Love and Bullets: A Sam Smith Mystery (The Sam Smith Mystery Series Book 2)

by Hannah Howe

  With my anger still at boiling point, I stood rigid, my arm outstretched, my Smith and Wesson .32 raised. I took a deep breath, sighed and lowered my gun. I placed my gun in my shoulder bag then a car screeched to a halt beside the kerb. In the blink of an eye, two men jumped from the car and grabbed Ruth Carey by her elbows. She shrieked and made a vain attempt to fight them off with her briefcase. Meanwhile, my gun was back in my hand and with a cry of “Hey!” I ran towards Ruth Carey’s assailants. As one, they turned, stared at me, at my gun, then leapt into their car, a third man driving them away.

  Shaken and trembling, Ruth stood on the pavement. She was in such a state of shock that she made no protest when I took hold of her elbow and guided her towards my Mini. The incident had occurred within seconds, and I barely had time to note the colour and make of the car, a black Subaru, let alone the number plate.

  “Get me out of here!” Ruth demanded. “Take me home!”

  I opened my mouth, as if to argue, thought better of it then slipped the Mini into gear.

  Chapter Six

  We were sitting on the leather chairs in Henry Chancellor’s study. Ruth was nursing a large whisky in a finely cut glass while Henry stood beside his wife, peering at her from over the rims of his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes broody, clouded with concern.

  “More whisky, darling?” Henry asked, his voice laced with solicitude.

  Ruth nodded. She stared into the depths of her whisky glass and muttered in a small voice, “Yes, thank you, dear.”

  Henry accepted the glass from his wife’s compliant hand. Then he walked over to a drinks cabinet and poured a further two fingers of whisky. As Henry handed the glass to Ruth, he turned to me and smiled. “Here you are, dear. And if thanks are due, I think they should be offered to Samantha.”

  Ruth gripped the glass tight, her knuckles shining white, her fingers threatening to shatter the crystal. “I want that woman out of my house,” Ruth snarled, finding her old voice. “She doesn’t know her place and she has a vile tongue. Get rid of her, Henry!”

  “Samantha saved you from a kidnapper, dear. She might have saved your life. I believe that you owe her some gratitude and some respect.”

  “It was a prank,” Ruth insisted while nervously gulping her whisky, “nothing to concern ourselves with or worry about.”

  “If it was a prank,” I asked from the edge of my leather armchair, “then why are your hands still shaking?”

  Ruth sneered at me, then glared at her husband. “You see what I mean! She has no respect for her betters and superiors. She is a foul-mouthed tramp and I want her out of my house!”

  “Our house, dear,” Henry muttered, sotto voce. “And, besides, I have made up my mind, Samantha stays, until this matter is resolved.” Henry turned to face me. He bowed, leaning his lean frame forward graciously. “I apologise for my wife’s behaviour; she is rather upset.”

  I nodded, then suggested, “Maybe we should hand this over to the police.”

  “No police.” Ruth shook her head decisively. Her face was grim. Completely wrinkle free, it was set hard, with determination. “Okay,” she eventually conceded, “I will put up with her, but I’m not having policeman plod trampling all over my, er, our house.”

  The air was still charged, like a humid summer’s day, just before a thunderstorm, when a man strode confidently into the study. He had black, wavy hair, cut short with no hint of grey, dark, piggy eyes set close, a bulbous nose, shallow cheeks, and no chin to speak of. His cheeks and nose were lined with broken veins, I noted, while his stomach, though not grossly overweight, strained against his pinstriped waistcoat.

  “Ruth, are you all right?” The man entered the study with a strut, rather than a walk, a strut that suggested he owned the room. Ignoring Henry, he strolled over to Ruth, she stood, and they embraced. The embrace lingered for a long time, implying great familiarity. While hugging Ruth, the man continued, “I jumped into the Morgan the moment I received your message.”

  “I’m fine. It was nothing. Just a prank. But Henry will insist on making a fuss.”

  The man turned to gaze at Henry who, in turn, had glanced away in embarrassment, his eyes studying the squiggles on the large blackboard. “How are you, Henry?” he asked, finally acknowledging the professor’s presence.

  “Bearing up,” Henry Chancellor said, “though I have to admit that the past few days have been something of a strain.”

  “Don’t worry,” the man with the bulbous nose smiled with great reassurance, “I’ll take good care of Ruth; nothing will happen to her.”

  “My car is still at the chapel...” Ruth pinched her forehead as though plucking a thought from the depths of her mind.

  “I will arrange for someone to pick it up.” Again, Bulbous Nose’s tone was confident and reassuring; he had assumed control, taken charge.

  “Boris is such a darling, isn’t he dear?” Ruth suggested to her husband, who merely grunted in reply.

  Turning away from the blackboard, Henry glanced towards me. “Samantha, this is Boris St John...Boris is the director of the Eugenics Research Foundation. Boris, this is Samantha...Samantha is a private detective hired to establish who is behind these ghastly threats.”

  “A private detective.” Boris St John pulled an ugly face, which in fairness to him, was easy to do. “And a filly at that. How quaint.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Boris.” I smiled with saccharine dripping off my lips.

  “Mr St John, pronounced Sinjun, if you please,” said Boris.

  I added some arsenic to the saccharine. “Maybe I’ll stick to ‘Boris’.”

  “You will address me as Mr St John and you will speak only when you are spoken to; do you understand?”

  Oh, god, not another one. What possessed these people to think that they could lord it over you...their money, their inbreeding, delusions of grandeur?

  “She’s as dense as a block of marble, dear,” Ruth added. “Don’t waste your time trying to communicate with her.”

  I reached into my shoulder bag. I was tempted to remove my gun, but instead I selected my pen and notebook. Turning to face Boris, I asked, “Do you have any idea who might be threatening Dr Carey?”

  “Obviously the same nutter who is threatening me.”

  “And who might this be?”

  “Greg Goodman. He’s a student at the drama school. He’s running an anti-eugenics campaign, a very irritating and vocal little mite.”

  I made a note then addressed Ruth Carey. “Do you know Greg Goodman?”

  “I know of him. I didn’t like to mention this before, but I do believe that he is behind the death threats.”

  “Why didn’t you like to mention this before?”

  She hesitated, glanced at Boris as though seeking advice, then continued unconvincingly, “One doesn’t like to get people into trouble, does one?”

  I scribbled another note in my notebook, then returned my pen and notebook to my shoulder bag. Greg Goodman was a potential lead, one I felt honour bound to follow up, though the sly glances exchanged between Ruth and Boris did not bode well for this branch of my enquiry.

  “Maybe you should question this Greg Goodman, Samantha,” Henry suggested eagerly.

  “I will.”

  “And meanwhile,” he continued, “you, Ruth, are staying here, where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “But, Henry...”

  “No buts.” He gave her a stern schoolmasterly frown, finally displaying who was master of this house. “Ruth, you are staying here. Samantha, question Greg Goodman, and make further enquires if you deem them necessary. Report to me personally. I want this matter resolved. We cannot go on living like this,” he added, staring at Ruth, then at Boris, “can we, dear?”

  Chapter Seven

  I had a strong feeling that Ruth Carey was holding out on me and that she knew who was behind the death threats. Could that person be Greg Goodman? I had my doubts, but I decided to question him nevertheless.

  Af
ter making enquires at the drama school, I discovered that Greg Goodman could be found in a scouts’ hall near the school where he was practicing with his rock band. I reasoned that Greg might be reluctant to talk with me if fully aware of my motives, so I decided to pose as a journalist, Abigail Summer, and interview him about his anti-eugenics campaign.

  I parked my Mini outside the scouts’ hall, a refurbished building dating from the 1950s, and paused beside the door, listening to a melodic electric guitar, thumping drums and a pulsating base. I didn’t recognise the tune, though even to my untutored ear, the song sounded good, and clearly the band had potential.

  I knocked on the door, a futile gesture given the band’s decibel level, then entered the building. The band, which consisted of three unkempt students, were playing on a dais at the far end of the long hall. The guitarist and singer caught sight of me, paused, and the song came to a cacophonous halt.

  “Can I help you?” the guitarist asked.

  “Greg Goodman?” I enquired.

  “That’s me,” he smiled.

  “My name is Abigail Summer. I’m a journalist. I wonder if I can interview you.”

  “About the band?” He jumped from the dais, clearly excited at the prospect.

  “The band, and your other extra-curricular activities.”

  Before Greg Goodman could reply, the drummer glanced over his drum kit. While eyeing my legs he offered me a rather fruity wolf whistle, punctuated by a skilful paradiddle.

  At the sound of the wolf whistle, Greg smiled and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Don’t mind Bruce, he’s a sexist throwback to the twentieth century. But if you wanna talk, you’d better step in here, because he’ll give you no peace.”

  Greg opened a side door and I followed him into a spacious and well-equipped kitchen; obviously to be a scout was to be fully prepared, particularly in the culinary department.

  As we wandered over to a couple of bar stools, I realised that Greg Goodman was not much taller than me. Slim, and standing around five foot seven, he had brown, wavy hair, parted in the centre, hair that was already thinning on the crown, soft brown eyes and an angular face. His long, thin face was covered in a light stubble, stubble that, no matter how long it remained there, would never develop into a beard.

  “You’re studying at the drama school.”

  “Yeah.” Greg pushed the sleeves of his plaid shirt up to his elbows. The shirt was open at the neck and overlapped his scruffy blue jeans. He grinned, “The next Richard Burton, that’s me! Actually,” his face became serious, his tone conspiratorial, “I think comedy is more my line. I’m hoping to get parts in comedy-drama, maybe branch out into stand up. My big ambition is to get on QI!”

  I smiled and nodded. “I wish you every success.” Dipping into my shoulder bag, I removed my notebook and pen. With my pen poised, I asked, “And what about your band?”

  “Modus Operandi...it’s just a fun thing. I can hold a note and the band can play, but it’s mainly a release, a chance to let our hair down.”

  At that moment, the rhythm section of the band kicked into gear and I found my foot tapping against the base of the bar stool.

  “You’re also into politics,” I ventured.

  “Runs in the family,” Greg replied simply, as though stating a basic truth. “My dad is a county councillor and my mum campaigns for Greenpeace, Amnesty, Friends of the Earth...a rebel from the day I was born!”

  “You run a society opposed to the Eugenics Research Foundation.”

  He nodded. “I do, though calling it a ‘society’ is a bit rich. There’s only a handful of us and most of them can’t be bothered most of the time.”

  “Too busy studying?”

  He laughed. “Too busy getting drunk and getting laid!”

  “Have you got a girlfriend?” I asked.

  “Not at the moment.” Again, his pockmarked face became serious and he adopted his conspiratorial whisper. While leaning towards me, he admitted, “I’m a bit awkward with girls. I can say that to you because you’re a lady. What I mean is, I’m not trying to pick you up, or anything. Not that I don’t fancy you. What I mean is, you are good looking, but you’re at least ten years older than me, right, so you’re too old, right. I don’t mean you’re too old and unattractive. In fact, you’re young looking, for your age, and very attractive. What I’m trying to say is...”

  I held up my hands, my notebook in one, my pen in the other and, taking the hint, Greg brought his monologue to a halt. With a smile, I added, “Anyone ever tell you that when you’re in a hole it’s best to stop digging?”

  “Yeah, right.” He gave me a twisted, embarrassed grin, then muttered, “Would you fancy a date?”

  “I’m sort of with someone,” I replied awkwardly.

  “Oh, right.” Greg nodded. He shuffled on his bar stool then took a moment to listen to his band. They were jamming now, hell-bent on making as much noise as possible. Greg returned his thoughts to the kitchen. After eyeing my knees and calves, he mumbled, “You are quite attractive. For an older woman, that is. What I mean is...”

  I laughed while waving my notebook at him in mock admonishment.

  “Right.” He echoed my laugh. “Stop digging.”

  Revisiting the point of the interview, I probed, “Tell me about your society.”

  Greg shrugged his lean shoulders. “There’s not much to tell. We hold meetings when the mood takes us, distribute newsletters, post comments on social media...”

  “Who writes the newsletters?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you have an example?”

  “Funny you should ask...” He flashed his toothy grin, then dipped a hand into his jeans pocket, producing a folded A4 sheet of paper.

  While Greg listened to his band, I read his newsletter. The newsletter stated that the Right use the media to insidiously convert people to their views, that people sleepwalk into accepting what the media says, that the Right control 90% of all media, that lies are repeated so often they are accepted as truths, that the vulnerable and ethnic minorities are used to stir up fears and hatreds, that the disadvantaged are used as a smokescreen to divert attention from Capitalist abuses and corporate greed.

  “Powerful stuff.” I offered the newsletter to Greg and he returned it to his pocket.

  “Thanks.”

  “So I think it’s fair to say that you are opposed to someone like Dr Ruth Carey.”

  He nodded decisively. “She’s a monster. I know she’s a psychiatrist, but I reckon she’s sick in the head. I mean, how can any sane person hold the views that she holds?”

  “A lot of people admire her,” I said.

  “Then they’re sick as well. As G.K. Chesterton said, ‘The wisest thing in the world is to cry out before you are hurt. It is no good to cry out after you are hurt, especially after you are mortally hurt. People talk about the impatience of the populace; but sound historians know that most tyrannies have been possible because men moved too late. It is often essential to resist a tyranny before it exists. It is no answer to say, with a distant optimism, that the scheme is only in the air. A blow from a hatchet can only be parried while it is in the air.’”

  “You’re very passionate in your beliefs.”

  “Yeah, well...if you think I’m passionate you should hear my mum, or dad.”

  I adjusted my position on the bar stool, pulling my skirt over my knees. Then I flicked a loose strand of hair over my shoulder, aware that Greg was offering me an admiring glance. Although I struggled with amorous attentions, I felt at ease with Greg, probably because he shared my discomfort, my inhibitions about interacting with the opposite sex.

  Glancing down, I returned to my notebook, made a note, then gazed at Greg, staring deep into his eyes. “Someone attacked Ruth Carey this morning.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “And you think I did it?”

  “Did you?”

  “No. But I admire the man who did.”

  “Any idea who attacked Dr C
arey?”

  Greg shook his head. He pulled a long face, pushing out his bottom lip. “None at all.”

  “The people in your movement, maybe?”

  “My comrades are non-violent. Sure, there’s plenty of aggressive talk, but when it comes to action...” He left his comment hanging in the air. Then, as cymbals crashed in the scouts’ hall, he returned the favour and stared deep into my eyes. “Why all the questions?” he asked suspiciously. “Are you writing an article about Dr Carey?”

  An actress, I will never be. I blushed at his level of suspicion and felt that it was time to come clean and admit the mild deception on my part.

  “Actually, my name is Sam, not Abigail, and I’m a private detective, not a journalist. I guess I was playing a part.”

  He stared at me, somewhat quizzically. “You thought I wouldn’t meet a private eye?”

  “If I told you the truth, I thought you wouldn’t be as forthcoming.”

  Greg nodded. He rubbed his prominent chin, grunted, then asked, “Are you working for Ruth Carey?”

  “Her husband, Professor Henry Chancellor, hired me to look into a series of death threats.”

  “Hmm,” he replied noncommittally, then asked, “Do you believe in what she says?”

  “I find her and her views abhorrent.”

  “Then why stick around?”

  “I need the money. But more than that, I have my professional pride; when someone hires me, I stay with the job through to the end.”

  Slowly, Greg’s features cracked into a smile. His suspicion faded and we were pals again. “You must get some weirdos hiring you. I mean...I guess you have to be pretty desperate to hire a private eye. What I mean is...” He saw the amusement play around my lips, held his hands up in surrender and sighed, “...stop digging.”