Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2)

by Manda Mellett

  The beverage is too hot, so I lean back in the chair waiting for it to cool, my weary, aching feet grateful for the rest. Dammit. Who the hell would be stalking me? And what do I do now? Call the police? But what could I tell them? I didn’t recognise him, and couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would be stalking me. Hmm. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity? Even as I think of that comforting explanation, a small shudder goes down my spine. Was that likely?

  When my coffee’s cooled to the right temperature, still hot enough to give a warming glow but not too hot to scald, I pick up the mug and start to drink. One-handed I check the London transport app on my phone, finding to my great relief that the tubes have begun running again, so once I’ve finished here I’ll be able to head to the nearest Central Line station and continue home that way. I must have successfully lost blue hoodie man now; it will be safe to resume my journey.

  Perhaps I had imagined it all? Maybe it was all in my head. I frown, going back over the events, not knowing what to think. He’d seemed to run after me, but what the hell could he want from me? My autograph? I smile to myself; even I’m not vain enough to think I’m that famous.

  My café retreat is warm and dry, tempting me to stay a while longer to give the tubes time to become less crowded. Noticing the waitress looking pointedly at my empty cup, I realise she’s expecting me to vacate my table, even though the place isn’t exactly crowded. Not wanting to move just yet, I look around for an excuse to stay, and see the counter opposite holds an enticing display of some yummy looking cakes. Something sweet and sickly would decidedly hit the spot, especially after the calories I’d burned running. As I get to my feet, unable to choose between Coffee and Walnut or Sticky Chocolate, the café door opens, and a man walks in. He’s wearing a blue hoodie, and he’s heading straight for me.

  What the fuck? There’s no exit behind me so I’m trapped at the back of the café. Already half standing, I push myself up back against the wall. Christ, what’s going on? He’s a big man, intimidating looking, tall as well as broad. Most of his face is in shadow as his hood is pulled down low, so I’m unable to make out any of his facial features except for a cruel-looking mouth with and a dark five o’clock shadow on his chin, and he has a menacing air as he stalks towards me. Grasping this cannot be good, I part my lips to call for help, but he moves swiftly forward, very quickly for such a big man, and puts one hand over my mouth and the other around my throat, holding it so tight I struggle to breathe.

  “Today is just a warning, slut,” he tells me in a low rasping voice, “He’s coming for you.” Taking his hand from my mouth he pulls an envelope out of his pocket and waves it in front of my face, my brain somehow registering that the hand he’s holding it with is missing the little finger. Having got my attention, he throws the message onto the table top, then pushes me back hard, viciously knocking my head against the exposed brick wall behind me. He pauses for just a moment, unhands me, spins on his heels, and leaves the coffee shop as quickly as he’d entered.

  I fall forwards, gasping for breath, my hands clutching at the table for support. The waitress, having witnessed the incident sees my distress, and is by my side in seconds. “Are you alright, dear? Did he hurt you?” The older woman, who’d seemed a bit standoffish earlier, now sounds genuinely perturbed as she puts her arm around me in a motherly fashion, trying to offer some comfort.

  I’m stunned, shocked and shaking like a leaf. I try to say something, but can’t get out any words. I cough. When at last, I’m able to speak, my voice sounds hoarse and trembles, “Can you call the police, please? I need help; he’s been following me.”

  She nods, her eyes widening and her shoulders drawing back as she goes off to perform the important task I’ve given her. It’s then I look around, to start with making sure blue hoodie has really gone, then noticing while there are only a few other patrons, they are all staring at me as if wondering what I’ve done to deserve such attention. Not one of them had come to my assistance, but I'm not surprised; the whole thing had been over in seconds, and it takes longer than that to shake off the typical reaction of not wanting to get involved in someone else’s business. I also can’t blame them for not wanting to take on someone of blue hoodie’s wrestler-type build. As I remain the subject of mass appraisal, I drop my eyes to the table, disliking being the centre of attention; embarrassed that I was the cause of the kerfuffle. And as I look down, my gaze falls on the partly forgotten envelope he’d left.

  The outside of the envelope is damp from the rain but not so sodden that I can’t open it. While knowing I really ought to wait for the police to arrive before sliding out the contents, impatience and curiosity get the better of me. I grab a knife and gingerly slice it open, mindful not to leave my fingerprints on what is presumably evidence, and extract the piece of paper inside.

  I don’t need anyone to tell me I’ve gone white as a sheet; the blood drains from my head as I start to feel dizzy and faint. I put a hand to my mouth and get up to run. The waitress isn’t stupid and directs me straight to the toilets, where my coffee comes up quicker than it went down. Wiping my mouth with a tissue, I stay hunched over the porcelain as I see words on the paper that have become imprinted in my mind.

  YOU OWE ME, BITCH. NOW IT’S TIME TO PAY! I’M COMING FOR YOU!

  Chapter 2

  Mia

  Seven years ago

  For the first time in my seventeen years, I’d gone up against my mum. I was shaking with a mixture of triumph and fear as I walked down the length of our street, but already starting to have regrets by the time I reached the corner, nervous about the ear bashing I could expect to receive when I returned home. Mum wasn’t violent; she’d never physically abused me, but she could flay me with just her words. Silence was her other tool. It wasn’t unknown for a week or more to pass with her not saying a single word to me, punishing me for even the most minor of infractions, such as being five minutes late coming home from school. What on earth was she going to do this time? All I was wanted was to be a normal teenager for once!

  Pausing automatically to check for traffic at the zebra crossing, I crossed over the road and made my way to Anna’s house; luckily only a couple of streets over from my own. I tried to stop thinking about Mum, not wanting her to ruin my night, but it wasn’t easy. My excitement at going out, ruined by her disappointment in me. Could I come up with something to placate her? Actions do speak louder than words, if I only stay out for a couple of hours and get home at a decent time, maybe that will calm her down a bit and show her I could be responsible if she just loosened the leash a little? Oh, to heck with it. She’d just have to get over it.

  I’m going to a party! That was something in itself! It’s not that I was a victim of bullies at school, but being brought up the way I had in a strictly religious home made me the quiet one, the one the other girls typically tended to ignore as part of the background. Not someone they issued invitations to or involved in their lives. So having received the invite out of the blue I certainly wasn’t going to turn it down. I’d longed for so long to be part of the crowd. Did this mean the other girls were starting to accept me? A grin came over my face as I raised my fist in the air and pumped it down. Yes!

  I was just a few months shy of being an adult. Surely it was well past time to break out of the control of my stern and fanatically religious mother.

  But there was still a little voice inside of me that hoped tonight would be worth all the hassle. Like any girl, I still needed my mum, whatever her shortcomings. She’s the only one I had and with no other close relatives, the only person I could turn to.

  I’d bring her round. I’d have to.

  Present day

  I’m still sat at the same table in the café when, forty minutes later, the police eventually arrive. Despite my state of distress, I almost smile when the waitress quickly greets them, and takes charge, describing the afternoon’s events in great detail before leading them across to me. Even now in author mode making mental
notes, I note her behaviour; the attack on me seems to have made her day; she acts as if she hasn’t had so much excitement in years. All the time she’s talking and describing blue hoodie’s threatening behaviour, her hands gesticulating wildly. From the way she’s recounting it, I start to think they must be surprised I’m still alive and breathing. I let her have her moment. In truth, she’s saving me a lot of explaining.

  There are two police officers, a man, and a woman. He looks in his early thirties; she seems a bit younger, but they’re both wearing that worn ‘seen it all before’ expression. The woman sits down opposite me, and when she deigns to glance at me properly, she winces and throws me a quick look of sympathy. I see her eyes taking in the redness around my throat. I know just what she’s looking at, I’d already spotted just how visible the marks were in the mirror in the Ladies and had accepted I’ll probably bruise later. After taking in my appearance for a good few seconds, her eyes flick to the envelope and paper still lying on the table. I notice the exact point when she reads the words written on the note, as she flinches, then lifts her chin at her companion. His eyes narrow as he, too, takes in the threat in front of them. She regards me carefully, introducing herself and her partner, and then starts her questions. “I’m PC Starkey, and this is PC Smith. What’s your name, love?”

  Well, it’s not ‘love’ for a start, but I shrug off the condescension. She’s probably trying to put me at my ease. Keeping my voice quiet, aware of listening ears, I tell them, “My real name’s Mia Fable, but my pen name’s Dexie Sanders.” I offer both my identities, not sure whether blue hoodie was following me or my alter ego. Or, whether as some small part of my brain keeps hoping, he might have thought I was someone else entirely.

  She starts, frowns, and glances up quickly, a disapproving look appearing on her face. Her companion does the opposite, grinning widely. “My wife loves your books,” he informs me, “I’m not into them myself, but…” As his voice trails off, he shrugs; wry amusement on his face. I resist the urge to shake my head in despair. It’s not uncommon for people to tell me my writing has put a spark into their love lives. The female police officer’s reaction is also fairly universal. The mistaken assumption I have the same active sex life I tend to write about is the reason I protect my privacy so fiercely. If my plots were about murder, they wouldn’t be bringing out the handcuffs, but due to the openly sexual and often deviant lifestyle of my characters I’m immediately found guilty and convicted of participating in the same kink. And that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  My glare causes the police officer to recoil. Realising she’s let her prejudice show a bit too openly, she backtracks and almost overcompensates by becoming ultra-friendly. Plastering a fake smile on her face, and lightening her tone she asks, “So when did you first notice someone following you?”

  Shrugging, glad we’re back on track I tell her, “I can’t be certain. I may have noticed him outside my agent’s office in Westminster, but I wasn’t paying too much attention at the time. With so many people having to walk home today, I was more bothered with avoiding being crushed in the crowds and didn’t notice particular individuals. Looking back, I think he was there, but that might just be my mind playing tricks, you know? It wasn’t that much later, though, when I really noticed him, and at that point twigged I’d seen him more than once.”

  After a pause for breath, I continue, “Of course, at first, I just thought he was going in the same direction as me. He wasn’t the only person taking the same route, so I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But when I kept seeing him…” I break off, remembering how scared I’d become and shudder. “When I kept noticing him, I started to think it couldn’t be a coincidence. When I loitered in a shop for a while, and he was still there when I came out, I ran, hid behind a bin, and figured I’d lost him. And then, well, you know the rest.” I nod towards the waitress who’s already brought them up to date. “He found me.”

  “Any idea why he would have been following you?”

  That’s the question that’s been bugging me, but I can’t come up with any rational explanation to offer. And the note made no sense at all. “I have no idea. I’m hoping he’s got me confused with someone else.”

  She listens intently, scribbling frantically in her notebook. As I stop talking, she looks up. “Hmm, we’ll have to consider that possibility of course, but for now, let’s work with what we’ve got, the assumption he meant to follow you. Can you give me any description?”

  I heave a sigh, not really is the answer, but I make an effort. “He was wearing a light blue hoodie. No logo that I could see. The hood was pulled up and down over his face. He seemed to have a heavy build, muscular I’d say. Oh, and his little finger on his left hand was missing.” I shut my eyes, grimacing as I try to recall as much as I can remember, “I can’t tell you much more. He had a dark five o’clock shadow on his chin, so possibly he has dark hair? But then, he could have been bald as I really couldn’t see him. And he had thin lips.” In all truth, I know I haven’t given them much to go on.

  The waitress, who’s been hovering within earshot, backs me up, confirming he hid his features well. Then I have to sit, and watch as PCs Starkey and Smith go to take statements from the other people who were present at the time, but it takes a fair bit of time for them to sort out who they should be speaking to. In the time it took for them to arrive the customers had changed; some sneaking out as soon as they heard the police were being called, others coming in to satisfy their curiosity about what’s going on. Then there are the regulars who just want to give their opinion even if they didn’t see much at all. As they sort out the actual witnesses, I start to get tired and lose patience. My throat’s hurting, shivers of fear still plague me and I just want to get everything over and done with. I want to go home, preferably without being followed. I hate all the fuss, normally I’m a very private person and very shy. Drawing all this attention is quite unnerving.

  In the end, because of the plausible threat on the table in front of me, and because I’m a “celebrity” they decide to take me to the police station to talk to a detective. I’m pleased they’re taking it all so seriously but instead of dissipating, my stress levels seem to be rising. Breathe, Mia, breathe. Soon you’ll be home and opening that bottle of Chardonnay you put in the fridge to cool.

  I stand up, dragging my sodden coat back on, musing that at least I’ll be in a heated police car, and won’t have to walk the streets in the wet. Outside the rain is still coming down in such a way it’s making me wonder whether somewhere out there a man called Noah is building an ark.

  I’m tired and cold, and not a little scared and uncertain. I’ve written about police cars and criminals, and watched them on TV like most other people, but have never actually been in one myself. So it doesn’t surprise me to feel a hand placed on my head as I’m helped into the back of the police car even though I’m going willingly. I suppose it’s become a habit for the PCs, but it makes me feel like I’ve done something criminal. And then there are the passers-by who are stopping to gape, giving me curious looks, wondering what I’ve done wrong. Trying to ignore them, I take out my phone and glance at the screen. It’s already seven o’clock. I left Val’s office at three. No wonder I’m so weary. Suppressing a yawn, once the car is underway I look out the windows as we drive through the traffic that’s now begun to clear as the main rush hour is over. Ironically, there are hundreds of taxis passing, their orange Taxi signs now glowing as they’re on the hunt for customers. Too late, mateys, I think to myself. And I have to wonder whether I’d be here now had I been able to get a ride earlier on today. Would I have shaken off the stalker? Or would he just have followed me another day?

  The police car isn’t as warm as I’d hoped; for some reason they’ve got the air conditioning on instead of the heater, so I’m shivering as the PCs lead me into the police station. I’m taken to a room and offered a cup of tea while I wait for a detective to be assigned to my case. Once alone, my shivers t
urn to uncontrollable shaking as the shock of the day catches up with me, made worse by the fact I’m sitting waiting for someone to interview me in a police station. It makes it seem all too real. Why me? What have I ever done to upset anyone?

  I know some people are offended by my books, but no one’s forced to read them. Why would someone stalk and threaten me? The sound of the door opening interrupts my thoughts. Looking up, I find a middle-aged man with a tired looking face coming in carrying two hot steaming mugs. He puts one tea in front of me and places the second on the other side of the desk where he seats himself. I sip at the drink cautiously.

  He watches as I put my hands around the hot mug, trying to soak up the warmth, his eyes examining me intently. “I’m Detective Waring, and your case has been allocated to me. But before we go further, do you need a doctor?” he asks, apparently noticing the bruises on my neck which must be darkening by the second, and the violent trembling I seem powerless to stop.

  Shaking my head, I dismiss his suggestion, “No. I’m alright. Thank you.”

  He still looks concerned. “You’ve had a shock and have been assaulted. Are you sure you don’t need to see someone?”

  The thought of seeing a doctor, as usual, makes me more than a little apprehensive. Adding to that, I’ve not been in a police interview room before and find it bleak and unnerving even though I’m innocent of any crime. Right now, all I can think of is getting this over with and going home to my comfortable little cottage where I always feel safe and nurse my hurts myself, medicating myself with that nice chilled wine.