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

by Hannah Howe

  Of course, unless someone wears a plaque around their neck proclaiming ‘I am an Axe Murderer’ it is difficult to distinguish a threatening member of the public from a benevolent one. Certainly, I saw no one walking the street harbouring obvious malicious intent.

  If my theory was correct, and the person behind the death threats was one of Ruth’s patients, then the people entering her office carried the greatest potential threat. I’d suggested to Ruth that maybe I should camp inside her office, in the waiting room, to nip any possible peril in the bud, but she’d declined my offer. In fact, she’d been coarse in her refusal, which did not bode well for our fractious client-agent relationship.

  With my feet turning to blocks of ice and with a fine mist descending on the street, I studied Ruth’s patients scrupulously. To a man and a woman all these people looked ‘normal’. Obviously, they had issues, but not one of them looked threatening, or resembled the sketchy image I had of her would-be kidnappers.

  At lunchtime, Ruth Carey left her office. She walked over to my Mini and informed me that, “I’m going to meet up with Boris. We have business to discuss. You can go home.”

  “But,” I reasoned, “your husband told me to stay with you.”

  Ruth Carey tapped her foot on the damp pavement. She cast her gaze up to the grey sky and sighed, “Very well. You can follow me in your Dinky car.”

  After winding my driver’s window up, I put my Mini into gear and tailed Ruth’s BMW out of the city, south, to the seaside town of Penarth. An elegant Victorian settlement that has retained its heritage, Penarth boasts a fine promenade and a magnificent pier. I was wondering if we were set for a stroll along the pier when Ruth turned out of the town into the countryside. Five minutes later, we arrived at a converted barn. The building was a riot of pinkish-cream stonework, orange wood panelling and large picture windows. Set off the road, at the end of a short country lane, the house was private and attractive, a desirable residence for the affluent and upwardly mobile.

  And speaking of which...as Ruth parked her BMW in the drive, Boris waddled out of the house. He embraced Ruth with a “hello, darling,” kissed her on the lips, then glanced over his shoulder to me. “What’s she doing here?” he asked suspiciously.

  Ruth threw her bag over her shoulder and marched towards the house. Without looking back, she replied, “Henry told her to follow me.”

  “Well, she can’t come inside the house.” Boris waved his arms, in imitation of a man shooing away pigeons. “Why don’t you go home, little girl. Go on, get out of here.”

  I stood by the garden gate, getting wet as the mist turned into a fine drizzle. “Professor Chancellor told me to stay with Dr Carey.”

  Boris smiled, or rather, his unpleasant features morphed into a smirk. “In case the bogeyman should attack her?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then by all means, stay here. I suggest you wait by the gate and keep a look out for the bogeyman; from the gate you have a good view of the lane and the road.”

  So I stood by the gate, getting wet. They were pissing me about and I was the one getting wet. It was just a cruel game to them, another amusement in their mean, narrow-minded lives.

  I adjusted my trench coat, turning my collar up, to no avail because the rain found a route down my neck. I could feel the moisture gathering in the seat of my jeans. Oh, joy. Nothing beats sitting around all day on a wet bum. Of course, I could always retreat and take shelter in my car, but if someone did approach and I’d abandoned my station...a letter of litigation went fluttering through my mind.

  I stuck it out for three-quarters of an hour. Then, with no one threatening in sight, I allowed my eyes to wander up to the front bedroom window. I knew what they were doing. I’d been an enquiry agent long enough to know that they were having sex, that they were lovers. I’d followed enough errant husbands, and wives, to know that for a fact.

  My suspicious eyes spied a ladder, resting beside a garden shed. I walked over to the ladder, picked it up and inspected the rungs for any dangerous flaws. I found none, so I propped the ladder against the front of the house and climbed up to the bedroom window.

  One glance told me that I was right, that they were having sex (I noticed that Ruth’s boobs had been artificially enhanced too.) I dipped my head below the level of the windowsill, fished my phone from my pocket then filmed them for twelve seconds. I felt grubby, but Henry Chancellor wanted a full report and he deserved to know the truth. Standing on a ladder in the pouring rain watching two unattractive people having sex is just about the most unerotic thing I’d ever done – believe me, watching two socks spin around in a washing machine is more stimulating – but I felt justified in my actions, justified because of the way they were behaving towards me and justified because of the blatant way they flouted their lust for each other. Maybe this was the real reason Henry Chancellor hired me, to uncover the affair. If so, where did the death threats and the kidnap attempt fit in?

  I clambered down the ladder then dragged it towards the garden shed, replacing it on the marks its inactivity had scored on the grass. After cleaning my hands on the wet grass, I returned to my sentry post and shook the rain from my legs.

  Eighteen minutes later, Ruth and Boris emerged from the house, looking content and slightly flushed.

  “Any sign of the bogeyman?” Boris asked with his smirk plastered over his face.

  “No,” I replied solemnly.

  “I think I saw something moving in those trees over there.” He waved a hand towards the back of the house, towards a muddy field and a small area of woodland.

  “You had better investigate, hadn’t you,” Ruth added, her voice carrying a higher pitch than normal, her words tumbling out in a post-carnal rush.

  Reluctantly, I walked towards the muddy field. I climbed over a five bar gate and set foot on the sludge. Carefully, I tiptoed my way through the mud, my feet making obscene noises as they squelched and sank into the mire. Then, inevitably, I fell over. I slipped and fell on my back. From their position, at the front gate near the lane, Ruth and Boris laughed uproariously. I’d become Sam the clown and I was offering them great amusement. I tried to scramble to my feet, but the mud was so dense I slipped and fell again. Once more, they laughed. My clothes, my hands, my face were all covered in mud. Eventually, I managed to push myself to my feet, just in time to hear Ruth scream. Slipping and sliding, I ran through the mud, vaulted the gate and found Boris, flat on his back, his lights punched out. There was no sign of Ruth; she had been abducted, by whom, I did not know. But one thing was for sure – no one was laughing now.

  Chapter Eleven

  I called the cops. Led by a detective sergeant named Hopkins, they scoured the scene for possible clues, paying close attention to the area around the front gate before taking plaster casts of the tyre tracks, left in the mud of the lane.

  Looking, and feeling, like an idiot, I gave my statement to Detective Sergeant Hopkins. Apparently satisfied, he moved on to Boris St John who, with the aid of some medicinal port, had revived.

  Boris would not allow me to enter his house to wash, so I was still shaking mud from my hands and clothing when Detective Inspector ‘Sweets’ MacArthur arrived.

  Sweets consulted with Hopkins, then walked over to me and grinned. While eyeing the mudpack on my face, he asked, “What happened to you, Sam?”

  “Don’t ask. And if you laugh, I’m going to sock you one.”

  “You remind me of my missus, though she tends to go for green mud in an effort to preserve her beauty.”

  The mud was so thick there was no way it was going to shift until I got home, changed and had a shower. So I contented myself with an exasperated sigh and some colourful invective. Then I offered Sweets an explanation as to recent events.

  Sweets popped a bonbon into his mouth and gave it a thoughtful suck. Then he asked, “Did you see anything when you returned to the gate?”

  “I caught a glimpse of a black Subaru as it pulled out of the la
ne. It went west on the main road, then I lost it.”

  “Number plates?”

  “Covered in mud, though I did notice that the car was plastered with racing car emblems and stickers.”

  Sweets pushed his trilby to the top of his balding crown. He scratched his head while whistling tunelessly through the gap in his two front teeth. He was still scratching his head and cogitating when Boris emerged from the house, looking somewhat chastened and sorry for himself.

  “I’m Detective Inspector MacArthur. Your name, sir?” Sweets asked as Boris approached the gate.

  “Boris St John. Pronounced...”

  “Sinjun,” I chipped in.

  Sweets turned to face me, offering a tolerant, patient smile. “Thank you, Sam.” He continued, “Do you live here, Mr St John?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was Dr Carey doing here?”

  “We were discussing a business matter.”

  “Pertaining to?”

  “The Eugenics Research Foundation.”

  “And what is that when it’s at home?”

  “A fellowship that seeks to improve the lot of mankind.”

  Sweets pursed his lips and pulled a face as he sucked vigorously on his bonbon. From his raincoat pocket, he produced a notebook and proceeded to make a note. As Sweets scribbled in his notebook, he said, “So you and Dr Carey engage in some heavy-duty conversations.”

  “We are very intellectual people; there is a meeting of minds, yes.”

  And bodies, I thought, but kept that information to myself.

  “Any idea who would abduct Dr Carey?” Sweets asked.

  “People who are opposed to our ideas, obviously,” Boris replied, his tone impatient, petulant.

  “Why would people be opposed to your ideas?”

  “Because...” Boris paused. Dare he admit to Sweets, to himself, that his ideas were abhorrent? Did he consider them in that light, or did he genuinely believe that the promotion of a ‘master race’ was for the good of society? With an irritated sigh, Boris complained, “Must we continue this conversation? I’m getting rather wet.”

  Sweets glanced up to the leaden sky while wiping a raindrop from his eye. “Bugger of a day, innit?” he observed, then continued, “Tell me about the people who hate your ideas.”

  “You should be questioning Greg Goodman.” Boris stamped his foot in authoritative fashion. He glared at Sweets; if looks could kill, the detective inspector would be pushing up the daisies. “Mr Goodman is a student at the drama school,” Boris explained patiently. “He is an agitator with links to extremists.”

  “Friends of the Earth, Amnesty...,” I chipped in.

  Sweets turned and gave me a tolerant smile. “Thank you, Sam.” Returning to Boris, he asked, “And where will I find Mr Goodman?”

  “I have already told you; he is a student at the drama school.” Then Boris lost it; in a high-pitched voice he asked, “Are you really a detective inspector?”

  Sweets whistled tunelessly. He dipped his head, fixing his gaze on his notebook. As he scribbled a note, he mumbled, “I will pretend that I didn’t hear that remark.” Looking up, Sweets glared at Boris. By nature, Sweets was as soft as the sweeties he habitually sucked, but when riled he could be as hard as nails. “I will have a word with Mr Goodman,” he said calmly. “Is there anyone else you can think of, anyone from another branch of Dr Carey’s life?”

  “I wouldn’t know about other branches of Dr Carey’s life,” Boris lied smoothly. “We have a strictly business relationship. If you are looking for further leads or clues then I suggest you talk with her husband.”

  “Professor Henry Chancellor, the astronomer,” I chipped in.

  “Thank you, Sam,” Sweets replied, and this time, I think he meant it. “Ms Smith tells me that you saw someone in the trees, acting suspiciously.”

  “It was a joke.” Boris held up his arms then flapped them at his sides, dismissing Sweets’ comment as nonsensical. “She’s a joke. We were taking the piss.”

  Sweets narrowed his eyes. He glared at Boris from under the brim of his trilby. “You think Ms Smith is amusing, do you?”

  “Look...well...” He hesitated, then stuck to his guns. “Actually, I do. A woman running around pretending to be a private investigator. She is taking money under false pretences.”

  “Then maybe I should arrest her,” Sweets said, his tone casual, even.

  “Yes, officer,” Boris replied stridently, “you should.”

  “And arrest you for assisting in the abduction of Dr Carey.”

  “Look...” Boris paled, his piggy eyes narrowing, his shallow cheeks sinking even further into his face, while the broken veins on his bulbous nose glowed with righteous indignation.

  “As I see it,” Sweets continued, “you created a diversion, luring Ms Smith into the woods so that the abductors could have a free run at Dr Carey.”

  “Abductor,” Boris corrected. “There was only one of them.”

  “A man, or woman?”

  “Man. He thumped me,” Boris complained, “before I could get my guard up.”

  “Description?” Sweets asked.

  “He was...” Boris shook his head. He flapped his arms again, as though threatening to take off. “It all happened so fast,” he added lamely.

  “Maybe you should accompany me back to the factory,” Sweets suggested.

  “Factory?” Boris frowned.

  “Police station,” Sweets replied, displaying commendable self-restraint.

  “Look...” Boris insisted, “I played no part in the abduction. I...er...like Dr Carey. A lot. We are great friends, very fond of each other. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”

  The rain had soaked through Sweets’ coat on to his shoulders. He rolled them, as though to ease a knot of tension and to ward off the arthritis, which troubled him, when the weather was damp.

  “Okay,” Sweets conceded, returning his notebook to his raincoat pocket, “we’ll leave it at that, for now. I’ll have more questions for you later, Mr St John; you will be at home, I take it.”

  Boris gave Sweets a piggy-eyed glare. “I’ll be at home,” he mumbled morosely.

  We retreated to my Mini where I threw my dirty trench coat into the boot. Then I plonked my damp behind on to the driver’s seat while Sweets slipped on to the passenger’s seat, his face set, his expression thoughtful.

  After removing his trilby, he said, “Your thoughts on the abductor...”

  “A patient.”

  “Why?”

  “Gut instinct. And her evasiveness whenever the subject is raised.”

  “Hmm,” Sweets murmured noncommittally.

  I noticed that from the corner of his eye he was glancing into my rear-view mirror, at the fine salt-and-pepper strands on his head. In a vain and futile gesture, he tried to rearrange those damp strands to cover the crown of his balding head.

  “Psychiatrists and psychologists,” Sweets grinned, turning to face me, “you certainly get involved with some cerebral people, don’t you, Sam. Which reminds me, how did the dirty weekend go?”

  “It didn’t,” I replied grumpily. With a frumpy expression lining my face, I proceeded to give Sweets the edited ‘highlights’ of my cottage weekend with Alan.

  “Come on, Sam,” Sweets chided, “pull your finger out; he won’t hang around forever.”

  “I know. Don’t pressure me, Sweets, I’m trying my best.” For some reason, I glanced into my rear-view mirror and caught sight of my matted hair, my mud-splattered face and my grumpy expression. That glance, combined with the day’s events, was enough to take me over the edge and in exasperation I moaned, “I get so annoyed with myself, so frustrated. In fact, I feel so frustrated I could SCREAM!”

  “Feel better now?” Sweets asked, his voice calm and serene, his expression placid as my outburst faded into the ether.

  “Not really.”

  Sweets clambered out of my car. While drumm
ing his fingers on the car roof, he grinned at me and said, “You’d better get yourself home and tidied up, while I have another word with blockhead.” He was about to walk towards the house when he paused and placed his head through my open driver’s window. “Oh, Sam...what do you think of this...every night my wife puts a mudpack on her face and curlers in her hair. It doesn’t help though, I can still tell it’s her...or this...my wife tried a mudpack to make herself more beautiful. It worked for a while, then it fell off...or what about this one...some wives get their good looks from their mothers, mine gets hers from the chemist...one more...a small boy is watching his big sister put a beauty pack on her face. ‘Why are you doing that?’ he asks. ‘To make myself more attractive,’ his sister replies. Then the boy comments as his sister wipes the beauty pack from her face, ‘Didn’t work, did it?’”

  Chapter Twelve

  I drove home and jumped into the shower. Then I changed into a grey trouser suit with a fine pinstripe and a cream crew-neck sweater. Mud-free and smelling slightly of peaches, I made my way to Cosmeston and Henry Chancellor’s house. Ruth Carey’s abduction was a police matter now; nevertheless, I felt guilty because I’d been powerless to prevent it.

  I was sitting with Henry Chancellor in his study. Understandably, the professor was in a state of some distress. Somehow, he contrived to look thinner than usual, while his corona of closely cropped grey hair had become unruly and his blue eyes bloodshot.

  “I’m very sorry, professor,” I apologised lamely.

  “It is not your fault, Miss Smith, not your fault at all.”

  I was ‘Miss Smith’ I noted, not ‘Samantha’, a minor detail, perhaps, but one that suggested to me that Professor Chancellor did hold me responsible for the abduction.

  “The police have given me their version of events,” he continued, his eyes downcast, gazing into his emaciated lap, “I would like to hear the story from your point of view.”