Swindled (The Sandlin PI Series Book 1)

by S. E. Shepherd

  Perhaps if she’d learnt something useful at school, instead of concentrating on Latin verbs, French pronunciation and how to get out of a bloody sports car without flashing her pants. If she’d had the slightest idea that she was going to need to work, she would’ve … Oh, what was the point of going over what she would’ve done differently? There was only one thing she really ought to have done to fix this whole fucking mess. She should’ve gone to the gun store, selected one of her dad’s finest shotguns and blasted Vincent Robinson in the chest. If she’d done that the first time he’d set foot in their house, she wouldn’t be working for a living wage today. Hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty!

  8

  Hannah – 2019

  ‘I’m just saying you’ve tried it; it’s not worked out. That’s all.’

  ‘Dad, I’ve only been an investigator for a few months.’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Ken Sandlin lowered the local paper and made eye contact with his daughter. ‘Five months. You’ve been doing it for five months, Hannah, and you’ve hardly made a bean.’

  For God’s sake, did he have to keep bringing up her lack of earnings. ‘It’s actually only four and a half, and these things take time. Like I’ve said before – I need to build up a client base.’

  ‘Darling, I’ve done more investigating these last few months than you have.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I search for the TV remote every day. I try to work out where that woman has hidden my bloody cigarettes.’

  ‘Always the joker, aren’t you, Dad?’

  He folded up the paper. ‘Seriously then, name me one of your cases. One proper case.’

  Hannah shifted awkwardly on the sofa. ‘There was that guy who thought his wife had been abducted by aliens.’

  ‘As sorry as I was for that poor deluded soul, he does not count as a case. Did he even pay you?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Hannah, he had a foil hat on his head the first time you met him!’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Well, as near as damn it.’

  ‘I just need to wait a bit longer; a case will come along.’

  ‘Tell me, when you write down your address, do you put a gap between Cloud and Cuckoo Land, or is it all one word?’

  ‘Oh, all right. Stop it. I get what you’re saying.’

  ‘You just need to be a bit more sensible now, that’s all.’

  Hannah felt deflated. ‘Look, I appreciate all the financial help you and Mum are giving me. Do you think I’m happy to still be living with my parents? Asking for hand-outs like a teenager, and needing you guys to keep my car on the road?’

  ‘Mum and I are happy to help, you know that. We just think you should get yourself a real job.’

  ‘Like what? Work in insurance, like you? Operate the tills at Asda, like Mum?’ She threw her hands up.

  ‘Anything. If only you hadn’t—’

  ‘Do not mention the police.’

  ‘Fine. I won’t. But please, start applying for jobs. You can still do the other thing on the side.’

  ‘Listen to you. You can’t even bring yourself to say the word “investigating”. You just want to laugh at me.’ Hannah prepared to leave the room.

  Before she had a chance to rise from the sofa, her dad tossed the paper in her direction. ‘Just check the job section. Please? For me and Mum.’

  She picked it up and shook it at him, asking, ‘If I get a job, a real job, as you so patronisingly put it, what’s going to happen if someone tries to contact me? How can I go out on a stakeout if I’m due to start a shift at Asda?’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to let “Vinnie” do it for you,’ her dad replied, with a grin.

  ‘Stop taking the mick!’

  ‘I’m really not. I just think it’s rather funny that you’re masquerading as a middle-aged man.’

  ‘I thought it would help.’

  ‘Give it up. Nothing’s going to help.’

  Hannah turned to the classified section. ‘Fine. Have it your way. But I am not taking the website down. There’s a case out there with my name on it. I know there is.’

  ‘Yours or Vinnie’s?’

  ‘Both of ours. We’re a team!’ Hannah gave her attention to the job pages and refused to make further eye contact with her dad.

  9

  Vincent – 2013

  Vincent settled into his new life. Using the train timetable, he’d chosen a place in Hampshire. It was full of toffs, but where there were toffs there was money. Fortunately, it wasn’t too far from the sandy south coast, and unlike the northern beaches he’d visited, the sea was slightly above freezing. He hoped one day to have enough time, and money, to do some sailing. That had always been the plan. Over the next few months, Vincent concentrated on dropping the slight northern twang he’d developed during his time up there in the north. He was in Hampshire now, and the flat vowels he’d picked up from the locals in the pubs up north were not welcome here. Gradually, he brought his Italian accent further into play. Not much, just enough to make him sound interesting. He worked a few jobs. Some legitimate, some less so. Some came with accommodation, and others left him with no choice but to get his head down in dreadful bedsits and hostels. He was a kitchen porter, a telesales operative and a picker in a warehouse. Vincent considered all jobs beneath him.

  On the side, he pulled a few minor scams, always making sure to scrupulously check out his victim. Once bitten, as they say. He never wanted to be told again that some old woman’s sons were after him. Shit, that particular little adrenalin rush had been more than enough to teach him a lesson.

  Gradually, Mr Robinson came alive. Vincent acquired ID. Through his jobs and the odd nights out, he made acquaintances. It wasn’t long before even he no longer thought of himself as Mr Rocchino.

  It was during a three-month period when he was working as a waiter in an Italian restaurant that his past came back to haunt him.

  It came as no surprise that he’d got the job in the first place. Using his mother tongue, he was able to charm the owners with stories of his large family back in Italy. He made sure to mention that he was sending money home every month, to help all his sisters and his darling mother. There was no way they could check. The restaurant owners were middle-aged. In Vincent, they saw the son they’d never had.

  He was a big hit with the customers too. The way he introduced them to the dishes was authentic. He rolled his Rs as he told them of the specials, easily pronouncing words such as pecorino, guanciale, arancini and osso buco. The women adored him, and the men enjoyed looking down on him, in more ways than one.

  One night he greeted a table of guests, running through his usual repertoire. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you are all well. Whatever occasion you are celebrating tonight, I pray you will have a wonderful time.’ He laid it on thick, but the punters always liked it. His eyes roamed the table, taking in the ladies. And suddenly … there she was. His sister, Cristina. She looked up at him, not a hint of recognition. Vincent stumbled over his words. ‘I’d like to tell you about … umm … tell you the … we have specials … and …’ It had to be her. She had the same small mouth, the identical way of glancing out from under her lashes. Mumbling, ‘I’ll be right back,’ Vincent ran to the kitchen. He had just enough time to shout to the owner’s daughter, ‘Maria, I think I’m gonna be sick. Can you see to table four for me?’ before he threw himself into the staff toilet.

  Once inside, he locked the door behind him and slumped to the floor. What was Cristina doing here, in England? More importantly, how could she look at him and not react? Evidently, seeing her had had a massive effect on him. It was impossible that she could remain so calm. Rising from the floor, he studied himself in the small, smeared mirror above the sink. Have I changed much? Did she not know it was me? Sixteen years. She was exactly the same.

  Memories of Cristina flooded his mind. She was the youngest of all his sisters, only fou
r years his senior. The fact that she was closest in age to him meant they had often played together. As Vincent stood in the tiny cubicle, he saw images of them running towards the lake, clothed only in swimwear, the sun shining on their bodies. He saw Cristina hiding from him in the barn, out the back of Nonna’s house. The game was, he’d count to one hundred and then go looking. His sister always hid in the same place. He rarely bothered going all the way to one hundred. It was never a long game.

  A bang on the door shook him. ‘You all right in there, Vincent?’

  He turned on the cold tap and splashed his face. ‘Uh huh, just feeling a bit sick. Give me a minute, okay?’

  ‘Take a break, sonny. Our Maria can manage.’ His boss was a kind man.

  Vincent unlocked the toilet door and made his way to the tiny staff room at the back of the restaurant. It contained a small wooden table and two chairs, plus an ancient leather sofa. It was where he and the family would take their breaks, gobbling down left-over food at ridiculous times of the day and night. No one else would come out here for a while. They would all be too busy. He knew he could have fifteen minutes without getting into trouble.

  Vincent lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. Beautiful Cristina. Cristina, who had sworn, along with all the rest of his family, that if she ever saw him again, she would kill him stone dead. How had she not recognised him?

  10

  Lottie – 2014

  These days, every time Lottie came in from riding, Mr Robinson would be there. He’d become a near-permanent fixture in the house, and it was starting to really piss her off. She knew he was visiting, long before she saw him. She could tell because she could hear her mother’s laugh. A little tinkling sound. High pitched, but gentle. Mr Robinson always seemed to make Catherine laugh – far more than her husband ever had.

  Marching into the lounge, Lottie was determined to take them by surprise. ‘I see you’ve progressed from the drawing room, Mr Robinson. This room is usually reserved for family only. I’d say you’re doing well.’

  Mr Robinson met her stony gaze. His eyes said, Don’t mess with me, young lady. But his voice was far more amiable. ‘Your mother thought we’d be better off in here. It’s a little stuffy in the drawing room. She was merely thinking of our comfort.’ With this, he smiled at Catherine, treating her to the full benefit of his good looks.

  ‘Charlotte, don’t be rude.’

  ‘I wasn’t, Mother.’

  ‘Good.’ Catherine gestured to the tea tray. ‘Would you like a cup?’

  ‘No thanks. I’d hate to interrupt.’ Lottie shot Mr Robinson another hostile glance.

  ‘There’s really nothing to interrupt. We’re simply chatting.’ There was an annoying smugness to his voice. ‘You’re more than welcome to join us. I assure you.’

  Lottie faltered for a second, before reaching a decision. ‘If you’re sure. I’ll have one, please.’ She nodded towards the delicate cups and saucers, and took a seat.

  ‘Now then, Vincent, what were you saying about the stock market?’

  He’s Vincent now, is he?

  ‘It’s a tricky time, Catherine. Things are unsure. A beginner could easily find themselves in quite a pickle.’ Vincent gave a sorrowful look.

  What a bloody actor this man is. Like he gives a shit about the beginners. And I’ll bet he’s never seriously used the term ‘in a pickle’ in his life.

  ‘I’m confused though. I mean – if things are so unsure, why suggest these investments?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘Yes, do tell us, Mr Robinson. Why are you suggesting them?’

  ‘I was simply keen to pass on a few tips, pet. If I can help my friends out, here and there, it makes me happy.’ Vincent directed his response entirely towards Catherine, ignoring Lottie’s sarcasm.

  ‘Oh, bless you, Vincent. That’s so kind.’ Catherine beamed.

  Lottie’s sense of unease grew. ‘Since when, Mr Robinson,’ she emphasised the use of his surname, ‘did we count as friends?’

  The way in which they were seated meant Vincent was able to turn his head and give her a hard stare, without her mother seeing.

  ‘Darling, please? I asked you not to be rude.’

  Picking up her cup, Lottie downed the contents in one, grateful it wasn’t too hot. She stood and said, ‘Thanks for the tea. I think I’ll go and get changed. I don’t want to disturb your time with your friend, Mother.’ Turning to face Mr Robinson, she mouthed the words, ‘Fuck you!’ As she reached the door, she asked, ‘You do realise that my father controls all the money, don’t you, Mr Robinson? The fact is, you’re sucking up to entirely the wrong person.’ She left the room with a flounce.

  11

  Hannah – 2019

  Working as a cleaner was so far removed from the ambitions Hannah had for herself, she could barely believe she was here. But it had been the first place to reply to her application, so, determined to prove something to her dad, and confident that with the early finish she could still fit her investigation work around it, she had taken the job. Now this sweaty, fat bloke was giving her the low down, and she found herself wondering if she was going to be able to keep her anger in check.

  ‘So, do you think you can manage all that?’ The man gave her a disgusting leer.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly.’

  Hannah shook her head in disbelief. ‘Yes, I think I can manage all that!’

  ‘Good.’ Mr Bale gave her another look.

  Take your eyes off my tits, you disgusting pig. ‘Is that it? Can I start now?’

  ‘When your colleague gets here, yes.’

  ‘And when will that be? Because, I got up really—’

  ‘Morning. Sorry.’ Lottie burst through the door. ‘Don’t bother checking the clock, Mr Bale. I know I’m late.’

  ‘You’re supposed to phone me if—’

  ‘I know. I know. But I’m here now. Let’s just get on with it.’ Spotting the new girl, Lottie’s tone instantly improved. ‘Hello. I’m Lottie.’ She offered her hand.

  ‘Hannah.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘I’ll take it from here, Mr Bale. I’m sure you’ve bent poor Hannah’s ear for long enough.’

  ‘It’s called an induction actually. And I’ll thank you not to—’

  ‘Got to get on. Sorry.’ Lottie steered Hannah away from under Mr Bale’s wing and handed her a tabard.

  ‘For me?’ Hannah pulled a face.

  ‘Awful, aren’t they?’

  ‘To be honest, after getting up at 5.30 this morning and then having that perspiring idiot gawp at my boobs the whole way through the “induction”,’ Hannah did the quotation sign in the air with her fingers, ‘wearing this hideous thing will just about be the cherry on the cake!’

  It took Hannah two weeks to pluck up the courage to tell Lottie about her investigation agency. Whilst cleaning, they covered a whole bunch of subjects, including why Aleesha, her predecessor, had left (a combination of a better job in the offing and one too many stares at her ample behind from Mr Bale); their favourite TV shows and music (it turned out they had remarkably similar tastes); why men are all gits (they just were, it was a fact!) and much more. But at no point had Hannah found it the right time to mention her whole other persona – Vinnie.

  Equally, she was sure Lottie was holding back a great deal of information. She was extremely well spoken and had clearly received an excellent education. She gave the appearance of a woman with money. Hannah just knew there was a juicy story behind her need to get up at the crack of dawn and clean offices. But it wouldn’t be right to ask about it yet. So, biding her time, she waited, confident that sooner or later she would not only get a chance to mention her website and Vinnie, but she’d find out the whole truth about Lottie’s home situation.

  It was a casual question from Lottie that gave Hannah the chance to mention her other persona.

  ‘What will you do when you get home? The very first thing.’ Lottie wiped out the mugs and loaded them
into the dishwasher.

  Hannah emptied the kitchen bin. ‘Is this a trick question?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is it like the thing where someone knocks on your door in the middle of the night, when you’re asleep, and you come to the door, and they give you a jar of honey and a jar of strawberry jam, and then you’re asked – what do you open first?’

  ‘What do you open first?’ Lottie paused and stood upright, rubbing the small of her back.

  ‘You’ve never heard it?’

  ‘No. So …?’

  ‘Well, what do you think you open first?’

  ‘The honey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. The jam?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘Umm … oh, is it the front door, or something stupid like that?’

  ‘Even more stupid.’

  Lottie mimed the knock at the door; she acted out coming to the door and she opened it. ‘Nope. You’ve got me.’

  ‘It’s your eyes.’

  ‘Bloody hell. That is stupid.’ Lottie bent to load the last few items into the dishwasher.

  ‘Probably drink a mug of tea and dunk a couple of biscuits.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The first thing I’ll do when I get home.’

  ‘Oh right, I’ve got you. Then what?’ Lottie popped the dishwasher tablet in, closed the door and switched on the machine. ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘Well …’ Hannah decided to take the plunge. ‘I’ll probably check my website to see if anyone has messaged me, and if not, I’ll go back to sleep for a while.’