The Sholes Key (An Evans & Blackwell Mystery #1)

by Clarissa Draper

  Copyright

  WiDo Publishing

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  Copyright © 2012 by Clarissa Draper

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written consent of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Amie McCracken

  Print ISBN: 978-1-937178-14-7

  www.widopublishing.com

  To

  ISJ & RFA

  Thanks for bearing with me.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Remembering the sounds sent a quiver up his spine. An extraordinary crack—the impact of an iron ball hitting bone. He lived to hear it, to feel it, and tonight he would experience it again. The sweetest sound in the whole bloody world. He did it for her, always for her, his sweet, sweet kindred spirit.

  A movement roused him from his thoughts. Lorna McCauley stepped down from her doorway onto the dimly lit East London road. He slunk down, but knew she wouldn’t notice him in the nondescript car. She never did, too distracted in her fantasy world to notice anything important. No, she was a selfish little whore. This was her time. Her quick, easy steps told the story. Well, tonight it would be his as well.

  It wasn’t her first trip out late at night; he had been watching her long enough. Once a week at least, she headed out to the shops after midnight. Did she really believe no one knew she abandoned her son? Tsk, tsk, didn’t she know it was dangerous leaving the boy alone? What if his mother didn’t make it back? He stroked the iron ball in his lap. He had purpose tonight. Giving her a head start, he started his saloon car and drove to the next destination.

  Steven wouldn’t understand why his mum had to die. Not immediately. But he would. He did it for Steven and all the children. It was better now than later. Someday he would understand. Not Steven’s fault Lorna left him alone. Not his fault his mother became so distracted she couldn’t watch her own son while she shopped, too embarrassed to bring him along anymore. Train a child in the way he should go, that’s what the Bible says. It wasn’t Steven’s fault, it was his mother’s. Others noticed, too. He did it for them, for the ones who cared.

  Exactly eleven minutes later, he watched Lorna round the corner and enter the mini-market. Tonight, she placed Benylin and Vicks VapoRub along with her standard purchase of milk and fags on the counter. Poor Steven must be sick; with no one to care for him, of course he was.

  With a smile and a wag of her bum in her tight trousers, Lorna stepped back onto the street again. He waited and watched her walk down the street. Timing was crucial now.

  As she approached the alleyway, she slowed and poked her head round the corner. She hated the alleyway. A walk late at night was all right, but a small, dark roadway was too dangerous apparently. What was she afraid of? A cat? He knew what she would do next—predictability, his favorite word—she would take three giant steps to cross the alley faster. He wasn’t wrong. Lorna clutched her bag, stood on her tiptoes, and bounded like a ballerina. Her last step was broken by a bottle of Porter. She lurched forward and, unable to let go of the bag in time to break her fall, landed sharply on the side of her foot.

  The situation was so pitiful it was sad, not funny. So easy. So predictable. She rolled off her flattened grocery bag. White liquid streamed out of the milk carton. She quickly set the milk upright to salvage the last third. She was so stupid, and it was all so perfect. Just as planned.

  When she rose, with an obviously twisted ankle, he knew it was time to make his move. Assured that they were alone on the street, he moved his car forward and drove alongside her for hundreds of agonizing steps. She didn’t even turn to look at him; she just puffed on her cigarette.

  He took a deep breath to calm his excitement and pulled up beside her. She must have heard the window descend but she didn’t stop. He inched forward some more.

  Finally she froze, turned, and bent her head down to face him. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “It looks like you’re the one in need of assistance. Do you need a lift home?”

  “Oh, it’s you,” she breathed out. “You gave me quite a fright.”

  He ignored her coldness and said, “This neighborhood is not safe. I’d feel better knowing I gave you a lift home. Especially with your leg; is it your ankle? At the rate you’re walking, it will take you an hour.”

  She bit her lower lip. “Under normal circumstances, I’d never accept your offer but with my ankle… I don’t live far.” She smiled at him.

  After he moved the iron ball behind her seat, he pressed the unlock button. She hopped on one foot toward the car and fumbled with her bag trying to open the car door. He leaned over and opened the door for her. Throwing the bag at her feet, she breathed heavily and plopped down in the seat.

  “Kevin, right?” she asked.

  No, it’s not Kevin, but what does it matter? He nodded.

  “I thought so,” she said. “Take your second right. Thanks again for your help. Normally I like to shop in the day but my son’s sick. Thought I’d pop to the shops and run back. But then my ankle…” She pointed to her leg.

  He listened to her lies, knowing that soon she wouldn’t be able to tell them; not to him or to anyone.

  “It’s my worst fear, it is, the fear of Stevie waking and finding himself alone. I always imagine the worstcase scenario—him falling down the stairs or falling and banging his head on the table again—it makes me sick.”

  He looked at her straggly hair and imagined the blood that would shortly be running down her scalp, matting her hair to her head. He licked his lips and gripped the steering wheel tight. Soon. Soon.

  “I’m a good mother, I am. Taking care of Stevie alone is hard work. Never a break. Work and then home, no social life. I can’t remember going to a movie above the rating of Universal.” She laughed. “At least I have my books, eh?” She punched him in the arm.

  Why does she talk so much? Is she nervous? No need to feel nervous. Death isn’t painful, only life is painful.

  “And, I’m not getting my damn child maintenance. I keep telling the stupid sod I’d go to court. It’s becoming ridiculous. What is he bent on proving? No, now I’m determined. I’ve had enough—enough of the lazy bastard. Anyway, you don’t want to hear about my
problems. Thank you so much for the lift.”

  “It’s not a problem.” He smiled.

  “I didn’t know you lived round here.”

  You don’t know anything about me, he thought.

  With his dark eyes, he stared at her. She became quiet and looked out the passenger window. What was she looking at? Escape? She couldn’t escape. All the houses were dark. No one was awake. Where would she run?

  She reached up to her neck and grabbed her locket. Was she thinking of her son? He was home alone. She left him home alone. She can’t help him now. She can’t even help herself.

  She turned to him. “Thank you for taking me home. My son, he’s sick. I have medicine for him, for his fever.”

  “Not to worry,” he replied. He stared straight ahead and smiled as he watched the road. One hand reached behind her seat in the special pocket that held the iron ball.

  Chapter 1

  Sophia Evans darted into the forest. The looming trees surrounded her, casting shadows across her path. Only ten or twenty more steps, she was close. Arms out in front, she pushed the foliage away from her face and ran faster. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the cold air filled her sore lungs. Her body wanted to give out, but she used the adrenaline of the chase to propel her onward.

  How close were they? She stopped, leaned against a tree, and listened. Silence. Now that she was in the woods, the two men would have difficulty finding her. She tied back her long brown hair with the elastic around her wrist and looked down at the glowing GPS in her hand. The package lay buried somewhere ahead. She had to retrieve it before the men caught up with her.

  Who were they and why were they after her? “I’m a bloody analyst. I’m not trained for this,” she muttered as she hurried forward. “Foxton had better have this under control.”

  After a two-hour drive and a mile foot race, she was determined not to pass the mark. She re-checked the numbers and prayed they were right. She had spent the last seventy-two hours decoding a set of random integers to achieve these coordinates. She couldn’t afford to be wrong now. The lives of thousands depended on it.

  After a few more steps, she stopped again. A message appeared on the screen. This was it, the spot, the X, the mark. She bent down and lifted the leafy green ferns carpeting the forest floor. Nothing. She circled a few trees and small bushes without success. Panic set in. Was she wrong? Had she come all this way and risked her life for nothing?

  As the last question entered her mind, Sophia spotted the large green munitions box three steps off, hidden among some roots. She crouched down and drew the dusty box from its resting place. How long had it been stored there? An old Army surplus box, not the usual type of thing found hidden in the forest. It excited her—it always excited her to know she had solved the riddle and found her prize.

  When she heard a noise to the right, she lowered the box and listened. She saw a squirrel running up a tree, knocking leaves to the ground as it climbed, but she kept listening. About thirty feet off, she heard a sneeze. She had to hurry. As she was about to open the lid, her mobile phone vibrated. From her front trouser pocket, she pushed all the buttons to silence it.

  She lay flat on her stomach against the cold ground, under the cover of ferns and bushes, and stared at the caller’s ID. Oh, please not now. Her boyfriend Marcus Masters had been ringing non-stop for the last hour but Sophia, distracted by the car trailing her small Peugeot 107, never answered. Her life was becoming too complicated. Marc would be suspicious if she continued to ignore him; and his suspicions could jeopardize five months of undercover work, or worse, her life. But, for the moment, the two men on her trail were the greater risk.

  The sound of heavy steps neared.

  Sophia held her breath and listened. The two men were on the path that passed less than two feet from her head. She held her arm out, aimed the mobile’s camera up, and as the men appeared, snapped a picture of them. Drawing her mobile back, she lay face down and still. Had they seen her? The steps felt like mini earthquakes to her over-adrenalized body. Her heartbeat rushed to her ears as if she were underwater. Go by, go by, she repeated.

  They did. Her panic diminished as the men rushed farther away. She emailed the blurry photo to her assistant for identification, stuffed her mobile back in her pocket, and looked at the box in front of her. With care, she lifted the lid, cursing under her breath each time the hinges let out a squeak. Sophia had found hidden items before, but usually she could mull over the contents in peace. Not this time. She placed the contents of the box carefully inside her shoulder bag: a plastic-wrapped Bible, a picture of an old ship, and a piece of paper filled with rows of random numbers and letters.

  Pulling tight on the drawstring, she looked around and listened for movement. From her crouched position, she saw and heard nothing and took the opportunity to run for her vehicle. As soon as she stood, she caught sight of the men thirty-five feet off with their backs to her. Ducking down, she made it ten feet before she crunched down on a large twig.

  She stood up straight and ran. Behind her, she heard the men yell and set off after her. Praying neither man carried a gun, she refused to look back.

  After running half a mile, one of the men behind her coughed. She glanced around and saw the man crouched over and hoped that would slow the second man down, but to her dismay, the second man left his partner behind and closed the gap. She had to find something to stop them. A quick patting of her jacket pockets proved disappointing—she hadn’t expected a chase and had left herself unprepared.

  The gap closed faster—fifteen feet, ten, and then five. She unzipped her coat and let it drop to the ground behind her. She didn’t expect a miracle, but it just might break his pace. It worked. In an effort to avoid the obstacle thrown in his path, the man halted for a split second before trying to jump it, only to land wrong on a patch of rocky grass.

  When he hit the ground, Sophia ran faster. After throwing the bag over her shoulder, she reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out her car keys. She could see the Peugeot now, just down the hill. The man had risen, and both men resumed their chase. She pressed down firmly on the unlock button until she saw the red rear lights flash. Reaching in her other pocket, she pulled out a small pocketknife and held it tight.

  Twenty or so feet from where the two vehicles parked on the hard shoulder, she took out the blade. She hoped the men hadn’t done to her car what she planned to do to theirs. The men had parked their vehicle in front. She ran toward it. With all the strength she had, she stabbed the left back tire and pulled out the knife. When she heard the air hiss out, she ran back to her vehicle.

  She yanked open the driver side door and jammed the key at the ignition until it slid in. As she put the vehicle in reverse, the second man jumped onto her bonnet. The car bounced under his weight, but, when she pressed down on the accelerator, he slid off, landing face down on the ground.

  Driving in reverse for almost two hundred feet, she finally found enough space on the hard shoulder to turn around. Looking right, she saw the first man leaning over the popped tire while the other ran after her vehicle. She slammed her door shut and pressed the lock button as she switched into first gear. Again, she pressed the accelerator; the tires spun wildly without gaining traction. He ran faster. He grabbed at the door handle and smashed his fist into the passenger-side window without breaking it.

  “Bloody hell,” he yelled, grabbing his hand.

  Sophia stepped on the accelerator again, but that only dug her tires in deeper. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man reach behind him and pull out a silver object. Too scared to confirm it was a gun, she switched the vehicle into reverse and the car lurched back, ramming into a tree. Please, please, please, she pleaded as she turned her wheels sharply right and again switched to first gear.

  The bullet ricocheted off the front of her car and up the windscreen, cracking it. She took a quick breath then pressed gently on the accelerator and eased the vehicle slowly forward and to the right. In slow
motion, she watched him press the trigger. As the Peugeot lurched up onto the motorway, the back passenger window exploded behind her.

  * * *

  Sophia waited for Liam Foxton along a private drive a mile off the motorway, every sound making her heart race. She kept expecting the two men to find and kill her. When Foxton finally arrived and parked his car behind hers, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You better tell me what the hell is going on before I cosh you over the head. I almost died out there alone,” Sophia yelled at him as soon as he opened his car door.

  He unzipped his black jacket and threw his dark glasses on his seat. A flatbed lorry pulled up behind him.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know who they were,” Foxton replied. He grabbed her keys and surveyed the damage to her car.

  “You’re a liar!” She held the mobile display up to his face. “Ask Foxton about the McFee file. That’s what it says. If your other projects mess up my Masters case—”

  “They won’t.” He grabbed her arms and looked into her eyes. “I would never let anything happen to you. Make sure you have everything you need out of your car.”

  She held up her bag. “This situation has nothing to do with Marc?”

  “Nothing whatsoever.” He pointed to the car and scratched his fingertips through his light brown hair. “Marc won’t find out about this.”

  “I was right in taking this car instead of the Mercedes. Oh, if anything happened to that…” She shook her head and looked around. “My father would kill me.”

  “Where do you think they are?” Foxton asked her.

  She pointed back the way she came. “Five, six miles that way. I managed to disable a tire but they may have changed it already. Why are they after me, Liam? What does McFee have to do with me? Holy crap, Liam, what have I done? What’s going on?” Her arms fell limp at her side.

  “I don’t know, Evans, but I’ll figure it out.” He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She took in the scent of his sporty cologne.