Family Honour

by Hannah Howe

  Osborne took a heavy stride towards me. I took a step back. He continued to grin. The gun wavered in my hand.

  He moved forward again. I retreated. I could smell his rancid breath, see the patchwork of red veins in his eyes, taste the metallic tang of fear at the back of my throat.

  Osborne reached for the button on my jeans. I levelled my gun. He took another heavy step towards me. He trod on my coat. Then he disappeared from eye level. He’d been standing above a shaft, above a portal to hell. Frantically, he waved his arms and screamed, a blood-curdling yell, then he disappeared into the darkness.

  Osborne’s scream went on forever, or so it seemed, though eventually I embraced the silence. Leaning forward, I peered into the shaft, but saw nothing but darkness.

  The earth had swallowed up the monster. Grant Osborne would torment people no more.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I telephoned the police. Within half an hour, they arrived on the scene and mounted a search for Osborne’s body. However, they could not find him. They would extend their search, though experts ruled that the ground was unsafe, that the area was too unstable to support the specialist equipment, the scaffolding and machinery required to mount a retrieval operation; it seemed likely that no one would ever recover Osborne’s body.

  In the early hours of the morning, I gave my statement to the police, explained the background to the case then retreated, aware that they would ask more questions, later. For now, I was free to go; free to talk with Alan, free to soak in a warm bath. There, I tried to wash away the dirt and the bitter memories. I knew from experience that the dirt would disappear down the plughole while the memories would take longer to fade.

  With the afternoon sun warming my face, I met up with Vincent Vanzetti. We walked through his garden, over the buttercups and daisies, to an area reserved for croquet. In my mind’s eye, I could see Vanzetti hitting people with a croquet mallet, though I found it difficult to imagine him enjoying the game. Maybe that said more about me than the mobster; in truth, I was too tired to care.

  “My contacts told me what happened,” Vanzetti said. He paused beside a garden bench then ran a finger over the lichen and weather-beaten paint. “I owe you.”

  “Osborne fell,” I said, “I didn’t push him.”

  “But you did the job,” Vanzetti said. “And I won’t forget that, ever.”

  I nodded.

  We walked along a path decorated with garden features: bronzed, boxing hares, a small fountain and a single, reflective fairy.

  “And if Osborne was still alive?” I asked while eyeing the fairy.

  “I’d take care of business.”

  “For Vittoria.”

  “Of course.”

  “And to prove that you’re not past it.”

  Vanzetti fingered his moustache, caressed its corners. He narrowed his eyes and offered me an intense stare. “Sometimes,” he said, “you have to show the world that you mean business. I would have topped Osborne. No one messes with a Vanzetti.”

  A commotion on the patio captured our attention; high-pitched, female voices, shrieking; Sherri and Catrin arguing with each other, bitching.

  “What are you going to do about Sherri?” I asked, aware that she was the sort of person who believed in fairies at the bottom of the garden, a person I had grown to like, despite her foibles and peculiar ways.

  “She’s already made a statement, to get V.J. off the hook. She has her story all prepared. She met Osborne for sex. The gun was part of a sex game. It went off by accident. Her story might cause me some embarrassment, but I can live with that. It might go to court; if it does, I’ll call in a few favours.”

  “She’ll walk free,” I said.

  Vanzetti grinned. He tapped the side of his nose. “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

  And I knew that Vanzetti had at least one government minister in his pocket. I anticipated that if the attempted murder charge should land at Sherri’s feet, she’d enjoy her day in court, as a performer.

  “And what about Catrin?” I asked.

  Vanzetti shrugged. He gazed across the garden to his ex-wife. She was sitting on a garden chair, and so was Sherri, though they had their backs to each other. Both were sipping drinks: Catrin from a tall glass, Sherri through a long straw.

  “Maybe we can come to an arrangement,” Vanzetti said. “Catrin can take up residence in the guest suite; lend a hand with the business.”

  “She’ll agree to that?”

  He nodded. “At the end of the day, Catrin and Sherri will agree to whatever I say.”

  “You sure of that?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Sherri loves me; Catrin loves being the power behind the throne. We’ll come to an arrangement.”

  Another sound cut through the air, the sound of a car engine. We glanced along the drive to the sight of Mac’s Bugatti.

  Mac parked his car next to Vanzetti’s Bentley. Then he opened the passenger door and offered a helping hand to Vittoria.

  Like a baby taking its first steps, Vittoria set foot on the stone chippings. Haltingly, she walked towards her family. Catrin saw her first. She abandoned her drink and ran from the patio. She swept her daughter up in an emotional embrace, kissed her hair, her face, hugged her tight to her body.

  Then Sherri stepped forward and embraced Vittoria. Her embrace was genuine, natural; the actress was not on display today.

  Finally, Vanzetti walked along the drive to greet his daughter. He enveloped her then sobbed, placed his head on her shoulder. Tears streamed from his eyes; he made no attempt to brush them away.

  Vanzetti took hold of Vittoria’s hand and led her to the house. As Vittoria walked past me, she offered a look of thanks. Then she extended her right arm and presented me with a shell bracelet. I accepted the bracelet with a smile and placed it around my right wrist.

  We were standing on the patio, about to enter the house, when a car arrived at the main gate. The driver, unknown to me, pulled away to leave V.J. Parks stranded at the gate, gazing at the drive, his look uncertain. V.J. took a cautious step towards Vittoria. She took a cautious step towards him. Then they ran to greet each other, to shed tears and embrace.

  While V.J. kissed and hugged Vittoria, Mac turned to me and said, “This is a family occasion, and we’re not family.”

  “Point taken,” I said, so we climbed into our cars and pulled away.

  We drove to the waterfront.

  As we walked past the Pierhead building and the Senedd, the National Assembly for Wales, Mac muttered, “So, I’m on thirty-three per cent, am I?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Except, I’ve decided to donate my salary to charity; a shelter for battered and abused women; it’s badly in need of funds.”

  Mac scowled. His huge ginger moustache bristled, took on a life of its own. “So, I get thirty-three per cent of nothing.”

  “Yeah; that’s the deal.”

  Mac leaned against a rail. He stared at the bay, gazed at the tranquil water, then pursed his lips in pensive fashion. “Remind me to take a rain check when you whistle next time, okay, Missy?”

  I smiled then asked, “Have you decided about your lover?”

  Mac nodded. He eased his huge frame away from the rail. Then with me in tow, he strode purposefully towards his Bugatti. “Thanks to you, I’m penniless, I’m destitute. Guess I have no option but to move in with him.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A fortnight later, with the holidaymakers crowding Newton beach, I walked through the sand dunes with Alan. Time had passed, emotions had cooled; I could think straight again; I had my Sensible Sam head on.

  While glancing at the news items on my mobile phone, at the sports section, I said, “V.J. Parks knocked his opponent out in the first round.”

  Alan nodded. “He channelled his aggression, coupled that aggression with his natural talent; the mood V.J. was in, his opponent stood no chance.”

  We climbed a sand hill and gazed at the beach. As
Alan admired the bronzed and the beautiful, I adjusted my shell bracelet then said, “You met Vittoria today.”

  “I did. A social meeting.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  Alan turned to face me. He said, “She’s interacting well with her counsellor. It will take time, but she’s adjusting to what happened. She’s strong; she will recover. And although I wouldn’t wish it on her, on anyone, that awful experience might make her a better psychologist in the long run.”

  “Because of her personal insight into emotional and psychological suffering.”

  “Yes.”

  “Before Elin died, were you as good a psychologist as you are now?”

  Alan shuffled his feet. He thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and kicked at the sand. “Probably not,” he conceded.

  “But it’s a huge price to pay to be good at what you do.”

  He nodded. “A price way over the odds.”

  In thoughtful fashion, we continued our stroll through the sand dunes. At one point, we encountered a couple, a young man and woman, who were walking together. Both were talking into their mobile phones. Maybe they were talking with each other; after all, that’s the modern way.

  I turned to Alan and said, “People admire and respect you.”

  He smiled then offered a diffident shrug, as though wary of accepting praise. “People admire and respect you too,” he said.

  “I wasn’t looking for a compliment.”

  “You rarely do, and that’s part of your charm.”

  We walked on, away from the crowd, heading east, towards the ruin of Candleston Castle, a fourteenth century fortified manor house.

  As we kicked our way through the sand, Alan asked, “How do you feel about recent events?”

  “About Osborne?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I paused then said, “I don’t believe in capital punishment, but you have to concede that some people are beyond the pale; Osborne got what he deserved.”

  Alan nodded. He asked, “If pushed to the limit, would you have shot him?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I would. Does that make me a monster?”

  An easy smile spread across Alan’s face. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a big hug. “History tells us that there are times when angels have to lay down their wings and pick up their weapons. Whatever happened, you are still on the side of the angels.”

  I kissed him and said, “I’m very proud of the way you handled the situation with Vittoria.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “More than that, I’m very proud of you. I love you, and I’d like to make that love permanent.”

  “Through marriage?” Alan asked.

  “Yes. Before you change your mind.”

  He laughed, “I’ll never change my mind about you.”

  As we walked, hand in hand, oblivious of everything, of everyone, with minds only for each other, Alan asked, “Do you have a date in mind?”

  “How about sometime in the summer, when it’s warm and sunny?”

  “We can’t control the weather,” he said with a shrug and a smile.

  “Even if it rains,” I said, “we can still be together, sheltering under an umbrella.”

  “Hand in hand.”

  I kissed him again. “Lips to lips.”

  “Thigh to thigh.”

  We rolled on to the sand and giggled.

  “I’m not sure I can do that,” I said, “and hold an umbrella.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Alan smiled. He brushed the hair from my face and planted a kiss that lingered; “you’re very inventive.”

  Although my face glowed like a beacon, I didn’t care. I was content. More than that, I was happy. I sighed, “A summer wedding then.”

  Alan nodded, “A marriage to last now and forever.”

  “Until the world runs out of rainbows.”

  “Until the playing of the final coda.”

  I hugged and kissed him. “Until the winter of our days.”

  SAM’S SONG

  by Hannah Howe

  Love Hurts. For Derwena de Caro, songstress, female icon, teenage dream, success brought drugs, alcohol and a philandering boyfriend. It also brought wealth, fame and a stalker, or so she claimed. And that’s where I came in, to investigate the identity of the stalker, little realising that the trail would lead to murder and a scandal that would make the newspaper headlines for months on end.

  Love Hurts. For me, Samantha Smith, Enquiry Agent, love arrived at the end of a fist. First, I had to contend with an alcoholic mother, who took her frustrations out on me throughout my childhood, then my husband, Dan, who regarded domestic violence as an integral part of marriage. But I survived. I obtained a divorce, kept my sense of humour and retained an air of optimism. I established my business and gained the respect of my peers. However, I was not prepared for Dan when he re-entered my life, or for the affection showered on me by Dr Alan Storey, a compassionate and rather handsome psychologist.

  Sam’s Song. This is the story of a week that changed my life forever.

  LOVE AND BULLETS

  by Hannah Howe

  It had been a week since the incident at the abandoned quarry, a week since I’d shot and killed someone, a week since my ex-husband had been murdered. It had been an emotional week. But life goes on. I’d been hired to discover who was sending death threats to Dr Ruth Carey, a controversial psychiatrist. The trail led to two high-powered villains and soon the death threats were aimed at me, threats that increased following two murders.

  Meanwhile, after years of domestic violence, I was trying to make sense of my private life. Dr Alan Storey, a prominent psychologist, claimed that he loved me, and I was strongly attracted to him. But the years of domestic abuse had scarred me emotionally and I was reluctant to commit to a relationship.

  Love and Bullets is the story of a dramatic week in my life, a week of soul-searching, self-discovery and redemption.

  THE BIG CHILL

  by Hannah Howe

  “Emergency!” “Christ! Who shot her?” “Don’t know.” “What a mess.” “Better call Dr Warburton.”

  Bright lights. A sharp, antiseptic smell. Pain. Nausea. Feel so weak. The cat, who’ll feed the cat? “Marlowe.” “She’s babbling.” “She’s lost a lot of blood.” Blackness. “Have we lost her?” I don’t want to die!

  A jumble of images, my mother, my father, but his face is so vague. “Daddy!” Nothing. A man scowling, with a needle. “I’m going to put you to sleep. You won’t feel a thing. Just count backwards from ten...” “Ten, nine, eight...”

  Aching all over. Can’t move my shoulder or my arm. Very tired. More nightmares; too black to dwell on; make them go away...

  Sweating. Drowning. I catch my breath, like breathing for the first time. Eyes blink awake. Gasping. Try to rise, but head hurts too much. I ache all over, but I’m alive!

  I was alive. But with a snowstorm gripping the city and with an unknown assassin closing in, I faced the most dangerous moment of my life and the very real prospect of feeling the big chill.

  RIPPER

  by Hannah Howe

  “I love breaking the rules.” – Cardiff Jack

  Someone was murdering prostitutes, placing their bodies in the Bay and covering them with roses. To the media, he was ‘Cardiff Jack’, to the rest of us he was a man to avoid and fear.

  Meanwhile, I was searching for Faye Collister, a prostitute. Why was Faye, a beautiful woman from a privileged background, walking the streets? Why had she disappeared? And what was her connection to Cardiff Jack?

  As questions tumbled into answers, I made a shocking discovery, a discovery that would resonate with me for the rest of my life.

  Ripper – the story of a week in my life that reshaped the past, disturbed the present and brought the promise of an uncertain future.

  THE HERMIT OF HISARYA

  by Hannah Howe

  Some people will stop at nothing in their pursuit of wealth and power.
Indeed, the greedy will often resort to murder.

  “You’ve been through a stressful time recently,” my fiancé, Dr Alan Storey, said. “I’m off to Bulgaria to attend a psychology conference so why don’t you accompany me and we’ll throw in a holiday as well.”

  Great idea, I thought. However, when I arrived in Bulgaria my inquisitive nature compelled me towards a mystery dating back to the Second World War. That mystery involved Emil Angelov, the Hermit of Hisarya. As I delved into the past, I stirred up some ghosts, which led to murder and the prospect of spending the rest of my days in a Bulgarian gaol.

  The Hermit of Hisarya – a story of corruption, of murder, of a woman and her seventy-year-old dream, offering proof that the past, the present and the future are all intrinsically entwined.

  SECRETS AND LIES

  by Hannah Howe

  Suicide or Murder?

  Most of the people I encounter are hiding a secret and many of them are adept at telling lies. However, how do you learn the truth about someone who’s no longer with us?

  Author, Barclay Quinton wrote Fabringjay, the story of a man leading a secret life during the Second World War, which was well received by the critics, but was ignored by the readers, and Illicit Lust, a book he hated and wrote purely to satisfy his agent and publisher. Illicit Lust became a bestseller, a fact that annoyed Barclay. However, its success did open doors and he set about researching his next novel, the story of an ageing mobster. Barclay’s research brought him into contact with many unsavoury types, including villains, shady private eyes and managers of strip clubs. The official report into Barclay’s death stated that he committed suicide. However, a close friend insisted that Barclay was murdered and I was hired to investigate.