Swindled (The Sandlin PI Series Book 1)

by S. E. Shepherd

  ‘I have no idea what he knows. Like I say, I haven’t seen him since he came in for lunch.’ Turning to Vincent, Catherine smiled, adding, ‘We had grilled artichokes with crackers.’

  He returned her smile, and Lottie just knew there was some private joke taking place. The whole atmosphere both angered and excluded her.

  ‘Well, if you see him, can you please tell him I’m all out of cash, and I need more.’

  ‘Of course, darling.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to try working for a living, young lady. That would teach you the value of money.’ Vincent’s voice was stern.

  ‘Mr Robinson,’ She met his gaze for the first time in a month. ‘Any agreement in place regarding money between me and my father has fuck all to do with you.’ Giving her attention back to Catherine, Lottie said, ‘Oh, and Mother, you have flour on your face. You look ridiculous.’ With that, she left the room.

  An hour later, Douglas had still not come home, and Lottie was forced to venture back into the kitchen. She found her mum and Vincent drinking wine at the large pine kitchen table, their empty plates in front of them. Catherine and her husband always ate in the dining room. In all her years living at Mulberry House, Lottie had never seen her mum eat anywhere other than at the formal table. ‘There’s still no sign of Daddy.’

  ‘Oh dear, and there’s you still in need of cash.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you, Mr Robinson.’

  Catherine checked her watch again. ‘It’s gone seven. I wonder where he’s got to.’

  ‘Oh, now you wonder. I’ve been wondering for hours.’

  ‘He told me he was going to check the fence. I think those children have been meddling again.’

  ‘So he’s over by the summer house?’ Lottie asked.

  Catherine nodded. ‘Yes, you know, where the fence runs down past the stream.’ To Vincent, she explained, ‘They kick the fence from the other side, so they can loosen the slats and come in for a paddle and swing on an old rope.’

  ‘That seems unnecessarily violent. Surely they could just ask if they could come and play in the stream?’ Vincent appeared angry.

  ‘It’s not your fucking fence. What do you care?’ Lottie hated the way he was slowly but surely ingratiating himself into the household.

  ‘Please don’t swear at Vincent, darling. He’s asking a perfectly sound question.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted. They won’t ask if they can use the stream, because they know my father will say no.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He doesn’t like them on his land, that’s why.’

  ‘But you told me they used to camp here. The boys’ youth club and the schools.’

  Lottie blushed, hating to be reminded of that day in the meadow. ‘That was before. They haven’t been here for years. Daddy isn’t as tolerant as he was then.’

  ‘The thing that worries me,’ Catherine rose from the table, ‘is how long he’s been over there. I mean … it can’t take that long to check out a fence. It’s not as if he was going to repair it himself; he was simply looking at it. He’d get a labourer to fix it for him.’

  As they spoke, Lottie became aware of something else. ‘Listen.’ She pulled up the kitchen blind. ‘It’s raining.’

  ‘Oh.’ Catherine seemed surprised. Clearly, she’d been too engrossed in her intimate meal for two to notice that the weather had taken a turn.

  ‘When did that start?’ Lottie wondered.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Lottie couldn’t stop the slight wobble in her voice. ‘Daddy wouldn’t stay out in it. He must be on his way back.’

  ‘Let’s give him fifteen minutes to get here, and if he’s still missing, I’ll go and look for him.’ Vincent volunteered.

  ‘No! That’s too long to leave Daddy. It’ll be getting dark.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, Catherine?’ Vincent seemed to purposely ignore Lottie.

  ‘He … umm … well, he has been missing all afternoon. I did somewhat lose track of time.’

  ‘Fine. Then I’ll go now.’ Vincent reached for his jacket.

  Concerned, Catherine asked, ‘Will you be all right on your own?’

  ‘No. Of course he won’t. For starters, he doesn’t even know which fence we’re talking about.’

  ‘I didn’t think. Will you go with him, darling?’

  Lottie looked at Vincent. The thought of the pair of them searching for Douglas, out there in the pouring rain at dusk, did not appeal. Would she be expected to converse with him on the walk over? She made a decision. ‘Hang your jacket back up. I don’t need you.’

  ‘Please let him go with you.’

  ‘No, thank you, Mother. I know that meadow far better than he does. I am quite capable of finding my own father.’ Without giving Vincent a chance to argue, Lottie grabbed her jacket and threw it on. Stopping only to slip her feet into her Hunter boots, she was out of the back door before either could comment further.

  With her hood up to fend off what was fast becoming driving rain, Lottie trudged across the meadow as fast as the slippery grass allowed, passing the fire circle, where the boys used to sing their campfire songs. She tried not to panic. If only Daddy would agree to carry a mobile phone. Douglas might only be in his early sixties, but sometimes he behaved like a geriatric.

  Reaching the summer house, she couldn’t prevent the awful sense of dread and unease that was seeping into her bones, along with the icy rain. ‘Dad! Daddy! Are you in there? Will you answer me, please?’

  The summer house was empty. Lottie marched on, making her way closer to the stream. The light was fading. She squinted at the fence; from this distance it did seem to be falling down in a couple of places. Bloody kids!

  ‘Daddy!’ Still there was no answer from Douglas. Was he sitting in a cosy pub somewhere? By a roaring fire, with one of his favourite ales on the table next to him, and Horse and Hound magazine in his hand. Had he simply gone off in search of a couple of hours’ solace, whilst she was out here in the rain for nothing?

  ‘I mean it. If you don’t answer me, Daddy, I swear to God I’ll …’ And then she saw him.

  She ran to the edge of the stream, her boots slipping on the mud, all the time shouting, ‘Help! Please, someone help!’ Without any thought for her own safety, she scrabbled down the bank and jumped into the stream. It wasn’t deep, but the water immediately rose above the tops of her boots. Her feet froze as her beautiful Hunter boots flooded with cold water. Wading out against the flow of the stream, she focused on her father, just a few feet away.

  ‘Daddy!’

  He was face down in the water, his body a star shape. The thin strands of hair above each of his ears, which he usually combed so expertly up the sides of his head, were rising and falling with the ebb and flow of the stream. Even before she got to him, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to roll him over; his clothes were saturated and he was going to be way too heavy for her to manoeuvre. Questions were forming in her mind. How had this happened? How long had he been in the water? Why didn’t he simply turn himself over and make his own way over to the bank? And finally, as she reached his body, the biggest question of all – what the hell had happened to the back of his head?

  Whatever had occurred here, it was now clear to Lottie that her dad was dead. It was impossible for him not to be – a large chunk of his skull was missing. Where the rest of his brown wispy hair should’ve been there was nothing but a gaping blood-soaked hole. She opened her mouth and screamed.

  At that moment there was a noise at the side of the stream. A cough. The sound of someone moving near the bushes. What if it’s the same person who did this to Daddy? The thought sent shivers through her. Then she heard, ‘Ambulance, please. Yes, police as well. It seems there’s been an accident in the stream at the back of Mulberry House.’ He proceeded to give the full address, before agreeing to stay at the scene and confirming that he understood the ambulance would be as quick as possible.
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  Lottie remained in the stream, shivering from head to toe and trying not to look at the back of her dad’s head.

  ‘I think you ought to come out of there. You’ll catch your death, and there’s nothing helpful you can do.’

  She hated to admit it, but Vincent had a point. ‘I … I can’t just leave him.’

  ‘Yes, you can. You need to get out before you get hypothermia.’ Vincent began crossing the little bridge that joined the meadow with the fence. Stopping halfway across, he pointed and asked, ‘Where does that lead to? Would it be quicker for the police to come down there and access the stream on foot from that side?’

  ‘I … I …’ Lottie’s teeth were chattering. She wasn’t sure if it was the shock or the cold or a combination of both. She was beginning to lose her grip on reality.

  ‘Lottie!’ Vincent shouted. ‘Answer me. Is it easier for them to come that way?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s Heath Lane.’

  ‘Right.’ Walking back over the bridge, Vincent dialled 999 and Lottie heard him explain that it would be better for the paramedics and the police if they drove around the side of the estate, instead of using the front entrance. Once he’d finished the call, he shouted again, ‘Get out of there!’ Starting down the bank, he offered her his hand.

  She knew he was right; there was nothing she could do, and she could no longer feel her feet, but still she refused his help. ‘Get away from me! What are you even doing out here? I told you I didn’t need you to come with me.’

  ‘Catherine was worried about you. She asked me to follow you.’

  ‘Mummy!’ At the mention of her mum’s name, Lottie was hit by a wave of nausea. ‘Oh, no. What’s she going to do?’

  Before Vincent could comment, the sound of sirens filled Heath Lane, and Lottie saw police and paramedics squeezing through the broken fence panels.

  ‘You need to get out of there, miss, if you’re able,’ one of the police officers called.

  Lottie instantly obeyed, clambering up the side of the stream. Still refusing Vincent’s offer of help, she used the reeds to pull herself back to dry land. A minute later she was standing by the side of the stream, wrapped in a silver blanket.

  In the end, it took a few men to lift Douglas out of the water. As Lottie had suspected, his clothes were soaked, and he was even heavier than usual.

  Lottie turned to see her mother approaching. Arriving just in time to see various paramedics and police officers manhandling her clearly deceased husband out of the stream, Catherine clasped her hands to her mouth and her legs buckled. Lottie attempted to run over to her, hoping to shield her view, not wanting her to see the hole in Douglas’s head. But Catherine had seen it all. Breaking into sobs, she asked, ‘What on earth has happened?’

  The whole gruesome scene played out before Lottie. Every sight, every sound, every smell embedded itself into her memory. She knew she would never be able to stop reliving it.

  Somehow, in all the confusion, she crossed the bridge and finished up on the opposite side of the stream to Catherine, with many police officers blocking her way back. Unable to comfort her, she could only stand and watch as Vincent held her sobbing mum in his arms. Once again, she felt excluded.

  24

  Hannah – 2019

  ‘Did you bring me the picture I asked for?’

  ‘Yes. I said I would. Although I honestly don’t see how—’

  ‘Lottie, I told you before. Let me worry about how I’m going to find him. Just give me the details.’

  ‘There isn’t much I can tell you. His name is Vincent Robinson and he’s originally from Italy, although Robinson sounds about as Italian as Smith. He lived up in the north of England before coming down here. I only know that because he once told my mum that he’d spent some horribly cold nights up there. And this,’ Lottie produced a photograph from her handbag, ‘is what the scumbag looks like.’

  Taking the photograph, Hannah examined the man’s face. ‘He’s better looking than I’d imagined. Nice eyes.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled.’

  ‘Oh yeah, of course. I know he’s still an absolute cockwomble, but …’

  ‘Seriously, Han, when he’s on the charm offensive no one is safe. Not even you.’

  ‘I suspect I would be. He’s truly not my type.’

  ‘You say that now, but if he batted those eyelashes and used his accent, you’d—’

  Hannah laughed. ‘I’m gay. I thought you’d worked that out.’

  Lottie shook her head. ‘No, I hadn’t a clue.’

  ‘No clue? I showed you the pictures of me and my friends at Pride.’

  ‘Everyone goes to bloody Pride. It’s just a chance to wear rainbow clothes.’

  ‘It really meant something to me.’

  ‘Fair enough. Then I apologise for being so slow and not realising.’

  ‘It doesn’t change anything, does it? Our friendship …?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It doesn’t bother me who you fancy. As long as it’s not …’ Lottie pointed at herself and pulled a silly face.

  ‘Ha ha. No, you’re all right. You’re a bit posh for my liking.’

  ‘Right, well, now we’ve established there’s going to be no rug munching or bean flicking between us …’

  Hannah gave her friend a shove. ‘Oy! Spoken like a true straight girl; no imagination.’

  ‘So, Mr Robinson, or whatever his real name is – how are you going to find him?’

  ‘I have some ideas. I know people.’ Hannah stroked the face in the photograph. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are, Vinnie.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t stroke him. I told you, he’s an utter cunt. Plus, he’s definitely a Vincent, not a Vinnie.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘We just need to find out where this bastard is hiding.’ Lottie stabbed the face of the man in the photo, bending it in half and nearly forcing it out of Hannah’s hand.

  ‘All right, I won’t stroke him.’ Hannah straightened out the photo. ‘I guess I just expected him to be ugly. Like a Bond villain or something.’

  ‘He’s ugly on the inside.’

  ‘Clearly, if he managed to take everything away from you.’ Hannah nodded. ‘You said he was short. He doesn’t seem it in this photo.’

  ‘It’s all about perspective. Stand him next to a man of average height and you’d see what a little short-arsed git he is.’

  ‘Do you think he still looks like this? Is it a recent photo?’

  ‘Fairly recent. I can’t see how he would’ve changed much. He’s not any different, except he’s richer now than he was that day.’

  ‘So where was this photo taken?’

  ‘It’s the wildflower meadow, out the back of our house. I mean,’ Lottie corrected herself, ‘our old house.’ Her face fell.

  ‘He looks smart. All suited and booted.’

  ‘Well he would do; it’s his wedding day.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So she,’ Hannah pointed to the older lady in the smart cream two-piece, standing proudly next to Vincent, ‘she’s the bride?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lottie nodded. ‘She’s the bride. She’s also my mother.’

  25

  Vincent – 2014

  It was clear to Vincent that Catherine was going to need a gentle hand. He made sure to be as supportive as possible, without being pushy. He knew this was a crucial time. Smother her, and he might well lose his chance. The teenager was a pain in the arse. He’d expected tears and grief, of course; that would be the norm. What he hadn’t banked on was a one-woman taskforce, intent on proving he had something to do with her father’s death. The police were all over the house and grounds, and he tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. However, Lottie seemed to make a point of blaming him every time a police officer was within earshot.

  Initially, when questioned, Vincent was able to explain that he had been with Catherine all afternoon.

  She corroborated his story. To a point.

  ‘You say Mr Robinson was wit
h you in the kitchen all afternoon, Mrs Thorogood?’

  ‘Yes. Well …’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Almost all afternoon.’

  ‘He left the room?’

  ‘Yes. In fact … we both left the room a couple of times. To answer the call of nature.’ Catherine blushed.

  ‘Right. But that would only have taken a couple of minutes, surely?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He … umm … also went to his car. Just the once.’

  ‘Why did he go to his car, Mrs Thorogood?’

  ‘He’d left his phone. He was expecting a business call.’

  ‘So, he collected the phone and came straight back to the kitchen?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Still white as a sheet, Catherine gazed at the floor.

  ‘Mrs Thorogood, how long was Mr Robinson out at his car collecting his phone?’

  ‘About ten minutes. He couldn’t get a signal. He needed to walk around a bit. Once he got a signal, he was able to listen to the message. It may have been fifteen minutes, but … it wasn’t any longer.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Mid-afternoon, I suppose.’

  ‘Think carefully now, Mrs Thorogood. Was he gone long enough to walk over to the stream and back?’

  ‘No! What are you …?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’m positive. He was gone no more than ten minutes. I just told you.’

  The police called Vincent back for clarification.

  ‘You said you were with Mrs Thorogood all afternoon, but now we’re told you left the house to go to your car.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I forgot. It’s difficult to think straight with the image of poor old Douglas in my head. I was waiting for a call. I’d stupidly left my phone in the car. I went out to collect it and saw that I had no signal. I was worried; the call was important. So, I figured if I wandered about a bit, I might just get a couple of bars. Enough to check if there were any messages. Eventually, after a few minutes, sure enough a message popped up. I listened to it and returned to the house.’