Psychological Thriller Series: Adam Stanley Boxed Set: Behind Shadows, Positively Murder and Mind Bender

by Netta Newbound

  He scratched his head. "I took the car for a spin. I topped up the oil and needed to get the engine hot for it to bed in."

  “Really?” She shrugged. “Oh, well, your lunch was ready ages ago. I'll bet it's ruined now.”

  “Great. I'm starving.” He kissed the tip of her nose and followed her inside.

  Chapter 2

  I pressed two pills out of the blister pack and popped them into my mouth, swilling them down with a glass of water, before rubbing my temples. For the second time that morning, I vowed to stay away from the booze for a while.

  I groaned as my partner, Detective Holly Frances, Frances as she liked to be known, rapped on the door before marching straight in. She tried her best to look as masculine as possible with her pretty face devoid of makeup, and her close cropped brown hair. Her work colleagues were certain she was a dyke. I didn’t correct them. It was up to her if she wanted to introduce them to her long-time boyfriend, Steve, or keep them guessing.

  “Homicide in Pinevale Common, boss. A Caucasian man in his fifties has been shot at point-blank range. Killed instantly.”

  I got to my feet and grabbed my keys and jacket. “Any witnesses?”

  “A whole park load of them.”

  “Let’s go.”

  *

  Twenty minutes later, we ducked underneath the police tape at the Common.

  "DI Adam Stanley and DS Holly Frances,” I said, as we flashed our badges to the officer at the scene. “Do we know who he is yet?"

  "His ID says he's a local man, Wayne Houston. It's not clear what the motive was at this stage. Some of the witnesses saw him give the shooter a briefcase, but a thief would have taken his wallet. It’s stuffed with cash."

  "What else do we know about the gunman?"

  "Dressed in grey sweats with dark hair. He drove a blue Jag. No number plate details. One witness said they didn't appear to speak to each other."

  I nodded. "Has anybody notified his next of kin?"

  "Not yet, sir.”

  *

  I parked outside a large detached house in Pinevale Heights. A high brick wall, topped with wrought iron railings, surrounded the property. The electric gate stood wide open.

  I raised my eyebrows at Frances as we approached the front steps. "Somebody likes their privacy," I said.

  "How the other half live, hey?"

  A middle-aged woman opened the heavy, wooden door before we had a chance to knock.

  "Can I help you?" Her voice reminded me of a disappointed headmistress.

  "Patricia Houston?" I felt conscious of my broad Mancunian accent.

  "Yes." She glanced from me to Frances as though she had a bad taste in her mouth.

  I introduced us both as we showed her our badges.

  "Can we come in, please?" I asked.

  "Will it take long? I'm supposed to be going to a meeting."

  "May I?" I placed a foot on the top step and put my hand on the door.

  Mrs Houston shuffled backwards and allowed us to enter.

  I almost gave a long, low whistle when I took in the grandness of the beautiful home. A huge crystal chandelier, the first thing I noticed, hung in the large, marble entrance hall.

  Mrs Houston led us through to a formal lounge and indicated we take a seat on one of the red leather chesterfield sofas.

  I clocked a framed photograph of the victim and his wife taking pride of place on the sideboard and motioned with my head for Frances to look.

  She acknowledged she'd seen it. Our silent communication was more like a second language now.

  Once seated, I cleared my throat before speaking. "Mrs Houston, I'm afraid we have some bad news."

  She clutched at her throat.

  "It's about your husband." I nodded at the photograph.

  "Wayne? What about him?"

  "There was a shooting at Pinevale Common. I'm sorry, Mrs Houston, but your husband's dead."

  "A shooting?" She shook her head. "I don't understand."

  "The details are still unclear, but the probable motive is robbery. Somebody saw the gunman take your husband's briefcase, although one of our officers found his wallet still in his pocket, which seems odd to me," I said.

  "Are you sure it was him?" she whispered, seeming in full control. The only telltale sign she wasn’t, was the slight quiver of her bottom lip.

  I glanced at Frances.

  "We are quite certain, Mrs Houston,” Frances said. However, we will need a formal identification as soon as forensics have completed their investigation."

  A sob caught in Mrs Houston’s throat. "I'm sorry," she said. "It can't be ..." She clasped her hands together and began playing with the rings on her wedding finger.

  "I know you're in shock. Can I call anybody for you? A family member or a friend?” Frances asked.

  “No—I’d rather be alone for now.”

  “We need to ask you a few questions before we can leave you in peace," I said.

  Mrs Houston took a deep breath and shuffled in her seat. A little more composed, she turned her head to face me once again. "Okay." She nodded.

  "Do you know why your husband might have been at the Common?" I asked.

  "Not at all. He left here to go to the office."

  "On a Sunday? Does he always work weekends?"

  "He works all the hours he can, Detective. But no, he doesn't usually go into the office on the weekend. The company recently relocated, and a lot of the computer systems still need setting up."

  "And what time did he leave?"

  "After breakfast, seven-forty. Around that time, anyway."

  Frances busily scribbled in her notebook.

  "We will need his office details, if you don't mind, Mrs Houston, to try and establish his movements between leaving here and the incident on the common.

  "Of course." She got to her feet and picked up a business card from beside the ornate telephone. She handed it to me.

  "Pipe Solutions in Pinevale. What was your husband’s position?" I asked, reading from the card.

  "He's a director. We both are."

  "Can I ask how your husband has been recently? Any odd behaviour, moodiness? Anything out of character?"

  "No, nothing." She shook her head and turned away briefly, sniffling.

  "I'm sorry, but I must ask. Do you know of anybody who might want him dead?"

  "Most definitely not. He's a quiet, hardworking, dependable man. He has no secrets, never tells lies. I’m stunned.” She reached for her handbag and produced a fancy linen hanky, and then dabbed her eyes.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea, or something stronger?” Frances asked.

  “No, thank you. I would prefer to be alone for a while, if you don’t mind. That is, if you have no further questions?”

  “That should be all for now, thanks. Somebody will be in touch to arrange for you to identify the body. It doesn’t have to be you—a family member is fine.” I got to my feet.

  “Okay, I’ll organise something. Thank you for informing me.”

  “You’re welcome.” I patted her shoulder before heading to the door.

  As we got into the car, Frances, keeping her face and lips straight in case anybody was watching, said in a high-pitched voice, “You’re welcome! You’re welcome! You’d just told the woman her husband was dead, and you said, you’re welcome.” She gave a strange-sounding laugh.

  “Shut the fuck up, Frances,” I said through gritted teeth.

  *

  The offices of Pipe Solutions were in a brand new, multi-storey, purpose-built office block. I had expected a prefab at the back of a work yard filled with pipes.

  "Must be some serious money in pipes, Frances."

  I presumed the gothic-looking receptionist, Mandy, was probably a relation. She wasn't the type of person you'd expect a toff like Mr Houston would hire to be front of house.

  She told them her boss had arrived at the office around 8am, but left mid-morning without any explanation. She had been calling him since as he
needed to be there to help the IT staff.

  I glanced around. "Seems quiet. I thought you were the only one here?"

  "I am now. The others got tired of waiting, so they left. But I was worried. It's not like him, and he's not answering his phone," she said, wide-eyed.

  "Do you know if he took his briefcase out with him?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure. I don't recall seeing it."

  "Do you mind if we take a quick look in his office?"

  "I dunno. Maybe I should try to call him once more."

  "Trust me, Mandy. Mr Houston is not going to complain. I assure you." I placed a hand on her petite shoulder then eased past her and into the office.

  Frances and Mandy followed.

  A briefcase lay open on the oak desk. I fingered through the meagre contents, but nothing caught my eye. I walked around the neat and tidy desk. Nothing stood out to me that anything sinister had gone down.

  "Is this Mr Houston's only briefcase, Mandy?"

  "Yes, sir. I think so."

  "And are you able to access his appointment diary?"

  "Yes. His computer syncs with mine every week night."

  "Could you email me a list of his appointments for the past month, please?" I handed her my card.

  "I guess I could." Her forehead wrinkled in a worried frown.

  "One last thing. Did he receive any calls before he left today?"

  "Not through the office phone, no. But I did hear his mobile ringing just before he left."

  I gave her a mock salute.

  "Thank you for your help, Mandy," Frances said.

  We headed for the large glass door.

  "Erm ... excuse me," Mandy said.

  We turned back to face her.

  "Your card says homicide. Did something happen to Mr Houston?"

  Chapter 3

  At the station, the incident board had already been set up, and Frances began adding the extra information.

  I read through the witness statements Cal had left on my desk before going back into the main office. "According to this, Houston wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting on the bench as though waiting for somebody. The gunman approached, and Houston handed the man the briefcase. The gunman fired and walked calmly away. Doesn't make sense," I said. "What reason would he have for shooting him?"

  "Maybe it was a hit."

  I tapped my pen on my chin. "Possible. But by who? And why?"

  "His wife?" Frances put the whiteboard marker down and sat on the top of her desk, crossing her slender legs.

  "Can't see it, but hey, stranger things have happened."

  "She has the motive."

  "Which is?"

  "Money. He's got shitloads of it by the looks of things."

  "They're both directors. She's his wife, so she'd get half of their fortune if she walked out the door. Why kill him? Plus, it still doesn't explain what he was doing at the Common."

  "True." Frances pursed her lips in thought.

  "Do we have a copy of Houston's mobile phone report?" I asked.

  Frances fingered through a pile of paper on her desk. "Yes. He received a call at 10.59am from an untraceable burner phone."

  "Has Mrs Houston identified her husband’s remains yet?"

  She rifled through more papers. "No—Forensics still haven’t released the body."

  "The press want a statement. Can you arrange that? Give them a description of the gunman and his car. Do we have a list of Jaguar owners, by the way?"

  "Calvin's working on it as we speak."

  "Good. Get him to run a trace on Mr and Mrs Houston. Where they came from, any convictions, and so on."

  I went back to my office and closed the door behind me. After opening a window, I sat at my desk and set about tackling the pile of paperwork I had to get through before I could even consider knocking off for the evening.

  One good thing about this job was I got very little time to dwell. I hadn't thought about Amanda since breakfast.

  Frances tapped on the door and entered. She placed a plastic sandwich packet on my desk. "Chicken and avocado. Get it down you. How's your head, anyway?"

  I picked the packet up and laughed. "I am capable of feeding myself, Frances."

  "But are you, though? It's almost four o'clock and I bet you haven't eaten a thing yet."

  "The headache's gone. Nothing like a cold-blooded murder to clear your head." I opened the flimsy plastic. "Thanks for this. My shout next time."

  "I'll hold you to that," she said as she left.

  ***

  The sound of Meatloaf blared from the iPod. Oliver pounded on the treadmill in the spare bedroom he'd set up as a gym. He liked to keep fit, and did at least an hour's exercise three times a week.

  Celia startled him as she burst through the door.

  His feet faltered and the safety tag he'd clipped to his T-shirt caused the treadmill to stop before causing him some serious damage.

  "There's been a murder!" she shouted.

  "What? I can't hear you." He wiped his face on the white towel he had over his shoulder to dab away any sweat, and jumped off the machine to switch off the music.

  "There's been a murder!"

  "What? Who?"

  "I don't know who. It was just on the news. They said a business man had been shot dead at Pinevale Common."

  "True?" He rubbed the towel up and down his arms.

  "They're looking for a man in his thirties, with dark hair, wearing grey sweats and driving a blue Jag."

  Oliver snorted. "Sod off!"

  "I'm not joking, babes. That's what they said on the news."

  "Seriously?"

  "Yeah. I paused it. Come and see for yourself."

  He followed Celia to the lounge and watched the screen, his mouth agape.

  Celia stared at him wide-eyed.

  "What? It wasn’t me!" He shoved her and laughed.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Have you listened to yourself?"

  "No. I don't mean are you sure you didn't kill someone. I mean maybe someone saw you and mistook you for the killer."

  "How could they, Seels. I've been here all day."

  "No, you went for a drive, remember? You fit the description and you drive a blue Jag. It doesn't take a genius to work out ..."

  "Work what out, Miss Marple?"

  "They've wrongly identified the killer."

  "Come off it." Oliver screwed his face up as he shook his head. "There's more than one Jag driver out there, you muppet!" He laughed.

  "Don't you call me a muppet." Celia pounced on him and they wrestled on the sofa until he allowed her to straddle him and pin his arms above his head.

  "Ooh, Miss Marple. Not only are you a top class detective, but you're also pretty handy."

  "You learn a thing or two when you grow up with three brothers."

  "I'm sure you do!" He wriggled his eyebrows. "And one or two of their mates, I'm guessing."

  Celia playfully sucker-punched him in the ribs.

  Oliver groaned and rolled forwards, knocking her off balance. He reversed their position in an instant.

  "Not so cocky now are you, Miss Marple?"

  Chapter 4

  The busy roads were typical for a Monday morning. Oliver crawled along in his Jag listening to the breakfast show on the radio.

  The 8am news did a brief update on the dead man. They said he was local businessman, Wayne Houston. Oliver didn't know him, but he had heard of his pipe business which had recently moved into the new offices in town.

  "Probably a dodgy deal gone wrong," he said aloud.

  What should have only been a five minute trip down the road took thirty minutes. He'd considered running to the office as part of his fitness regime, but didn't think his boss would be too thrilled if he turned up all hot and sweaty.

  He pulled into the carpark where he’d worked for almost twenty years as a graphics designer—a good one, even if he did say so himself.

  The rest of his team were already in the staff room whe
n he arrived. They would all need at least two coffees before they could shake off the weekend and get down to some actual work.

  The main subject on everyone's lips was the murder. Oliver stayed out of the potentially heated discussion. Everyone had their own theory, but nobody really knew.

  "Our Debbie's husband used to work for him years ago,” Margaret said. “Apparently he was a great bloke.”

  "I used to go to the same hairdresser as his wife,” replied Karen, the cleaner. “She's a real snob. All that money, and she never left a tip."

  Oliver found it funny how everybody tried to find some kind of teeny-weeny connection to the victim. He ducked out and took his coffee into his office.

  *

  At 10.50am his mobile rang.

  Oliver held it to his ear, then ended the call and headed out the door.

  "I'm off out, Penny,” he said to the ditsy receptionist. “I've an errand to run. I won't be long.”

  "Okay, Mr Bertram." She batted her eyelashes his way.

  Minutes later he was in a queue at his bank with a holdall at his feet.

  The teller was an old friend of his brother. They used to go to school together. "Hey, Ollie-lad. Long time, no see.”

  "Hi, Manfred." His name was Tony Mann but all his mates called him Manfred Mann after some old sixties’ band.

  "What can I do for you, lad?"

  "I arranged to withdraw fifty thousand pounds last week. They told me the cash would be here today."

  "Fuck, man. That's a lot of money," Manfred whispered.

  "I know it is, which is why I ordered in advance."

  Manfred held his hands up. "Hey, I'm not saying you can't have it, Ollie. I just need to check with my manager." He ducked through a door behind him.

  Moments later Manfred returned with a short, balding, bespectacled man.

  "Ah, yes, Mr Bertram. Come on through."

  Oliver picked up the holdall and followed the little man through to an office to the side of the room.

  "You've ordered quite a large sum of cash, sir. Do you want it in the bag?"

  Oliver nodded and lifted the holdall to the desk.

  "We will need to see some ID, of course. And also, I need to make you aware that we are required by law to inform the authorities of any large deposits or withdrawals."