by Linda Coles
“Thanks. I’ll get a uniform on his door,” Rick said wearily. After all this, was she actually stupid enough to come back for a second kick at the can? He made the first phone call, and then sat back, shaking his head. That settled it; Rick had no choice but to tell Duncan what was going on. What happened then would be up to him.
It wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to.
The following morning, after she’d dropped the girls at school, Sam took a detour home – first to a chemist on the outskirts of town for some everyday help, then over to Beswick to visit the tea lady. With everything that had gone on in the last 24 hours – the finding of the poisoned pies, her own lame story to Rick, and her growing anguish over the £6000 and her vanished ‘employee’ – a few Paramol were not going to do the trick today. No, Sam needed something far stronger, and the £200 in her purse was going to provide it for her. With no one in the house all day but her, she’d spend the rest of the day looking after herself for a change and not worrying about anyone else. Some people drank, some spent money they didn’t have. What Sam chose for her stress relief was no different, really, she told herself huffily.
It took an age to get to the house; the traffic was backed up on the A57, adding to her nervous, irritable mood. But finally, she parked up outside the grubby little house and almost wept with relief. There was no one else about, no smartly dressed woman with a racy red Mini parked nearby, no one to bother her while she made her purchase. In her agitation, Sam didn’t bother pulling a cap over her hair – which really, needed a wash, come to that – before getting out the car and approaching the door.
It opened just before she knocked. The woman must have seen her approaching on a security screen – either that, or someone had notified her of Sam’s arrival. She slipped gratefully inside. The woman looked the same as she had on Sam’s last visit – four inches of dark roots, the same fitted black pants and pretty blue blouse with little flowers on it, the same clinking gold bangles.
“What kind of tea would you like?”
“Something nice and strong, please.”
Sam felt her pupils dilate in anticipation as the lovely little balsa-wood tea box came out. She watched as her hostess removed the top layer and exposed the variety of little bags underneath.
“How strong would you like it?”
The woman allowed Sam to scan the contents and select two bags. They were £80 apiece, Sam knew. Thinking of the £200 burning a hole in her purse, she tried her luck for a discount and picked up another bag, making it three in total. The woman raised her eyebrows and held her hand out, reminding Sam to show her the money. Sam met her eyes and held out the four crisp £50 notes. The woman paused for a moment and then, nodding her silent agreement to the discount, quickly pocketed the money. She closed the tea box and put it safely back in the cupboard as Sam slipped her purchase into the side pocket of her bag.
The transaction was over as quickly as it had begun, and Sam stood up to leave. There were no thanks today. Sam’s mind was preoccupied with bigger problems than the possibility of someone listening in to the trade going on. If she ever got caught, she knew, it would be her first offence and a slap on the wrist would cover it. If the tea lady got nicked, though, she would be in for a good deal more, and Sam couldn’t care less.
Once back inside her car, Sam hit the accelerator harder than was necessary and spun out of the quiet cul-de-sac like her life depended on it, headed back to the quiet sanctuary and safety of her home. She resisted the urge to swallow a tablet on the way, fighting it hard like an alcoholic fighting a beer stood in front of him. She could almost feel herself drool at the thought of the relief ahead.
When she hit the return traffic on the motorway, her resistance crumbled. She had no strength left. Figuring there was no point in delaying the inevitable, she reached across to the passenger seat and fiddled around the inside pocket of her bag until she felt what she was looking for. With a sigh of relief, she swallowed it dry.
By the time she got home, the edge of her problems would be sanded clean off, as smooth as a pebble from the bottom of a riverbed.
Wilfred Day traded in information. From long experience, he knew that almost all information had a value to someone, somewhere, and that meant he could leverage it for his own gain. And in the last short while, Wilfred had gained some very interesting information indeed. The tracker he’d ordered placed under Sam’s bumper when her laptop had been returned that night showed a familiar address. He’d been there himself many times, but not for the same reason Sam and most of the others dropped by. No, Wilfred really did stop in for tea, and to catch up with one of his most valued employees, one he’d set up in business after he’d helped her out of a sticky situation with her violent ex-husband. He chuckled to himself as he realized the similarity between the two women: they had both wanted their husbands out of their lives, though for rather different reasons.
Chapter Eighty-Two
By the time she was putting the key in the door, Sam could barely see straight. How the hell she’d managed to drive back unscathed she had no clue, but how long would the gods, or the angels, or whatever they were, look out for her from this point forward? Throwing herself on to the couch, she kicked off her boots and lay face down without moving for a good five minutes, thinking, a little drool leaking from her open mouth onto the cushion. There were no cares in her world when there was oxy floating around her system, and the feeling of utter lethargy was divine.
The sound of her phone ringing shattered the quiet of the empty house and forced her back into a hazy semblance of reality. It was Rick.
“Yeah?” Even that one word was a struggle.
“Sam, are you okay? Only you sound half asleep.”
“Yeah, a bit under the weather. Taking a nap.”
“Oh, okay. I won’t keep you. But I thought you should know they aren’t transferring Duncan to hospital up here any longer. He’s going straight home instead. They say they’ll schedule his next hand operation from hospital here. Good news, eh?”
That got Sam’s attention. Struggling, she managed to sit up straight, head lolling on the sofa back.
“Great news! When will that happen?”
“Should be tomorrow if all goes to plan. I can pick him up if you like. Might be easier with the girls and school. I’m not sure yet what time it’s likely to be. Then I can drop him off at your place. Will that work for you?”
Sam was too fuddled to think straight. Her eyelids kept falling closed as the oxy rushed through her system, trying to pull her down to oblivion.
“Sam? Are you there?”
“Yeah. Sounds great. Thanks, Rick,” she slurred, and pressed end.
On the other end of the call, Rick stood in the station car park staring at the phone as if something was going to jump out of it. Sam had sounded so drawn out, like she was in a deep slumber. She’d told him she wasn’t feeling too good, though, so maybe that was it. She had been through quite a lot lately.
Still, Duncan would hopefully be home the following day. Home. Rick sat up uneasily. Maybe, given the circumstances, he’d have Duncan stay at his place for a couple of days while the dust settled. He needed to have a long talk with him before he went home to Sam and the girls.
He was still stood in the car park thinking things through when his phone buzzed. Wilfred Day again. What could the man want now? He pressed answer.
“Another call? People will get the wrong impression about us,” he joked.
“You’re not my type, actually, but that’s another story. I bring news to your ears.”
“Oh?”
“Your friend Sam likes the stronger pills too. In fact, she has just made a purchase. Can’t tell you where, but my source said three oxy tabs. Strong ones. Our young lady must be feeling stressed over something.” He gave a sing-song tone to the last word – something.
Rick let out a loud sigh. Would Sam never cease to surprise him? A few packets of painkillers were one thing, but oxy? That
was something else. He thanked Wilfred and hung up, wondering why the man had bothered to call him with that tidbit. Rick was grateful for the intelligence, of course, but if Day was working on getting a copper in his pocket, he’d have another think coming.
My source says. . .
Rick blinked. Had Sam inadvertently bought her drugs from one of Day’s outlets?
Well, there was no time to find that out now. There was work to be done, and since Rochelle had been out of the office for a couple of days and Duncan was laid up in hospital, he needed to get to it.
So that’s what he did.
Chapter Eighty-Three
All Sam wanted to do was sleep. But the news that Duncan could be home the following day fought for space in her head and brought her problems so much closer. Now she had not even 24 hours on her own before he’d be back in her life.
And he’d know her secret
He’d know she’d poisoned him, at the minimum, because Rick undoubtedly would tell him. He had searched her rubbish bin, for heaven’s sake. But would he believe her cover story about the loan, the one she’d settled on – that, as a surprise, she was planning on buying a caravan for family holidays and weekends away with the girls when he was working? And taking him and the girls away for a fantastic holiday abroad, somewhere warm, after his big case? Could she fudge it without raising more questions? It seemed plausible in her mind, but then her mind was as dull as the sky outside her window. A tear slid down her cheek and she let it roll without wiping it away.
“I’m so tired of this, so tired of him. So tired of everything,” she moaned to herself, her voice trailing off as the tears slid untouched down her hot sticky face. Thoughts of ice creams on the Cornish coast with the girls were now gone, her happy dreams rolling away like her tears. Was she strong enough to face him if the truth came out? Could she be that woman? Did she even want to be?
In her half-conscious state, she wondered about leaving it all behind. About taking the remaining two tablets that were hidden discreetly in the side pocket of her bag, swallowing them down with ice-cold vodka, never waking up again. The blessed relief of her wrongdoings being forgotten.
To leave everything. Find the peace she so desperately craved.
And that’s exactly what she did.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Wilfred liked it when things turned out well, especially the unplanned – because that meant fate had intervened and something was destined to be the way it was. And that’s why making this particular house call was going to be the start of something special.
His meaty hand rapped surprisingly gently on the front door and he took a step backwards to wait. There was the sound of footsteps getting closer and then the door opened, revealing a man in his mid-twenties with brown, poodle-like hair. Luke said hello.
“Good morning. I’m looking for Luke Montgomery.”
His brighter-than-bright smile always put people at ease. Wilfred knew he was a likeable character, and that people found it hard not to fall under his charming spell. Luke was no exception. He smiled back.
“I’m Luke. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Luke, my name is Wilfred Day and I hear you’ve been looking for finance to get a food van business off the ground. Can we talk somewhere private?”
Another flash of perfect dentistry; it did the trick.
As the man’s words registered, Luke’s face lit up, his smile as big as Wilfred’s but a lower wattage. He stood to one side of the door and signalled for him to enter. “My parents aren’t home right now so there’s no one here. We can talk in private. Can I get you a coffee? Tea perhaps?”
Wilfred followed him through the house and out to the back where most people’s kitchens were and helped himself to a seat at the central island. He admired the set-up.
“Tea, thanks. One sugar.” He took a slow look around. “Nicely done,” he said casually, taking in the whole room. “Modern with a dash of antique,” he added, nodding his approval.
Luke busied himself with the kettle and tea bags as he spoke. “My parents travel extensively. That’s why I’m house-sitting for them.”
Wilfred let the fib lie, realizing the young man was putting up a front, not wanting to admit he was broke and living in his folks’ back bedroom. It made what he was about to offer him all the more tantalizing, and he wanted Luke to want it, not simply do it. Having skin in the game, so to speak, bred loyalty, and loyalty made good business.
“Good for them. It’s life’s experiences that make the person, not material objects. Those are of relatively little value.”
Luke hadn’t noticed the Bentley when he’d opened the door but knew the man sat in his kitchen wasn’t short of a bob or two. His Rolex was a giveaway, as were the perfectly capped teeth.
“So, who do we know in common, then?” he asked the stranger. “Who put you on this doorstep?”
Wilfred chuckled to himself, then replied, “Well, that’s the thing. I don’t think you know her at all. Actually, let me correct myself: you only know her online. She’s a woman called Sam Riley, lives around the Manchester area.”
Luke handed him a mug of tea and joined him at the island, looking thoughtful as he tried to remember who Sam was. Maybe he and Clinton had presented their business plan to her at some point, but no. Wilfred had said online. He really couldn’t place the name.
Wilfred could see his brain doing a search and coming up blank. As he would expect him to.
“Can’t say I can recall,” said Luke at length, “but I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Well, actually, Luke, it does rather matter. It’s vitally important, actually, how you know Mrs. Riley, because she’s key to this business relationship moving forward.” His casual smile was still lighting his face up, causing no sniff of concern. But clearly Luke hadn’t the faintest idea what he was driving at. He took the opportunity to explain. “Well, allow me to explain who Mrs. Sam Riley is, and then we can talk about how I can help finance your venture.”
“I’m listening.”
“Luke, Sam Riley is the woman who booked you and your partner to kill her husband a couple of days ago, in Croydon. You may remember that night?” Still the smile remained, and then it turned into a light laugh at the look on Luke’s face – all colour had drained from it. Instead of the happy, healthy-looking young man of a moment or two ago, he was now the colour of a Dairylea triangle. Wilfred gave him another moment to compose a reply.
With a bit of a stutter, Luke asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m a businessman. I’m not the cops or MI5 or any other agency you might wonder about. I’m Wilfred Day. And it’s my business to know about other people’s business. So, when I was helping an acquaintance out recently, I came across your enterprise, the one on the dark web specifically. And on that, you could have been a little more careful, I must say. If I found you so easily, others could as well if they chose.”
Luke gulped but said nothing.
“Still, it looks like I’m here first, and that’s a good thing for you and for me. And quite by chance – and you should believe in chance if you don’t already – you want to launch a food van business. And, since I have a fleet of my own, I can offer you advice as well as funding.”
Luke couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“What about the website and Mrs. Riley?” he stammered. “If you’re not the authorities, what is in it for you and why are you really here?”
“Glad you asked – and your secret is safe with me, by the way. I also notice you haven’t denied anything so far. I like that. If we’re going to be working together, trust is vital in our game.”
“And your game is what exactly?”
“I told you, I have a fleet of food vans, except we offer a particular product with our sandwiches that has proved extremely popular with the locals. And it’s all high-tech, all done via an app. And untraceable.” Wilfred was enjoying himself immensely, explaining how things were going to work from now on, even i
f Luke didn’t fully realize it yet. “So, I’m willing to fund you a small string of vans, to start with anyway, as long as you sell my product and use my technology for payment. Simple, eh?”
He drained the rest of his tea as Luke took it all in. He’d barely touched his own. Wilfred looked at his Rolex. “Look, think it over and I’ll be in touch so we can chat more. But just so you have the alternative side of things, remember I know what you and Clinton did. And I can prove it.”
The smile was gone now. Luke swallowed hard.
“I’ll call you again tomorrow about this time so we can iron out any details,” Wilfred said smoothly. “And look at it this way: you get your own fleet, a dream you’ve had for some time now. And it can all become a reality, making you both rather wealthy young men.” He gave Luke’s shoulder a light slap as he stood and walked towards the front door. “I’ll let myself out. Have a fantastic day!” he called to him.
Fantastic day, thought Luke, his heart pounding. More like unusual day.
Chapter Eighty-Five
“Who the hell tipped them off, then, do you reckon?” Jack asked the room.
Blank faces stared back at him, and Amanda took the opportunity to speak up. It was better coming from her, as detective sergeant, rather than Jack. She noticed that Dupin was watching the proceedings through his office window.
“Jack is right to be pissed, as we all are,” she explained. “It seems as soon as we figure it out, they’ve moved on. Where to, we’ve no idea, but my guess is they are still operating in some form – this gig is far too lucrative for them not to be. Our friends in Manchester warned us Wilfred Day was slippery, and the link between him and the vans here was tenuous, to say the least. But since we don’t believe in coincidence, somehow in all this he’s been tipped off. I doubt we’ll see vans distributing on our patch any more now. That doesn’t mean they won’t get caught somewhere else, but it won’t be by us. Drug squad have now taken an interest, so it would have been taken out of our hands soon enough anyway.