Hana Du Rose Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1 - 4

by Bowes, K T

  “It’s fine. Henrietta’s been feeding it. She loves the stupid thing. She’s trying to persuade Pete to get one.”

  Hana lay carefully back down and Logan pulled the covers over her shoulders. She watched him for a moment thoughtfully and then made a random comment as she sidled closer and placed her hand over his hip, stroking the soft skin there. “Thanks for not taking me straight to your parents’ place.”

  Logan opened one eye and squinted over at her, keeping his face neutral. “How do you know I’m not still going to?”

  Hana bit her bottom lip and stuck her chin in the air. “I guess you could try…” but her answer was cut short as Logan rolled over and started tickling her, inwardly cursing his wife for being far too perceptive for her own good.

  Hana woke up feeling in real pain on Wednesday morning. She slipped down in the bed and woke herself up countless times, having inadvertently rolled onto her right arm. She also decided not to take the high doses of codeine to help her sleep, a fact which she regretted as her eyes opened.

  “Stay home,” Logan argued, giving up when Hana whined about all the days off she had already taken that year. Irrationally, she blamed him in a heated debate about it.

  “It’s all your fault. You’ve turned my life upside down.”

  Logan ignored the accusation, sighing and shaking his head, hiding his irritation by sorting himself out and waiting for her in the car downstairs. Hana was increasingly stroppy as she struggled into the Honda, refusing her husband’s well-intentioned help and banging her arm twice, resulting in an even worse temper tantrum. Logan was ever patient, returning upstairs to set the burglar alarm, which Hana had forgotten, but somehow still managed to turn into his fault. He dropped her at the front entrance and considerately drove back to the street near the gully to park the car out of sight, completing the twenty-minute hike back alone.

  Entering the school building from the rear, Logan bumped into Boris. “Oh, hi,” he said. The meeting was awkward. Logan looked hard at his friend, wishing he had shown more sense than to get mixed up with Caroline and wanting to ask him about it. At the same time, Logan knew guys didn’t do that. It was taboo. Boris was characteristically closed with his feelings, but he looked sad and dishevelled, which was unlike him. The beginnings of a black eye started under his left eye socket, matched by a cut on his lip that looked quite deep.

  “Everything all right at the house?” Logan asked. Boris nodded and made to turn away. Logan made a split decision, “Erm…if you hear rumours might be Caroline Marsh is pregnant with my baby,” Boris tensed and stopped, “it’s not true. Hana’s pregnant though, but we aren’t telling people yet. We’re not ready.”

  Boris looked momentarily stunned and then pleased, moving quickly forward to shake Logan’s hand. “Congratulations, Ich bin zer…er…pleased!”

  Logan stared for a second, keeping hold of his friend’s hand a fraction longer than necessary. “Hey mate, if you’re in trouble of some kind, I can help. I know people…”

  Boris looked as though he might cry. His composure slipped and he ran his other hand across his face, anxiety leaking from every pore. Logan let his hand drop and waited, using the same silent ploy he did on Bodie. Boris leaned in closer to Logan and in a half whisper said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake, zer bad, zer, zer bad! You can’t help me now and you voudn’t vant to.”

  He looked tortured. Before Logan could answer, Boris wheeled around and was gone. Seconds later, the cry, “Fight, fight!” broke out and Logan was forced to divert his attention to the little knot of boys gathering around a scuffle down the corridor.

  He projected his voice from deep in his diaphragm, causing the back row of spectators to pull hurriedly away and then he waded into the throng. The tall teacher emerged with two flailing Year 10’s held by the backs of their jumpers in his strong hands. Logan looked livid and the crowd dispersed lest they be caught in any crossfire. Another male teacher arrived and got out his detention slips, instantly driving away any lagging troublemakers with the sight of the flapping green pages.

  Logan hauled the two boys into the nearest unlocked classroom, pushing them down into chairs before letting go of them. The other teacher followed behind, closing the door. It was a sad indictment of the current state of affairs that male teachers required a witness when breaking up a fight, but it was a necessary fact. In reality, Logan could be in trouble for even manhandling the boys but Angus considered stopping a fight was an acceptable reason. He had backed his staff on that particular issue before.

  One of the little boys clutched a bloody nose and Logan moved to the teacher’s desk to retrieve a box of tissues. “Here, take this. Keep your head down, no, down. Let the blood drain.” The angry face which he used to scare off further trouble outside was gone. It was only an act anyway. He was more curious than cross; boys fought, it was a fact of life. Faced with an empty classroom and the presence of the adults, the seriousness of the situation began to dawn on both culprits. “Now men,” Logan said, his voice soft, “you can tell me what this is about, or you can tell the Year 10 dean.”

  A look of shared horror passed between the boys. Neither of them wanted that. Dr Andrews was a kindly soul, whose propensity to counsel miscreants was far worse than the cane of the olden days in the minds of the boys and would take far longer. They could kiss goodbye to every lunchtime for the rest of their lives, forced to stay in his office under his watchful, bifocal eyes and talk about it. The boys eyed each other warily, neither wanting to be the first to crack and get the story wrong. Logan took hold of one of the chairs, spun it round and sat astride it as though it was a horse. He looked immensely strong as he sat with one arm across the back of the chair, his biceps straining through his shirt as he stared fixedly at them.

  As the first one squeaked, the spell was broken and they both started to speak at once. It plainly wasn’t working for Logan, who held up his hand to stop them. “One at a time!” he exclaimed.

  In a glance towards each other, the boys began on their common purpose to get their case heard and their part in the fight justified without unduly criminalising each other, ensuring a rematch off school grounds. But what they had to say in their efforts to extricate themselves, made the blood in Logan’s veins run icy cold and drove him into Angus’ office, the minute he dismissed the boys.

  Angus swore. Logan wasn’t surprised. It was a mess. When the period bell sounded, Angus summoned his personal assistant. “Ah, thank you my dear, please can you nip to the staffroom and send any aimless looking member of staff to Logan’s Year 9 English class, to cover for him?”

  She returned having dispatched Peter North. Her face bore testament to Pete’s reluctance to go, but the slight smirk revealed her victory. He was scared of her, although nobody ever asked him why.

  “Hana thinks Boris is the father of Caroline’s baby,” Logan continued, waiting until the secretary shut the door behind her, “and that’s why he’s decided to stay on in New Zealand. Plus the fact he’s been looking mighty guilty lately.”

  “Ah,” contributed Angus, but his face gave nothing away.

  Logan sat and waited. He wasn’t going to blather on like an idiot if Angus intended to sit there saying nothing. They sat in silence. Training horses taught the younger man patience. Sometimes he needed to draw on endless resources of the stuff, from depths he hadn’t known he possessed. When someone hopped up into the saddle and worried about not falling off that day, they relied on the skill of others to ensure it wouldn’t be because of bad training. It could take hours to get an animal to trust him enough to put a bit in its mouth or a saddle on its back.

  Logan, Jack and Alfred had broken in most of the horses on their property and it took years of knowledge and expertise in a craft handed down through generations of Du Roses. Logan was more than equipped to play the long game.

  The forbidding principal’s stern face held no fear for Logan. Actually he reminded him of a black stallion they bred ten years previously. The be
ast gave nothing away but could administer a nasty kick to an unsuspecting stockman, whose mind wasn’t on the job.

  Angus in turn observed Logan calmly and with interest. Few teachers in his employ could sit so comfortably under his scrutiny and he was intrigued. Angus was not an old man by any standards. He chose to live in the location he did, for convenience sake and the company. Technically, anyone could buy a section in Alder Dale at the age of fifty-five and, finding himself prematurely widowed, that is what he’d done. But he found himself increasingly tired. He seemed to be losing his passion for teaching, especially for guiding and shaping teenage boys. Wasn’t it Solomon, who said there was, “Nothing new under the sun?” Angus had seen it all before and could certainly attest to that. He watched the strong young man in front of him and felt slightly enlivened. Logan rattled him, challenged him somehow and it made Angus curious as to why and how.

  The principal put his musing aside and folded his hands gently in front of him on the desk. Whilst not a new thing under the sun, the current problem was significantly different from any he previously dealt with. “Ah,” he said again, exhaling slowly, “What to do now…”

  Logan responded by leaning forward in his chair and resting his forearms on his knees. The simple fight, an everyday occurrence, had become something far more sinister in its explanation. “We need to speak to Boris,” Logan ventured.

  “No,” replied Angus quickly, “I need to speak to Boris. I am the principal.”

  Logan sat back in his chair. His jaw was tight as he gritted his teeth.

  “Fine. You speak to him now and then I’ll take him somewhere quiet and speak to him later.” Logan stood up to leave, adding menacingly, “And then I’ll call my stepson to scrape him off the pavement and do some more talking with him!”

  Feeling dwarfed in his chair by Logan’s height, Angus stood also, calling him back, “I understand how you must feel. He’s put your wife in dreadful danger with his actions, but he’s already shown a disinclination to speak about it with you. I, on the other hand may be more successful in the short term.”

  Angus spread his hands out in front of him, unusually placatory for him. Logan stared the Scotsman down for a moment before acceding with a nod and leaving the room. He deliberately left the door open behind him. It was childish he knew, but Logan felt exceptionally angry with Boris and now also with Angus.

  As the scrapping boys unfolded their tale, Logan’s first reaction was to find his friend and unceremoniously smack him into next week, but the restraining hand of the teacher who followed him into the classroom cautioned wisdom. Gwynne held onto his wrist. “Go and speak with Angus,” he urged him, seeing instantly the issue had huge ramifications, not just for the school but Logan personally. Logan gave in and now regretted it. Knowing Pete would be struggling with the lively and cantankerous Year 9 class, Logan decided spitefully to leave him with them and headed up to see his wife.

  Hana was busy. She knelt uncomfortably on the carpeted floor, bent over a huge piece of A3 paper, sticking tiny cut-out squares onto it. She looked like a small girl with a troublesome jigsaw puzzle and Logan felt the dreadful weight in his chest which came with loving her. Her dark mahogany hair spilled down out of its clip, brushing her cheeks as she tipped forwards. She spoke softly to herself as she moved the little pieces of paper around on what he saw was a floor plan. She was so beautiful and vulnerable. Logan seemed like a bull in a china shop around her sometimes.

  Hana looked up, sensing his gaze. She started slightly, seeing Logan stood in the doorway and then smiled at him, genuinely happy to see him. “Thought you were teaching,” she said curiously, surprised, by the way he took her in his arms roughly, pulling her up and burying his face in her hair. There was a titter of laughter from the common room. Logan responded by kicking the door shut with his foot, raising a whoop from a Year 13 who was quickly silenced by the study teacher on duty there.

  “I needed to see you,” he said, his voice muffled in her neck. Hana sensed something was wrong and tried to push him away, but Logan was busy collecting his face so as not to worry her and didn’t let go until he felt he had mastered it. “I really want to take you up to the hotel, Hana.” He looked intently into her eyes. “I feel I can’t keep you safe here. This thing is bigger than either of us thought, I…”

  Hana held up her hand towards him and wriggled in his grasp, wincing as her arm jarred. “No, Logan! I’m really busy here. I’m not going! You can’t abandon me up there. What will you do, drop me on the front steps – here’s my pregnant wife – oh that’s right, you don’t know yet – just look after her while I go and get myself killed!”

  Logan gave a huge sigh and slumped down in Hana’s office chair. He looked at her as she stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, all fired up. She really had no idea how unsafe she was right then. Her eyes flashed, making her look even more beautiful and Logan tried not to notice the series of lumps around her waistline which betrayed her inability to get her trousers buttoned up anymore. He saw the gentle swell of his baby in her stomach and felt an irrational anger rise up in him. He toyed with the idea of kidnapping her and taking her to the hotel by force, but they wouldn’t be able to keep her there. She would get a taxi home and charge it to his credit card. He exhaled slowly and shut his eyes. He needed to get away and think. He stood up, kissed her gently on the forehead and apologised softly. “Stay inside, Han. Don’t leave this building. Promise?”

  “Logan, you’re scaring me.” Hana’s green eyes were wide and jewelled in her porcelain face. Even the dusting of freckles across her nose paled with the stress.

  “Don’t worry,” her husband said fruitlessly. “Please just do as I ask you. And trust me.” Then he left through the back door of the office.

  Hana stood feeling utterly perplexed at her husband’s odd behaviour and even more so, at how easily he gave in. Her eyes narrowed as she began to second-guess him. Perhaps he was going to snatch her and take her up there. She smirked to herself. If he thought that, he didn’t yet know her very well. He gave her a credit card in his name for emergencies or big purchases. She would just use that to get a taxi or bus home. “Got you there Mr Clever-pants Du Rose,” she said out loud. “Hana smiled to herself and settled uncomfortably back on the carpet. Sheila changed her mind about which exhibitors should go where and left Hana to try and sort it out. As usual.

  At the end of the period, Peter North emerged from Logan’s English class, flustered and more bedraggled than usual. His tufty hair stuck bolt upright and a mixture of irritation and misery replaced his usual languid expression. Logan stepped smartly in his way, having waited outside the classroom for the period to end, instantly ambushing him. “You b…” Pete began, but found himself swept along with Logan in the corridor crush.

  It wasn’t until they had gone a few metres he realised Logan gripped his arm quite hard. He looked up at the set of Logan’s face and quailed. He had lost many years of arm wrestles, the odd sparky scrap and quite a few tennis, snooker, boxing and goodness-knows-what matches to this man. Surprisingly, the skinny Pete could hold his own and also won a fair few, but the determined look on Logan’s face made him afraid that whatever it was, might run past interval. “I’ve got a particularly overwhelming urge for one of those steak and cheese pies from the tuck shop,” he tried. “If I don’t get there quickly, they’ll all be gone!”

  Logan led him upstairs to the staff workroom on the first floor. The room was empty, so he shut the door behind them and invited Pete to sit down at one of the desks, with a flick of his hand. Pete obeyed, sitting with a bump. He noticed warily Logan kept pacing around the room between him and the door. It made him nervous. His own irritation clouded his judgement as he remembered the horrid little kid who had flicked the eraser off his ruler and hit the teacher smack in the middle of the forehead ten minutes before the end of the lesson. Pete fingered the eraser in his pocket and smiled in satisfaction at the look on the boy’s face, when he confiscated it amids
t cries of, “It’s a new one! I need it next period!”

  Pete stared down at his hands while he waited. Nobody noticed his nails were shiny. Henrietta gave him a manicure before she flew back to Wellington. “It’s not nail polish Peteepoos,” she promised. “It’s calcium hardener.”

  It was still jolly shiny. He held his hands up high in front of him, the backs of them close to his face and the fingers curled over for his friend to see. He asked Logan, “Do these look funny to you?”

  Logan stopped pacing and looked at Pete, his face a mixture of bemusement and I-don’t-really-care. He couldn’t seem to grasp what Pete wanted him to look at, stepping closer toward him and shaking his head. “What?”

  At that exact moment, the door opened and the geography teacher pushed his way in, loaded down with books and papers. Being small and squat in stature, he could only see a little over the top of his pile, but he saw enough to decide quickly he wanted to work somewhere else. He saw the tall and imposing head of English standing over that strange sports teacher; who appeared to be begging. What was the world coming to? He exited backwards and closed the door quietly.

  “Yes, no…I don’t know!” Logan exclaimed, peering at the shiny nails but seeming unable to make a decision. Pete sighed and turned his hands over, buffing his thumbnail carefully with his tracksuit cuff and blowing off pretend dust. Logan went back to his pacing. The second bell sounded horribly loud in the long, thin room. There were five minutes between classes for boys to move around. As the second one sounded, they should be sitting in their next class, ready to learn.

  Pete leapt to his feet and bounced towards the door. “Oooh, gotta go…” but as he looked back at Logan, he stopped in his tracks. Logan stood perfectly still and chewed his lip. Pete had a dreadful thought, “Not the baby? Everything’s ok isn’t it?”

  He looked so concerned, Logan experienced one of those rare flashes of realisation about Pete. It was the thing that kept them friends since they were teenagers. He was lazy and scatty, self-centred and often unkempt, but Peter North could be utterly sincere. Logan pulled out a chair for himself and sat heavily down on it, running his hand over his eyes. “Baby’s fine,” he said shortly, “better than fine actually. All the tests came back normal. But I have a massive problem.”