"Yeah, that's fine." Oliver took his bankcard and driver's licence from his wallet, and handed them over.
"I’ll be back in a tick, sir," The man said, taking Oliver's ID with him.
A short while later he returned. He placed a large plastic-wrapped package on the table and prepared to slit the wrapping with a box cutter.
“Don't open it," Oliver said.
"It's standard procedure to count the notes out in front of the customer, sir."
"I haven't got time for that. Just shove it in the bag, and show me where I need to sign."
"Ah, but ..."
"Never mind. I left work and need to get back there before anybody notices I've gone. I ordered the cash last week. It's my money, isn’t it? Please just put it into the bag and let me get outta here," he snapped, feeling more tetchy than usual.
"As you please, sir." He stacked the cash inside the holdall.
Soon after, Oliver left with the bag over his shoulder.
***
Malik Duvall watched over the packaging line from his office window above.
He often stood there. Not only did it make him feel important, but there was far less waste and more productivity when he did. Fact.
The Duvall Confectionary Company had thrived for years with his grandfather at the helm, but, sadly, business had declined in the twenty years his father ran the place. Malik intended to get the Duvall name back up there with the likes of Cadbury and Swizzels-Matlow. He'd already seen a huge difference since inheriting the company nine months ago.
He loved sweets, his favourite being chocolate caramels, followed closely by Turkish Delight. However, if the truth be known, he loved most of the range they produced. Hence his massive weight gain.
Since meeting Sal, gorging himself stupid was a thing of the past. He promised her he would fit into a suit of her choosing for their wedding in two months time, and he would do everything in his power to stick to his diet. He’d lost over a stone already, but he still had a long way to go.
They met on a cruise six months ago, and he fell for her in an instant. She took a little more convincing. She loved him now, of course. They were soulmates. Fact.
He couldn't believe he'd managed to pull such a dish. At twenty-eight years old, she was fifteen years his junior. She was blonde with blue eyes and a killer bod. Fact.
He dropped a lot of his family and friends when they accused Sal of being a gold digger, but the truth was they just couldn't stand to see him happy. Jealousy was a vicious thing.
He understood how they might think she was after his money, but they didn't know her like he did. Besides, it was his money, every last penny of it, so if he wanted to spend the lot on her, then he fucking well would. Fact.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
"Malik," he said into the mouthpiece. Then moments later, he closed the flip phone and left the building.
His car was parked next to the entrance in his reserved spot. When he opened the door, Stephen Fleming, one of the company's sales reps, approached him.
"Mr Duvall, do you have a minute?"
"Not now, Stephen. I'm racing against the clock."
"But it's ..."
"Later!" Malik slammed the door and drove off.
He parked in the middle of town, took a bag from the passenger foot well and got out of the car.
The heel taps of his shiny new shoes clicketty-clacked as he ran up the concrete steps of the Arts Centre.
The main gallery was practically deserted apart from two middle-aged women who stood beside some monstrosity that dominated the centre of the room.
Malik passed a young couple who walked arm in arm. They each had their free hand on the handle of the stroller they were pushing.
In the second gallery, a man stood gazing at a sculpture of a mother and young child. He glanced around at Malik.
Malik strode up to him. "Pop goes the weasel," he said.
The man shoved a large canvas holdall towards Malik with his foot.
Malik fumbled in his bag and produced a gun.
Three shots rang out.
The man flew backwards, body-slamming the wall behind him then slid to the floor leaving a wide smear of blood on the stark white wall.
Placing the gun back into the bag, he stuffed the bag into the holdall, turned and walked from the building.
*
Slap bang in the middle of the lunchtime rush, Malik stopped at the local burger bar and ordered a cheeseburger. He was surprised to find an empty booth. He kicked the holdall under the table. He struggled to get his big gut into the space, so he perched on the edge of the bench.
A few minutes later, he left and drove straight to the factory. As he passed reception he nodded at the pretty receptionist. "Katherine, could you ask Stephen Fleming to come to my office, please?
"Will do, Mr Duvall."
Chapter 5
"There's been another one," Frances said, standing in the doorway of my office.
I took a gulp of cold coffee and shuddered. "Another what?"
"Murder. The same as before, but this time it was in the Arts Centre. Different shooter though. This time the witnesses said an obese, foreign-looking man in his forties approached the victim and shot him three times in the chest. They also think he took a bag from the dead man, like before.”
"For fuck's sake!" I rubbed my eyes.
"My sentiments exactly. You coming?"
I sighed and followed Frances from the station.
*
After a quick sweep of the crime scene, I sought out Frances and found her chatting to a uniformed officer.
"You still think it's connected?" I asked.
"Definitely, don't you?"
"Seems to be."
Frances glanced at her notepad. "Oliver Bertram, a forty-year-old local man."
"Why does that name ring a bell?"
"Dunno, but I recognise it, too."
I clicked my fingers several times trying to remember, and my eyes widened as it finally struck me. "Wasn't he on the list of Jag owners?"
Frances pointed at my face. “You know what? I think you’re right. Hang on.” She tapped into her phone. “Bingo. He lives close by. Shall we?”
*
An attractive, dark-haired woman knelt in the garden of the semi-detached house, pruning rose bushes. When she spotted us, she pushed her sunglasses up onto her head.
"Mrs Bertram?" I asked.
"Last time I checked." Her eyes twinkled as she got to her feet. "Call me Celia."
"DI Stanley and DS Frances. Can we step inside for a few minutes?" I asked.
She frowned. "Yeah, course." She led them inside and through to the lounge.
"Has something happened? Is it Oliver?" She leaned against the arm of the sofa, her arms wrapped around herself.
I glanced at Frances and gave a small nod.
Frances cleared her throat. "Celia, your husband has been shot."
"Shot? What do you mean, shot? Is he all right?" The irate tone in her voice sent shivers down my spine.
Frances reached for the other woman's hand before continuing. "I’m sorry, but he died at the scene."
The reaction couldn't have been more different than Mrs Houston’s.
Celia screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Eventually, she calmed slightly and I got her a glass of water from the kitchen.
Frances eased her down onto the sofa and sat beside her. "Is there anybody we can call? A friend? A neighbour, perhaps?"
Celia nodded. "Mrs Bellamy. Number sixteen."
I got to my feet again. "I'll go."
Mrs Bellamy must have been eighty if she was a day, but after I told her what had happened, she took off from her house at a sprint, leaving me standing.
Celia was still crying when I got back. Mrs Bellamy held the younger woman's head to her chest, stroking her hair.
Frances went through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, and I followed, giving the poor woman some privacy.
When
my wife, Sarah, had died, I’d been numb for months. The grief still twisted in my gut when I witnessed such raw emotion.
Soon after, Celia had calmed enough to talk, and she wanted answers.
"Who did it?" she asked.
"We don't know yet, Celia," Frances said
"Was it the same man as yesterday?"
Frances shook her head. "It's too early to tell. However, witnesses described a totally different man."
"I told Ollie, just last night, that people will think he killed the man on the common. Maybe today's person thought it was him?"
"Why would anybody suspect your husband?" Adam asked.
"Because he fits the description. He was wearing grey jogging bottoms and a grey sweatshirt. He also drives a blue Jag."
"What did Oliver say to that?" Frances asked.
"He laughed. Said I was being ridiculous, and I was of course. Oliver wouldn't hurt anybody."
"Can you tell us where he was yesterday lunchtime?"
"He went for a drive. He'd added some oil to his car, and he said it needed to get hot."
Adam glanced at Frances who gave him a look that said I've-never-heard-that-one-before.
"What would your husband be doing at the Art Centre?" I asked.
Celia shook her head. "Beats me."
I nodded. "When did you last see him?"
"This morning. I was still in bed, and he kissed me goodbye."
"Do you know what time that was?"
"I'm sorry. I don't. I went straight back to sleep. But he normally leaves around 7.45am."
"Where did he work?" Frances asked.
"In Pinevale. He's a graphics designer for Master Graphics in town. He was just an ordinary man. Why would anybody want to hurt him?" She started wailing again.
Mrs Bellamy pulled her close again and murmured soothing words.
Frances and I left a few minutes later.
At the car Frances said, "Master Graphics?"
"Yeah, let's go."
*
At just after 4.30pm we entered the offices of Master Graphics and introduced ourselves to the woman on reception.
Her eyes lit up, as though grateful for the distraction.
"Who can we speak to about Oliver Bertram?" I asked.
"What about him. Is he okay?"
"Did you see him at all today, miss?" I deflected the girl’s question.
"Yes, he was here this morning then he just up and left. He's not been answering his phone since."
"How did he seem this morning?"
"Fine. Just his usual self. Why?"
"Do you mind if I we take a quick look around his office?"
"I'm not sure about that. I'll ask my boss." The girl picked up the phone and pressed a button. "Mr Wilder, a couple of detectives in reception are asking questions about Oliver. They want to search his office." She nodded and hung up. “Mr Wilder will be out in a sec."
Moments later, a weedy guy, with lank fair hair and wearing an ill-fitting suit, appeared. He held his hand out to me, ignoring Frances completely. "Barry Wilder. How can I help you?"
"We’re investigating a homicide, Mr Wilder, and would be grateful if you allowed us to take a quick look in Oliver Bertram's office."
The receptionist gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth.
"Homicide?" Wilder said, suddenly twitchy.
"That's correct, sir. And if you don't mind, we're quite pushed for time."
"Of course, of course. Follow me."
He showed them into a small square room with basic furnishings—a desk and a chair. The desk held a computer, a large table notepad covered in doodles, a photograph of Celia on a beach somewhere and an empty mug.
"Could Mr Bertram have had an appointment earlier today?" I asked Nicki, the receptionist, who had followed us and was standing in the doorway.
"No, he never went out for meetings. Everything is done here."
*
As we walked to the car, my phone vibrated in my pocket. "Stanley."
"It's Patricia Houston. I need to see you as soon as possible."
"We'll be right over." I turned to Frances as I pressed the key fob and unlocked the car. "Patricia Houston. She's got something."
We drove in through the open gates this time and parked in front of the steps.
Patricia met us as we got out of the car.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Come on in," she said.
I marvelled at how she'd managed to colour coordinate her clothing that morning. There wasn’t a hair out of place and she’d even applied her makeup. I doubted poor Celia would even manage to get dressed tomorrow.
"There's money missing from the safe," she said, as soon as they were settled in the lounge.
"Wayne?" I asked.
"Must have been. Nobody else has access."
"How much?"
"Fifty thousand pounds."
Frances gasped.
"From your safe?" I asked. "What were you doing with that sort of cash lying around?"
Patricia shuddered, as though disgusted to be talking about something as vulgar as money. “Wayne was old school. He didn't feel safe unless he had access to his money. His contingency fund, he called it.”
"When can you last confirm it was there?" I said.
The older woman shook her head. "I don't usually go into the safe, but I know it's been there for years. He never dips into it. You see, his father was investigated by the tax department when Wayne was a child. They froze his accounts until they'd concluded the investigation. Wayne dreaded the thought of anything like that."
“Maybe he used it on something else without you knowing,” Frances suggested.
“No need. The bulk of our money is in the bank. That amount is purely for emergencies.”
“I think it’s safe to assume the contents of the briefcase, then.”
“I heard there was another incident today?”
I nodded.
“Is it related?”
“We think so.”
*
Back in the car, I called the station to inform them of the developments. We then headed back to Celia Bertram's place.
A tall, dark-haired man in his forties opened the door.
We introduced ourselves, and the man ushered us into the house. "I'm Jimmy Fletcher. Oliver was my best friend," he said. "Celia's upstairs trying to get some rest. I'll give her a shout."
Moments later, Celia appeared, her face chalk white, and she had dark circles underneath her red-rimmed eyes.
"We're sorry to disturb you again, Celia, but there has been a development," I said.
"What sort of development?" She plonked down on the armchair.
"Can you access your husband’s bank accounts at all?"
"Yes, but why?"
"We think Oliver may have given the gunman money," I said.
She touched her throat as her face and neck turned blotchy red.
"What is it?" Jimmy asked, from his position on the arm of the chair. He leaned forwards and placed a hand on her shoulder.
Celia shrugged it off. "Wait here." She ran from the room.
Jimmy winced, before following her.
"No!" Celia’s cries filled the silence moments later.
Frances and I followed the sound of the commotion. We found Celia at a computer desk, her eyes wide open and tears running down her face.
"Celia?"
"He's taken most of our savings. Fifty thousand pounds was withdrawn earlier today. That's almost all of the inheritance my mum left me. I can't believe he'd just take it like that."
"He wouldn’t. Unless he had no choice," Jimmy said.
Chapter 6
I drove to my favourite restaurant once I left the station. I'd not been there since my first date with Amanda—over four months ago.
A lot had happened since that night.
After ordering a pizza-to-go, I sat in a plush armchair at the back of the room and flicked through a magazine while waiting.
W
itnessing Celia's grief today had left me feeling emotional and low. I considered calling Amanda for a chat, but knew if I called the house phone she'd hang up as soon as she heard my voice. She wouldn't even answer her mobile.
Things had been going so well between us. Yes, we were both fucked up individuals, but together we had something special. That was until the night I stumbled upon and arrested her fugitive brother, Andrew, for the murders of their father and two more of their childhood abusers.
I understood she was upset, but I hadn’t lied to her. She knew I would arrest Andrew given half a chance. For fuck's sake, we only met because of the murders in the first place. But the arrest marked the end of our relationship.
I missed her though. After my wife, Sarah, was killed, the victim of a hit and run, I couldn’t imagine meeting another person who got me. Amanda seemed to love me, in spite of all my flaws, and me her. I'd also fallen for her kids, Emma and Jacob. Even Amanda's niece, Andrew's daughter, Mary, was thawing towards me. But that was then.
A middle-aged Italian woman stood in front of me holding out my pizza.
"Oh, sorry, love. I was miles away."
"Day dreaming, eh?" She laughed.
"You could say that."
Back at the car, I grabbed my phone. "Oh, what the hell." I dialled Amanda's number.
Amanda’s foster mother answered.
“Hi, Sandra. Is she in?”
“She’s upstairs. Em’s unwell.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Just a cough. You know what kids are like. They pick up every germ going.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Well, Amanda did say she could do with some cough syrup, so if you know of a pharmacy that’s still open ...”
“Sandra, you little minx, are you up to something?”
“You two need your bloody heads banging together. I’m sick and tired of watching her mope around with all the life drained from those beautiful eyes. She’s never looked well since she stopped seeing you.” She paused. “I’ve got to go. She’s coming,” she whispered.
“Okay, see you soon.”
I hung up.
The all-night pharmacy was a short drive away. I asked the assistant for help, not wanting to get the wrong stuff and be back in the dog-box before even getting out of it.
Psychological Thriller Series: Adam Stanley Boxed Set: Behind Shadows, Positively Murder and Mind Bender Page 43