?’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you sorry for killing him?’

  ‘I’m sorry he died.’

  ‘But you’re not sorry for what you did?’

  ‘Check the police reports.’

  ‘We have and they say you showed no remorse. Quite frankly, I’m surprised with that attitude you’ve got parole.’

  ‘I was the perfect inmate.’

  ‘Did you change your mind . . . say you were sorry?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Luke leaned back and rotated the pen between his fingers. ‘Okay, I’ll move on, but if it is relevant, for your own sake, you should tell one of us. It’ll go in your favour.’

  ‘I’ve already done my time. I don’t need favours.’

  ‘We’re not the bad guys here. Please give it some thought.’

  Silence.

  ‘I suspect you’re more aware of what’s going on than us. If you help us, we’ll try to help you.’

  Michelle removed her red-rimmed glasses and rubbed behind her ear. Her demeanour was stern, her guard up. It wasn’t going to be as easy as he had thought, but he wasn’t giving up. Something would slip; it always did.

  ‘Do you know Tim Canning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve never heard of him?’

  ‘No, should I?’

  He reached into his bag and extracted a photo he’d printed onto paper. ‘Does this help?’

  She stared for a few moments, then handed it back. ‘I’ve not seen him before.’

  He did not see even a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. She was either very clever at disguising her thoughts, or genuinely did not recognise him. He believed the former to be the most likely. She had had years of practice at deception.

  ‘Did you jump the queue, so to speak, regarding Brittany’s transplant?’

  ‘She got an organ when one became available.’

  ‘And was that sooner than it would have been if you hadn’t interfered with the process?’

  ‘Who said I interfered?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘It happened when it happened.’

  ‘It’s in your own interest that you cooperate,’ Luke said, his tension rising.

  Silence.

  ‘Did you pay Dr O’Riordan?’

  ‘Is that what’s going on?’

  ‘I think you know exactly what’s going on. You were involved, and as good as admitted there was a connection to Scott.’

  Silence.

  ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Like I’m going to tell you. I’ve kept quiet for this long.’

  ‘Then give me names.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Luke persisted with the questioning, searching for clues to her involvement by altering the phrasing, but it soon became evident she was used to the procedure and wasn’t going to crumble. It was irritating but not surprising. After all, she had avoided telling the police her motive for Scott’s murder.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re so tight lipped considering Brittany’s relationship with the department,’ he said.

  ‘This has nothing to do with Brittany.’

  ‘No? What if she needs new medication, or an
other transplant?’

  Michelle tightened her arms across her body and rubbed her hands upon her elbows. ‘Then she’ll get it.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It depends how far the corruption has spread. Maybe she won’t be considered a high enough priority.’

  ‘That won’t happen.’

  ‘You seem very sure.’

  Michelle refused to be drawn.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t want to see her suffer.’ He looked to the box of memorabilia on the floor. ‘You obviously care a great deal about her.’

  ‘She won’t suffer.’

  ‘But she is suffering. She needs a mother who will talk to her, a mother who will be honest and be on her side. The very fact you know what’s going on in renal means you’re fighting for the opposition.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve thought long and hard about this? I’ve spent the best part of the last twelve years doing nothing else. I just want to forget what happened and make a fresh start. Am I not allowed that?’

  ‘Is Brittany not allowed answers?’

  ‘I’ve told Brittany all I’m going to tell her. She’ll have to imagine the rest.’

  ‘But she’s struggling.’

  ‘I can’t help that. Believe me, I am doing what’s best for her. She’s all I care about.’

  ‘Have you explained that to her.’

  Michelle leapt to her feet. ‘My relationship with my daughter is none of your concern!’

  Luke hesitated for a moment, and withheld the fact Brittany was his client. If Michelle wasn’t already aware, it could be detrimental to the case.

  ‘I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘Fair enough. I think we’re done here anyway. You’ve been most useful.’

  Michelle frowned.

  ‘Can I use the bathroom?’

  ‘Top of the stairs.’

  He placed his clipboard onto the cushion and left the room. The house was sparsely decorated; there were no plants, no ornaments, and no pictures on the wall. It didn’t have a homely feel about it at all, and he wondered how long Michelle intended to stay.

  He pushed open the bathroom door. It banged against a cupboard door. Inside was a rope, and just above, on a shelf, were metal clasps. He thrust it shut and continued about his business. Having washed his hands, he returning downstairs. Michelle and Imogen were chatting, their voices bright.

  ‘Nice place you have here,’ he said, ‘are you renting?’

  ‘It’s a friend’s place. He’s gone travelling.’

  ‘Lucky for some. Where’s he gone?’

  ‘The Alps I think.’

  ‘Abseiling?’

  Michelle frowned. ‘I don’t know. I was just telling Imogen that there’s a living donor event on in town tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh right,’ he said, surprised by the swift change of subject. ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘In the market square.’

  ‘We should go,’ Imogen said, ‘it could be interesting.’

  Luke agreed and thrust his belongings into his bag, fastened the buckle, and slung it over his shoulder.

  ‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ he said, ‘you rest that foot. And don’t forget, if there’s anything you decide to tell us, you have my card. It’ll be for the best if you talk.’

  Satisfied, Luke followed Imogen into the cool spring air and strode to the car. The traffic had eased and was no longer gnarled. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and opened the car doors.

  ‘She’s very distressed,’ Imogen said, ‘definitely holding something back.’

  ‘Hmm. I agree.’

  ‘When you popped upstairs I tried to get her talking about Brittany. She clammed up even more. She loves that girl. I don’t think she really knows what to do. I doubt she has anyone to talk to about it.’

  ‘Was she tearful?’

  ‘Actually, her eyes were moist. She was showing she was a compassionate human being.’

  ‘A compassionate human being who kills in cold blood.’

  ‘You’re very cynical Luke Adam’s.’

  ‘Cynical, maybe, but no murderer can be described as compassionate. She’s a clever woman. Don’t underestimate her.’

  Luke turned the ignition. Never again did he intend to underestimate a woman. Not since Sarah deceived him; not since his heart had been broken.

  Chapter 18

  Luke rotated the pencil between his fingertips, and mulled over his imminent excursion to the living donor promotion in town. He should try to speak to as many people as possible, without any mention of who he was or what he was investigating. It was the perfect opportunity, a chance to mingle without being regarded suspiciously, and Imogen should accompany him.

  Her tongue rested upon her upper lip and her hand tightly gripped her pendant; she was entirely absorbed, unaware he was watching, and was reading something on the computer monitor. He averted his gaze.

  In many ways, she was very similar to Crystal. Both were equally beautiful and had laid-back personalities. Was that the attraction? Did he feel safe with someone he believed he had no real chance at a future with? She was fun-loving and convivial, and great for the confidence, but she wasn’t wife material . . . or mother material.

  His heart grew heavy. Taking care not to make a sound, he eased open his drawer and peered at Sarah.

  ‘You should be over her by now,’ Imogen said.

  Jolting, he slammed to drawer shut. His fingers caught. He yelped.

  ‘Serves you right,’ Imogen said.

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything.’

  ‘Why are you still thinking about her? She’s no good for you.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about her. Anyway, what were you doing looking in my drawer.’

  ‘I don’t snoop. You left it open the other day. You should have seen the look on your face.’

  Imogen chuckled. He lowered his gaze and waited for her condemnation.

  ‘Really Luke, you should get rid of it.’

  ‘I . . . I forgot it was there. It’s been hidden under some junk.’

  ‘Likely story. When I fell out with my ex, I threw everything away that reminded me of him. It was cathartic.’

  ‘I will get rid of it.’

  ‘It’s disrespectful to Crystal. How would you feel if she was still ogling her ex?’

  ‘I’m not ogling her.’

  ‘Okay, maybe not ogling.’ A twinkle crept to her eyes. ‘I’ve seen you ogle. It’s more like mournful.’

  To busy himself, he focused on the computer monitor and switched to his email screen. He had to be on his guard and could not let anything slip. She could not find out why he had suddenly become so obsessed.

  ‘One day you’ll wake up and realise you’re better off without Sarah. Anyone who can lie about her pregnancy, and then lie again about you being the father, is not worth wasting time on.’

  Luke gulped, his memories vivid. He had rushed into the clinic, desperate to stop the procedure, and demanded to speak to her. Unwillingly, she appeared from another room, dispassionate and in control, and told him she was a lawyer and could not even consider being a mother. When he tried to persuade her to rethink her decision, she told him the baby was not his. To make matters worse, days later, she reluctantly allowed him to visit. It was then she admitted she had lied; he was the father. Sarah had not wanted to deal with his begging and pleading.

  He cringed and stepped through his emails, embarrassed by his show of desperation along with the callous way in which he had been treated. He had loved her, and in many ways still did, but he had also vowed never to speak with her again. It was going to be a difficult keeping his word.

  ‘Is something going on that I’m unaware of?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Call it female intuition.

  Luke steadied his breathing. ‘I saw her a week or two ago, she-’

  Imogen’s phone buzzed. ‘Sorry, I have to get this.’

  She slipped out of the office and into the next room. He could hear
her talking, bubbly and exuberant, and his heart sank.

  Perhaps it was a good thing he had been interrupted. He couldn’t cope with the never-ending questions and pitiful glances, but more importantly, he feared her advice. Would she suggest a confrontation? Would Sarah turn him away once again? It was entirely possible he had misconstrued what she had said. It was not a risk worth taking.

  Crystal was a worthy distraction. He reached for his phone, dialled her number, and waiting for her soothing tones to calm his quivers.

  Luke loosened his tie and released the top button on his shirt. A little distance away, beyond two department stores and a row of smaller shops, was a stall, headed by a banner with the words ‘Gift of Life’. A few people loitered, and either read the leaflets or chatted to the stallholders.

  ‘Recognise anyone?’ he asked.

  Imogen shook her head. ‘Try to look natural.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You look a bit stiff.’

  ‘I can’t help that.’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose you can,’ she replied, her eyes glistening.

  Imogen was always relaxed and never felt it necessary to wear formal attire. Her vibrant skirt swayed as she walked, her lush fawn hair was bobbing, and her heels clipping the pavement. She portrayed a youthful innocence.

  ‘I doubt they’ll suspect what you’re up to dressed like that,’ he said.

  ‘What do mean?’

  ‘No one will take you seriously. You look very girly.’

  ‘Girly?’

  ‘Yes, a bit wet behind the ears . . . callow.’

  ‘Callow?’

  ‘Inexperienced. Youthful.’

  Imogen stopped and stared. ‘I know what it means. Are you being mean?’

  ‘No.’ He looked away, hiding his blushes and swallowing a bitter taste. ‘It came out wrong.’

  ‘So explain yourself.’

  ‘People will see you more as a shop assistant type than an investigator. It’s the perfect cover.’

  ‘Hmm. Okay.’

  They continued down the hill. Two elderly women with heavy woollen coats and large bags headed towards them, blocking their passage around a monument. He stood aside to let them through. They were dawdling and nattering about nonsense, about whether a couple were suited to each other, and his irritation rose. It was no one else’s business but those involved.