Swindled (The Sandlin PI Series Book 1)

by S. E. Shepherd

  The mere effort of talking caused tiny beads of sweat to collect on his temples. He was on to the ‘could do better’ section of his speech now. ‘… and she wasn’t happy with the inside of the mugs. I’ve told you before – you need to give them a good wash before you put them in the dishwasher.’

  The words, ‘You don’t have a dog and bark yourself’ were on the tip of Lottie’s tongue, but she held back. What was the point? The people who worked in this office block were so lazy they couldn’t even rinse out their own mugs before they went home of an evening. In too much of a rush to get going, they left them sitting, still and cold on their desks. By the time the cleaners came early, too bloody early, the next morning, their long-forgotten coffee had left a dark ring at the bottom of the mug, which the dishwasher couldn’t cope with.

  ‘Right, I’m off to see how the others are getting on.’ Mr Bale left.

  He would use the lift, Lottie knew that. He never once used the stairs; they would no doubt kill him.

  He’d be checking on the cleaners whose responsibility it was to do three, four and five. Then, just before it was time to clock off, he’d ride the lift to the top and check on the last pair – the women who were responsible for six, seven and, the holiest of holy, floor eight, the executive offices.

  ‘That wanker does nothing, and he gets paid way more than us. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Aleesha, life isn’t fair. Our employer is a misogynistic arsehole who thinks six women can’t clean some offices unless they have a stupid, fat man overseeing everything they do.’

  ‘I’d like to smack his great big wobbly face when he starts going through instructions. Wouldn’t you?’

  Lottie sighed. ‘Just don’t listen to him. That’s what I do. I don’t have time to think about him and his idiotic repetitive instructions.’

  ‘What’s your time taken up with then? Wondering which bleach you prefer? The pink bottle or the green?’

  ‘You don’t know what I think about when I’m cleaning!’ And that’s probably a good thing.

  ‘It’s likely to be the same as me: getting out of here, getting home and going back to bed.’

  ‘Yes. Mostly.’ Lottie gave a curt smile, indicating that they ought to stop talking and get finished. As she’d already said, Aleesha was not a multi-tasker; she hadn’t even mastered the art of working whilst she talked, and often made them finish late.

  ‘He’ll be up to three by now, creeping up on them girls in his stupid Hush Puppies.’

  It was clear to Lottie that Aleesha wasn’t going to take the hint. ‘Yes. Listen—’

  ‘I see the way he looks at us, especially you. He’s a fucking pervert, that man.’

  ‘Aleesha, let’s just get it done and get out. Like you say, we both just want to go home.’

  ‘All right. No worries. I’ll grab Henry.’ Within seconds, Aleesha was dragging the smiling vacuum cleaner around the floor, wiggling her rounded bum as she went. Henry was the only member of staff who appeared to enjoy his work.

  Lottie began emptying the wastepaper bins. Bend, pick up the bin, place the contents in a black bag, bend once more to put the bin back under the desk, shuffle to the next desk, then begin the whole process again. This was the part she hated most, even more than the toilets. This was the part that gave her backache.

  As she progressed around the room, hauling the black bag, which grew weightier by the second, she felt the usual swell of anger inside her.

  I’m too good for all this. I used to have two bloody ponies. I thought nothing of spending a thousand pounds on my dress for the prom. People should be cleaning up after me!

  Lottie Thorogood had been born into a well-to-do family. Not content with a silver spoon in her mouth, her tiny rosebud lips had held an entire cutlery set.

  She’d grown up in Mulberry House, a period property at the heart of a beautiful country estate, just outside the town of Kingshurst in Hampshire. Just over half an hour from the coast by car, and yet close enough to a decent railway station to give access to London Waterloo, Kingshurst was what estate agents referred to as ‘a highly desirable location’. For as long as Lottie could remember, people had come to clean their house. She’d seen them. Young women who avoided eye contact and always seemed over-eager to please. She used to wonder what it was like to clear up another person’s mess. Her mother had told her not to give it a second thought; she need not worry about it. In fact, Catherine Thorogood had promised little Lottie that she was destined for an easy life, and she would always have the best of everything.

  4

  Hannah – 2019

  Thanking the guy in the print shop, Hannah picked up her precious business cards. Re-joining the street, she wanted to shout, ‘It’s official. I’m a private investigator.’ But, of course, she couldn’t do that. Such an act would contravene the very nature of the career she was embarking upon.

  Once in her car, she couldn’t help but take another peek at the cards. ‘Sandlin Private Investigation. No job too small.’ This was followed by her mobile number.

  She’d ummed and ahhed about the ‘no job too small’ line. The last thing she wanted was to waste her time trying to work out who was stealing some bloke’s sandwiches from a staff fridge. But Hannah had to be honest with herself; she was an unknown young woman who, through a moment of indecision, had been unceremoniously thrown out of the police service before she’d even completed her first year. People were not going to be queueing up to employ her to find out who’d murdered their husband, or to track down and retrieve their family jewels. If she had to start out catching greedy bastards red-handed – so be it.

  Back at home, she gave some thought to where she ought to put the cards. Not phone boxes and shop windows, that was for sure; this wasn’t the nineties. No, the cards were great for handing out to acquaintances, but if she wanted to generate work, she was going to need a decent website as well.

  Within an hour, Hannah was extremely frustrated. This was so much harder than she’d imagined. Her brand-new website was awful. Who was she trying to kid? A pack of business cards and a shit website didn’t make her an investigator. However she tried to word it, there seemed no way of mentioning that she’d been in the police, without adding that she’d been forced to leave. And how could she explain that?

  ‘Constable Sandlin, you must know there’s nothing more I can do for you.’

  ‘But … sir, none of this … I didn’t even …’

  ‘Both you and Chipperton—’

  ‘Chipperton can go fuck himself. It was him who got me into this mess in the first place.’

  ‘Hannah, you’re not doing yourself any favours.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Hannah tried to give the impression that she was calm and in control. Which, of course, she was not. This job had been all she’d ever wanted. Her dad had been so proud. If I have to go home and tell him I’ve been discharged …

  ‘Maybe you just need to admit to yourself that this wasn’t the career for you. Not everyone makes it in the force.’

  ‘It was though. It still is!’

  ‘I don’t agree. I’m sorry too. But you must see—’

  Hannah interrupted, through clenched teeth. ‘And what about him?’

  ‘Chipperton?’

  ‘Yes. What about his career?’

  ‘I’m not permitted to discuss the outcome of the investigation into his actions.’

  ‘He’d better be out too. I mean it.’

  ‘All I can tell you is, luckily, like yourself, he’s managed to escape prosecution. He’s not had it easy though. People around here had some pretty strong opinions.’

  Hannah still had no sympathy whatsoever for Dave Chipperton. She’d tried her hardest to get someone to take her side, but no, before she knew it, she was out. The shortest police career in the history of Hampshire Constabulary. And all because of him. If I ever see that bigoted arsehole again …

  She continued trying to make her website appear less like a dodgy escort agency
and more like a credible business, and concluded that perhaps the photo of her, all white teeth and cropped blonde hair, wasn’t giving the right impression.

  What she needed was a more believable face. Searching Google Images, she decided to look for something a bit more Private Investigator-ish.

  Eventually, she found it. A man. Mid-fifties. His hair was peppered with grey, as was his short beard. He was a little like a poor man’s Paul Hollywood. She had no idea who this random stranger was, but he was perfect. She could put him on the homepage. People would believe in him. Then, when they called, she could go to the meetings and say she was his business partner.

  Chuffed with herself, she addressed the image of the unknown man. ‘I guess I’d better give you a name too. Now then, what should I call such a rugged, self-assured man?’ Of course, it suited him perfectly. ‘Hello there, Vinnie.’

  5

  Vincent – 2013

  Absconding in the dead of night was not ideal. He had to leave loads of stuff behind, and only had time to salvage one suitcase. He made sure to pack his photos of Nonna and the rest of the family. He threw in a few personal items, given to him by previous girlfriends before they’d become too demanding, and, most importantly, he retrieved all his cash from its hiding place.

  He decided to go by train. His car would be traceable, and besides, it was practically worthless. Vincent had always made sure to park it round the corner when he visited the old dears. It definitely didn’t fit the image he was aiming for. He’d needed those old ladies to see what they wanted to see: a smart businessman, a trustworthy gentleman. The money he’d saved by buying a heap of a car had been spent on one really good Italian suit.

  It wasn’t so much that the police would be after him by now. That was a concern, no doubt about it. But … he’d messed up. Some would say he’d become greedy. Or maybe a bit slapdash. Whatever words you chose to describe it, he’d made a mistake. The last old lady he’d scammed had not been alone in the world. He’d always been so careful and done his homework. Damn that Mavis and her recommendations. Vincent had conned the wrong woman. Regrettably, it hadn’t been a little job. Over time, he’d gained her trust, and then he’d well and truly done her over. Her family were not impressed. In fact, her sons were ready to rip off his head and spit down his neck hole.

  The train to London was almost empty. A few drunks. A couple of night workers. Hardly anyone uses night trains on a weekday. But still, Vincent never stopped checking. His eyes darted from side to side. Fear was his main emotion. If they found him, they would kill him. There was no question. Thank God for Candy. She’d warned him. She’d given him that crucial head start. Bless her for having the guts to tell him.

  ‘You like this?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You want me to go faster?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want me to go slower?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So … you want—’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Candy. I just want you to shut the hell up and jerk me off.’

  ‘All right. Just trying to give customer satisfaction.’

  ‘You are doing, pet. You are.’

  As soon as he was finished, Vincent rearranged himself, keen to get back to the bar.

  ‘Vinnie …’

  ‘Don’t call me that. It’s not my name.’

  ‘Sorry, I thought it was cute. It kinda slipped out. You know, because we’ve just been so close.’ Candy placed a piece of gum in her mouth and began to chew noisily.

  ‘No one calls me that.’ Not anymore.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’m off.’ He checked his flies and picked up his jacket.

  ‘Vincent?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you do a bad thing?’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘I heard about an Italian guy. I heard he wears a smart suit and a tie.’

  ‘Candy, you’ve got to try to make more sense.’

  ‘You’re Vincent Rocchino, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ It sounded strange to hear his full name coming from Candy’s mouth. All the times she’d provided this kind of service, they’d never got further than first names.

  ‘I think you did do a bad thing.’

  Vincent dropped his jacket onto the bed and sat back down. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I hear stuff. People tell me things.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘She died. Did you know that?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The old lady. You took all her savings.’

  ‘This is nuts. I need a drink.’ Once again Vincent picked up his jacket.

  ‘She died, Vincent!’

  ‘How? How did she die?’

  ‘Heart attack.’

  ‘Well that’s not my fault, is it?’ He took a step towards the door. Sweat was beginning to run down his back, collecting at the base of his spine. Determined to maintain his innocent stance, he opened the door. ‘Bye, Candy.’

  ‘Her sons want you dead.’

  ‘Her what?’

  She continued to chew. ‘They’re not the sort of guys you want after you.’

  ‘But … I didn’t do—’

  ‘She died, Vincent, and they say they’re gonna kill you!’

  The train rattled on. Gradually, the north of England disappeared. Further into the distance. Further into his past. Somewhere between Newcastle Central and London Waterloo, Vincent changed his name. Mr Rocchino ceased to exist, and Mr Robinson was born.

  6

  Lottie – 2014

  She wished the cleaners would hurry up. They took their time, dragging those stupid vacuum cleaners around. Such a racket. Why did they have to take so long?

  ‘Lottie! Where are you, darling?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Can you come to the drawing room, please?’

  Lottie made her way to the room which her family always referred to as the drawing room. From what she could gather, a drawing room was the place where one received guests. She supposed the name was vaguely appropriate. There were various armchairs dotted around the room, an enormous walnut sideboard against one wall, and a little drinks table and chairs set in the middle. She couldn’t remember many guests visiting them, but the ones that had were definitely shown to this room.

  At nineteen, Lottie was striking. Tall and beautiful, with long, shiny chestnut hair and pale blue eyes. Years of horse riding had left her with a wonderfully straight back and strong leg muscles. Her movements appeared effortless, a result of countless ballet lessons.

  ‘Mum, how long are those women going to be vacuuming? I can’t bear the irritating noise.’

  ‘Not long. It’s a necessity. You want clean floors, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ As Lottie considered whether the clean carpets were worth all the disruption, she became aware that they actually did have a visitor in the drawing room. ‘Oh, hello. Sorry, I didn’t realise …’

  ‘Darling, this is Mr Robinson.’ Catherine Thorogood gestured towards a man in a well-cut grey suit, who was sitting opposite her, sipping a cup of tea.

  Lottie gave the man the once over. He was classically good-looking. She guessed he was mid-thirties. He appeared relaxed and confident.

  Her experiences of men up to that point had been … limited, to say the least. All the males who’d been allowed anywhere near Lottie had been mere boys. She’d had a few fumbles at parties in her mid-teens, and a brief relationship with a childhood friend named Rupert at seventeen, which had culminated in her losing her virginity in the meadow on the grounds of their estate. Rupert had been polite. Too polite! Lottie had longed for something a bit more robust and passionate. Their relationship had ended, not long after the first ‘pleasant’ sexual encounter, when he’d gone away to university. Lottie had promised to write but had immediately gone back on her word.

  A few months back, she’d experienced an amazing week with one of the stable hands. A dark and brood
ing lad who rarely spoke, and when he did, was almost impossible to understand. Then again, there had been little need for words. Their affair had been exciting. Exactly what she’d craved with Rupert. Each time had been quick, a tiny bit rough, and very demanding. Lottie had enjoyed every second. She’d never felt so alive. Sadly, after that week, the young lad had disappeared. Sacked or paid off. Lottie had concluded that her father had somehow got wind of it and made it all go away.

  Now here was a handsome stranger, almost twice her age and not at all dissimilar to the stable lad. His short dark hair was stylishly cut, and his chin was covered in a slight brown stubble. The most tempting thing about him were his eyes; brown and solemn, they drew her in. It was like staring into the eyes of one of her father’s beautiful racehorses. How thrilling would it be to have sex with a man like this? That would really show dear old Daddy that I’m a grown up!

  ‘This is my daughter, Charlotte. She’s been riding.’

  The man stood to acknowledge her arrival.

  In that second, Lottie knew there would be no dalliances for them. He was noticeably shorter than her. Did the frustration show on her face? Such a dreadful shame. He really was quite appealing, for an older man.

  Catherine, oblivious to her daughter’s disappointment, continued with the introductions. ‘Mr Robinson is here to speak to me about investments.’

  7

  Lottie – 2019

  Lottie removed her shoes and threw herself onto the bed. Exhausted, she pulled the covers roughly over her, wishing, as always, that she didn’t have to do such a crummy job.