His Secrets - Episode 1

by Gl Corbin

  Table of Contents

  Episode 1

  His Secrets

  Episode 1

  GL Corbin

  copyright 2013 GL Corbin

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Episode 1

  Chris Munroe was tired. Nothing new there – it came with the job. Boredom could be much more exhausting than manual labour. She should know; she'd been on enough surveillances.

  Since her father had died, most of her work had involved warring couples. The client, sometimes the husband, more often the wife, suspected their spouse was playing away. They paid Chris to find out the truth, but as the saying goes – most of them couldn't handle the truth. They wanted to be told they were mistaken; they wanted to hear that their spouse was faithful. That did happen occasionally (twice in three years), but most of the time Chris was forced to confirm what deep down they already knew.

  Her target tonight was one Alan Drake – husband of Celia. Celia was a typical client: late forties, married to the same man for twenty plus years, and mother to two kids who had now left home. Celia was not unattractive, and certainly had not 'let herself go'. Her only crime was no longer being twenty years of age - a crime which her husband apparently could neither overlook nor forgive. Chris had heard the same story a thousand times or so it seemed. Celia had said it was probably only her imagination, and that she was probably worrying about nothing. Five minutes from now, Chris would have evidence which proved conclusively Celia had neither been imagining things nor worrying about nothing. Chris would have photographs of Alan Drake and Sue Anderson. As is often the case, Alan and Sue were co-workers. Sue was twenty two.

  The rain was relentless. It was difficult to see through the windscreen, but she didn't want to risk the wipers. A parked car with its wipers switched on might attract attention; that's what her father would have said. He had been on thousands of surveillances, and had never once let his guard down - the ultimate professional. Chris still missed him.

  The telescopic lens was the PI's best friend. There was no need to risk life or limb by getting too close when perfectly good photos could be taken from a safe distance without the subject ever knowing they had been caught on camera. That wasn't going to work today; the house was surrounded by trees and high hedges. Chris had tried to find a vantage point from where she would be able to get a shot, but had drawn a blank. Her only option was to get closer. She had hoped the rain might ease up before she had to make a move. Some chance – it was heavier than ever. Drake had been in the house for ten minutes. That should be long enough. Chris grabbed her camera, pulled the hood up over her head, and stepped out into the rain.

  *********

  It was on nights like this that she wished she had listened to her father. He had tried everything to get her to go to university: reason, threats and even bribery. She hadn't wanted to know. School had never suited Chris. It's not that she was thick – she'd been much smarter than most of the other kids, but she had never seen the point in it. Who cared if the square of the hypotenuse was equal to whatever the hell it was equal to? Not Chris Munroe – that was for sure. Maybe if her mother had been around, she would have found a way to convince Chris of the importance of qualifications. She had walked out when Chris was two years old. The note had said 'I can't do this – sorry’ - nothing else. Her father had never talked about her mother; it was as though she had never existed. Chris sometimes wondered if she was still alive.

  The road was quiet. One of the street lights was out. Chris had the camera case slung over her shoulder. From a distance, it would pass as a handbag. A dog began to bark, but it was half-hearted, and it soon gave up. The lights were on in the front room, but there was no sign of life. Chris walked up the driveway as though she owned the place. One of the first things her father had taught her was that if you acted as though you had every right to be somewhere, you were much less likely to attract attention. People were far more suspicious when they saw someone sneaking around. If Drake or Anderson spotted her, and came to the door, Chris had her cover story ready – she was conducting a survey for a local telecoms company. That was guaranteed to get the door slammed in her face.

  It was too risky to peer into the windows at the front of the bungalow. Instead, Chris made her way around the side of the building. Light streamed through the panes of glass either side of the door. She took the camera from the case – one or two good shots were all she needed. Chris didn't usually resort to what she called 'fuck shots' – it wasn't necessary, and she wasn't in the porn business. An embrace or passionate kiss was all she needed, and it saved her client from unnecessary pain. There were other PIs who always went for the 'fuck shot', but that said more about them than it did about the couples they had caught.

  At the rear of the house, she could hear voices. The light from the window flooded onto the patio. Just as she had hoped, the curtains hadn't been drawn. The back of the house was not overlooked by neighbouring properties, and was sheltered from view by bushes, trees and a wooden fence which bordered the garden at the rear. Chris crept over to the shed which was to the right of the illuminated area. So far, so good.

  Peering around the side of the shed, Chris could see into the lounge. More importantly, she could see the targets who were standing close to the window; they were drinking, laughing and talking. She took the camera from its case, and took a photo. A picture of two work colleagues enjoying a drink might not be enough – Drake might be able to explain that away. She needed something more. If they moved to the bedroom, she was sunk. They might feel comfortable with the lounge curtains open, but the ones in the bedroom were bound to be drawn. Drake put his glass onto the table. Chris had her finger poised over the button.

  'Come on, come on.' In her mind she urged him on.

  Drake took the glass from his lover's hand, and pulled her closer to him. They kissed.

  The cat appeared from nowhere. Chris almost jumped out of her skin, and in the process dropped the camera which hit the ground with a thud. The cat scurried away.

  'Bloody cats.'

  When she looked up, she saw two faces at the window; Alan Drake and the woman were staring straight at her. Everything seemed to stand still for a moment; Drake was the first to move. He raised a fist and shouted. Chris didn't hear what he said because she was already half way down the driveway.

  *********

  She was soaked to the skin. The car heater, even on full blast, did little to warm her. Drake had followed her as far as the end of the driveway, but by then she was already in the car. She'd been afraid he might step out into the road to try to stop her, but he had simply waved his fist as she drove by.

  What would her father have made of tonight’s pantomime?

  “Totally unprofessional, Christine.”

  Her father had always called her by her given name even though she had told him a million times she preferred ‘Chris’. Totally unprofessional was right - her father would never have made such an almighty balls-up. But then, her father wouldn’t have wasted his time taking on infidelity cases. He had been in the business for almost thirty five years, and had built up a solid reputation for criminal and corporate investigations.

  Back in her apartment, Chris was relieved to get out of her wet clothes. The shower was steaming hot, and just what she needed to thaw out. She tilted her head back, and savoured the feel of the water on her face.

  Chris had told Celia Drake she would phone her to let her know how things had gone. No doubt the poor woman would be sitting next to the phone waiting for the call - the call which might signal the end of her marriage. The stupid cat had startled Chris at the e
xact moment she had taken the photo, so she wasn't yet sure if she had the shot she needed. She would check the camera once she was warm, dry and had a glass of wine in her hand.

  The shower had done the trick; now for the wine. Chris dried herself, and tied a huge bath towel around her.

  “Great!” She had been plunged into darkness. Why in god’s name did the fuses blow so often? This was the third time in as many months. Chris was convinced there must be an underlying fault, and had told the landlord as much. A waste of breath that had been; he had done nothing. She found the door handle by touch, and stepped out of the bathroom.

  When a hand grabbed her around the waist, she made to scream, but another hand clamped over her mouth.

  “If I move my hand, do you promise not to shout?”

  Chris nodded.

  “Why didn't you tell me you were coming?” she said.

  “Where would be the fun in that?” His hand slid up from her waist, found the top of the towel, and unhooked it, so it fell to the floor. Chris sighed as the man's hands began to slowly explore her body.

  “Give me your hand,” he whispered.

  When she did as he said, he guided her hand behind her back, and placed it on his erection. His hand slid under her leg, raising it, so her knee was bent. His fingers found her pussy lips, and then plunged into her wetness. Chris tilted her head back, so it was resting against his chest. She stroked his cock, slowly at first, but then faster when he began to finger fuck her.

  Bradley James was strong; his physique was one of the first things she had noticed about him (she could be shallow like that sometimes). He turned Chris to face him, and then lifted her effortlessly. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and they kissed. It was the same every time he came back – all of the passion which had built up during the interim boiled over. She could wait no longer to have him inside her. Reaching down, she took hold of his cock, and eased it into her pussy. It didn't matter how many times they fucked, the initial shock of his huge girth still had the same effect. He filled her in a way no other man had ever done. Still holding her in his arms, he swivelled around, pressing her back against the bathroom door. They were still in darkness, but her eyes had adjusted a little now. He almost knocked the breath out of her when he began to fuck her. The door banged against the frame with every thrust. Chris dug her feet into his buttocks, pulling him deeper inside her – she couldn't get enough of him.

  “I've missed you,” she said.

  He didn't speak. Instead, he buried his head in her breasts. Sucking her nipple into his mouth, his tongue and teeth did more than just tease. He didn't as much as flinch when she scraped her nails across his back.

  Chris was on her feet again. He had turned her around, so she was facing the bathroom door. In keeping with the rest of his body, his hands were huge. It took only one to pin both of her wrists above her head. He pressed his erection hard against her arse – teasing her, but only for a moment. When he rammed his cock into her pussy, the force pushed her up against the door; her breasts squashed against the cold surface. Bradley knew how to make love, but he also knew how to fuck. Every time they were reunited, they fucked. Oh how they fucked.

  When he came, he held her flat against the door until he had shot his load deep inside her pussy. Neither of them moved for several minutes.

  “It's good to be back,” he said. “I suppose I'd better replace the fuse I removed.”

  *********

  “Why didn’t you call to tell me you were coming?” They were lying in bed; her head was resting on his chest.

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You succeeded. How long are you staying?”

  She felt the shrug of his shoulders. It was his stock answer. Chris could never be sure when he would turn up or how long he would stay. To her friends, she insisted that was how she preferred it. No commitment, no schedules - both of them were free agents. In the beginning, it had been true. Now - not so much. They were good together, but she hated that they were apart so often. She hadn't voiced her concerns to Bradley.

  “I’m starving,” Chris said.

  “Do you want to go out to get something?”

  “No.” She couldn’t bear the thought of venturing out again. The rain was still lashing against the window.

  “Takeaway?”

  “Perfect.”

  Bradley got out of bed, and walked across the room. Chris would never get tired of looking at his naked body. He obviously worked out, but she had no idea where – she'd never known him go to a gym. So much of his life was a mystery.

  “Do you want the usual?” He hesitated at the bedroom door.

  She nodded, but was thinking that she would prefer him to forget the food, and get back to bed.

  Chris threw on her dressing gown, and went in search of the camera. Bradley was on the phone, running through their order. The first photo was perfect - Drake and his mistress enjoying a drink. It was the next photo that mattered.

  “Shit!” Chris said.

  “Are you okay?” Bradley was still naked.

  “Yeah. Just work stuff. I wish you would put some clothes on. I can't focus.”

  Bradley feigned an indignant look as he walked back to the bedroom.

  “Celia, It’s Chris Munroe. I promised I'd call tonight.”

  Celia Drake had answered on the first ring. Just as Chris had suspected, she must have been waiting for the call.

  “I’m sorry, but it isn’t good news. Your suspicions were correct.”

  Chris waited until the crying had subsided.

  “Celia, are you okay? I’m afraid there’s no doubt. Sue Anderson – yes, from his office. They were at her house - kissing. I do have a photo, but...”

  The line went dead. Celia Drake must have ended the call. Her reaction to the news was not uncommon. Most of the time, the people who hired her were hoping to be told their suspicions were unfounded. They rarely were.

  *********

  The next morning, Chris left Bradley in bed. The last thing she wanted to do was to go into the office. They had so little time together, she hated to waste the whole morning, but she had no choice. Mrs Drake was scheduled to come in at ten thirty. If the phone call of the previous night was anything to go by, it wouldn't be an easy meeting. It was one thing to listen to someone in tears on the other end of the phone - quite another to have to face them across a desk. Chris also had to explain why she had so little photographic evidence.

  “Usual, Philip please.” The staff at the coffee shop, two doors down from her office, knew her by sight. Most days, she would grab a Latte, and sit in her favourite seat next to the window. Chris had always enjoyed people-watching, and got some kind of strange kick from studying the early morning commuters rushing back and forth along the street. Today, she ordered a Latte to-go. The office was a tip; she felt she owed it to Mrs Drake to make an effort to tidy up. In between the coffee shop and her office was Walter’s News. The small newsagents, still run by Walter himself, sold the best home made sandwiches in the city - made by Mrs Walter apparently. Chris was far too fond of the Cheese and Pickle. She found it curious that there were still people who bought newspapers - real ones, printed on paper. Didn’t everyone get their news online now? Most of the ‘serious’ national papers carried the story of the dramatic drop in the pound, and the not too subtle suggestion that the Chancellor would pay with his job. The headline on the local paper read ‘Woman’s body found in park.”

  By eleven, it was obvious Celia Drake wasn’t coming. It wasn’t so much surprising as disappointing. Chris could have stayed in bed with Bradley. Still, on the plus side - the office was much tidier. She had two options now - stay in the office, and pretend to work or go back home, and fuck Bradley’s brains out. It was a difficult and close decision, but Bradley won out.

  Just as she was about to leave, there was a knock on the door. Celia Drake must have found the courage after all.

  It wasn’t Mrs Drake.


  *********

  “Can I help you?” Chris said.

  The woman at the door was in her late forties; her clothes screamed money. There was something familiar about her face.

  “Miss Munro?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if I might come in?”

  “Yes, of course. Mrs...?”

  “Jeremies.”

  Now it all came back to Chris. One of the last cases her father had handled had been for Charles Jeremies. Chris had met his wife only once. What was her name? Alison, that was it. Alison Jeremies.

  “Have a seat Mrs Jeremies. What can I do for you?”

  “I would like you to do some work for me.”

  Even after two years, not everyone had heard that her father had died. Over the months, a number of his old clients had phoned or called into the office wanting to talk to him.

  “I’m sorry. My father died some time ago.”

  “Yes, so I heard. Such a shame. Such a nice man, but it was you I came to see.”

  “Me?” Chris realised she'd sounded much more surprised than she should have.

  Chris had joined her father's business straight from school. He had done his best to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t be put off. She could still remember how excited she had been as a six year old to discover her father was a Private Investigator. Her friends’ parents all did boring jobs: accountants, lawyers, mechanics, shop assistants...