Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2)

by Manda Mellett

She turns her head away, looking anywhere but at me, and replies far too quietly; I’m only just able to hear her. “No. I’ve never had a one night stand. I don’t have any relationships with men.”

  My brow furrows as I frown, trying to comprehend what she’s telling me. I’m aware I’m perhaps straying outside of the professional arena; I started this conversation so we could trace ex-boyfriends to find out if anyone might want to harm or frighten her. Now I’m interested in the answer on a very personal level. Sitting up straighter again, I reach out and touch her arm, waiting patiently until she turns back to me. Again I feel a slight flinch as my hand makes contact, so as soon as I have her attention, I remove it. There’s a question on my mind that I need to keep inside for now, and her apparent aversion to personal contact is another clue I’m filing away in my mind. It’s not the time or place to ask for such intimate details, but before my brain can kick in and stop it; once again the words somehow escape from my fucking mouth before I can censor them to my immediate regret. “Are you a virgin?” I knew it was a mistake the second I asked.

  My question brings tears to her eyes. Her mouth falls open, and she’s looking at me in shock as though she can’t believe I’ve asked such a personal question, and being honest, neither can I. My directness has upset her. She shakes her head, whether to give me my answer or as a refusal to respond it’s hard to tell. But she can’t meet my eyes for long. Her head hangs down, and her shoulders slump making me feel the nastiest motherfucker alive. It’s clear from her posture that she’s closed herself off. I’d felt we were getting a rapport going; it had been all too easy to sit and talk with her. But I’ve gone and destroyed that now. What a bloody arsehole I am, rushing in with that type of question, just like a bull in the proverbial china shop. How much damage I’ve done? How can I regain her trust? And at the back of my mind, an unwelcome thought niggles at me, something I don’t even want to consider in relation to this sweet woman sitting across from me. Fuck no! Don’t let it be that! I’ll have to press her at some point, but I know she wouldn’t be answering that particular enquiry right now.

  Suppressing the unpleasant direction of my thoughts, it’s clear all we’re doing now is sitting in an awkward unproductive silence and, unusually for me, I’m at a loss for something to say to make things right between us. My thoughts are making me tense, and I’m loathe for her to pick up on, and possibly misinterpret it. After letting a few minutes tick by, I stand, go settle up the tab, then return to her, holding up her coat and passing it to her. She takes it without protest; knowing as well as I do there’s no point staying here any longer, any progress towards a rapport has disappeared. She comes with me willingly enough, but walks stiffly, the earlier friendliness completely gone. As I hold the pub door open, it’s easy to read the pained expression on her face, and I hate that I’ve put it there. But worse, I get a feeling of dread in my stomach as I become sure I’m interpreting the clues correctly. I’m not often wrong when I read people, but now I’m still trying hard to think of any plausible alternative, not wanting the quiet, mild woman beside me to have gone through the ordeal my brain’s coming up with.

  As we walk along the path leading back to her house my phone rings, slicing through the silence between us, and providing a welcome release from my darker thoughts. Glancing at the screen, I see it's our security guy. “Howie, are you at the house?” I’m glad of the interruption.

  “Yeah, we just arrived. Only to find she needs new locks as well now.” To say Howie sounds pissed off is an understatement.

  I narrow my eyes, not understanding. “I thought they were okay?”

  “Until they were busted in they were!”

  “What?” I step away from her to make sure she doesn’t hear too much of the conversation until I’ve had time to understand what’s happened.

  “Yeah, we got here about ten minutes ago. Someone’s broken the lock on the front door, and has obviously been inside.”

  “Fuck! We’ve only been gone an hour or so. Christ, he must have been watching the house. Have you been inside?” I hold my breath, a hundred different scenarios flicking through my head.

  “Yes.” Howie takes a breath. “Someone’s been in her office; it’s a mess in there.”

  “Shit! Have they taken anything?” I ask him.

  “Not that I can tell, her laptop’s here, other computer equipment. It seems like someone’s swept everything else off the desk. But there’s an envelope that’s been left on the keyboard. I don’t want to touch it.”

  Howie knows better than to handle anything that might have fingerprints on it. I ask him if he’s called the police, he hasn’t, thinking I might want to speak to my contact direct. Agreeing, I end the call. Mia is looking at me with distress on her face; she knows there’s something wrong. I turn to face her. Putting my hand on her arm, I feel how tense she’s become, and her stress only increases as I give her the gist of Howie’s call.

  I can’t help but frown as her face crumbles. “He’s been in my house?” She’s shaken, and I appreciate how frightening the news must be for her. As I nod in answer to her question she continues, almost mumbling to herself as the implications sink in. “He was watching the house, wasn’t he? Waiting to see the police leave. What would have happened if I’d been there alone?” She looks up at me, her worry palpable. Her previous anger at me seems to have been forgotten in the light of this most recent invasion. “I’m scared, Jon!”

  “I know, sweetheart,” the endearment slipping out again before I can stop it. I put my arm around her, pulling her into my side, trying to give her comfort, telling myself I’m not stepping over the line, and this time, she doesn’t pull away. “He left another note, for now, it seems like he’s toying with you, wanting to frighten you.” I think about it for a second, “It might be that’s all he wants.” I give her a gentle squeeze. “And rest assured I won’t be leaving you alone until we’ve caught this bastard, so don’t worry about that. I’ve got to ring the police now, so bear with me for a moment.” Fumbling my wallet out of my pocket one-handed, I take out the card Coulton gave me and place a call direct to the detective. He’s not there, but I leave a message. The whole time she’s looking at me with those big brown eyes making it hard for me to keep my distance. Once again, everything that I am wants to protect her and comfort her, and not in a Grade A approved way. I force myself to take a step back, my arm dropping to my side, “Come on; we’ve got to get back. I’ll be with you, don’t worry. That’s why I’m here, remember? To keep you safe.”

  She hesitates, looking straight into my eyes. I can see her pupils are dilated, not with the passion I’d like to see, but with fear and dread. Then taking in a deep breath, showing me she’s drawing on strength from somewhere deep inside her, she allows me to lead her down the road, back to the pretty cottage that up until now must have been her safe haven.

  As we go through the front gate, I call out a greeting to Howie’s crew who have continued installing the tiny cameras that are almost impossible to see, but which provide high-quality pictures of anything happening around the house, equipped with night vision. Expensive, but Grade A had often found they come in very useful, and will mean at least from now on the stalker won’t be able to approach the house undetected. The team will be fitting a state of the art security system inside as well, together with panic buttons which will send an alert straight to the local police station, as well as to Grade A and, as the CPO for the case, direct to my phone.

  Howie joins us, but Mia’s shows her reluctance to step through the front door, and it’s not hard to understand why; having an uninvited visitor to your home is never pleasant, and particularly so under the present circumstances. I take her arm and encourage her in, knowing she’ll be feeling violated. The intruder couldn’t have been there long, but however many minutes he spent in her house was that many minutes too long.

  As Howie has already told me, nothing’s been touched downstairs; he only targeted her study; the room in the house that’s pr
obably most important to her. Walking beside her up the stairs, my hand hovers behind her back, but I don’t touch her; wanting to provide reassurance, but desperately trying to maintain a discreet professional distance. A desire that gets increasingly hard to resist as, being taller and able to see over her head, I get the same first glimpse through the open door as she does.

  The room’s a total mess. Paper and index cards she apparently uses for planning have been swept off her desk and onto the floor, and other furniture has been overturned. Nothing that can’t be put back into place, but the mess is distressing all the same. And right in our line of vision, the whole purpose of him coming into her house, the envelope propped up against her laptop. The message is clear; it’s to make her feel exactly what she’s feeling; insecure and nervous in her home. And, as her study is the only room touched, strongly suggesting the reason for her stalker’s attention has something to do with her writing. By coming into her office and the positioning of his latest missive, his attack is aimed at the very heart of her work.

  The envelope is lying in the middle of the keyboard, Mia’s name typed in large font on the front. Stepping closer to the desk, I take a penknife from my pocket and using a piece of paper to protect it from my fingerprints, I slice the envelope open, flicking out the card that’s inside. Bending over to examine it, I shield her from the writing until I’ve had a chance to study it first.

  GETTING CLOSER! NOWHERE’S SAFE, BITCH! YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE A TASTE OF WHAT YOU LOVED SO MUCH BEFORE.

  Chapter 6

  Mia

  Seven years ago

  I was so naïve! The party was due to start at eight o’clock, so that’s the time I arrived, not realising that most people typically wouldn’t turn up until later. At first, I found myself in the company of Anna, and a couple of girls I’d seen around school. I hadn’t shared the same lessons with them so didn’t know them that well, but they seemed pleasant and friendly enough, and I was lulled into a false sense of security, thinking the party tame enough to satisfy even my mother.

  By ten o’clock, the numbers had increased and the crowd grew rowdier. By eleven o’clock all thoughts of leaving early had gone from my head. I’m enjoying myself! Dancing to what my mum would call the devil’s music and having a whale of a time listening to the typical conversations of teenage girls which seemed to revolve around sex, sex, and more sex; a topic on which I could only listen but not contribute. Their discussions shocked me, and I spent most of the time with my hand over my mouth smothering my embarrassment and giggling while thinking this is what it’s like to be a teenager! As I hadn’t brought any myself, I refused the offers of alcohol – how was I supposed to know what’s expected for this type of party? I did, however, try a cigarette offered to me which made me feel dizzy and resulted in a bout of coughing making everyone laugh good-naturedly. I was enjoying myself; my new friends seemed to like me.

  Around half-past eleven, the large sitting room was already full, and bodies were overflowing all over the house. Some boys had arrived, and to my new friend Anna’s horror pairs started to form and disappeared upstairs to the bedrooms. She looked worried when she told me there were also a few gate crashers, people she hadn’t invited and didn’t even know. I saw she was becoming concerned about the state the house was going to be left in. Many of the newcomers looked far older than our average age of seventeen. But after another couple of drinks, even she stopped being so anxious.

  As the sexes paired up, my circle of girlfriends around me diminished. The music was loud; the odour of sweat and cigarette smoke mixed with perfume began to fog my brain. I started to feel uneasy, and it was at that point I began to think it might be a very good time to leave.

  Present day

  Leaning over Jon’s shoulder, I read the words and shudder. Christ almighty! Just when I think I can’t take anymore, there’s another of those bloody messages. Reeling back I run out of my office, unable to stay there a minute longer. It’s only a mess of paperwork; he hadn’t damaged any of the equipment, but the mindless destruction and intrusion into my home hurt me. It’s too personal; he’s got too close. With shaking hands and a feeling of nausea, I go back down the stairs, all the while looking around my cosy cottage and remembering how proud I was when I earned enough to buy my own place. It was everything I wanted, quaint with character, something I could put my mark on. I’ve lived here for three years, and thought it represented security. But no longer. My emotions are a mixture of fear and outrage. How dare he?

  After a few minutes, Jon comes down and joins me. There’s pity written all over his face, but behind that – is that suspicion I can see? Does he think I’ve done something to attract attention such as this? Does he think I’ve brought it on myself? Is he thinking I write filth, so I deserve it? Although I’m trying so hard to be strong, I can’t hold his eyes for long, and lower my gaze to the ground. He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, the touch one of comfort and not censure. Don’t you dare go back there, don’t think this is your fault. Not again.

  As he leaves his hand where it is, his warmth pervades through the layers of clothes I’m wearing, even though I’ve not yet taken off my coat. I don’t stop to analyse why I’m neither shrugging off his touch nor the fact I welcome it, even finding it calming. I’m just so grateful someone's here with me, hating to think what state I’d have been in if I’d discovered that note on my own or, even worse, had been in the house when the stalker turned up. Just the thought makes me shudder, and tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

  I’m finding it hard to hold it together. But before I completely descend into hysterics, there’s a knock at the front door, and it almost immediately opens. Well, the knock was a formality really, the lock’s broken so the door’s useless, just hanging on its hinges. Jon tenses behind me and then relaxes; it’s just David Coulton, the detective back again. Not wanting ever to read it again, I leave Jon to show him the new message, and watch as another police officer is waved in. The card goes into an evidence bag, and thankfully they remove it from my sight. But that doesn’t stop the message from going round and round my mind.

  “Can you make us some tea, sweetheart?”

  I throw Jon a look. I’m not his sweetheart and never will be, and I’m certainly not a lackey. But as he inclines his head towards the detective, it’s clear he wants to have a private word, and it’s a ruse to get me out of the way. I shrug. Half of me is thinking I ought to stay as whatever they have to say surely concerns this situation, but the rest of me is so bloody well fed up with trying to answer unanswerable questions that I’d relieved to be sent on an errand. Who the hell is doing this to me? And why?

  I might as well keep busy, so going into the kitchen I put the kettle on and then notice Howie working out in the back garden. Going out to ask, I find out he and his two colleagues would appreciate a drink as well, so I get out enough cups for all of us. The everyday actions of boiling water, getting tea bags and coffee from the cupboard; seeing who wants what and whether they take sugar, and/or milk are helping quiet my overactive mind, as well as giving my hands something to do. Once the drinks are made and distributed, I lean against the sink and stare out of the window. Will I ever feel comfortable here again? I doubt it, or at least, not until my stalker is caught. And even then it might be difficult. Perhaps I should think about moving? Damn this man whoever he is. How dare he disrupt my cosy life?

  I hear footsteps behind me, but don’t need to look around to know it’s Jon. I’ve already become tuned into his presence, the heavy sound of his footsteps on the wooden floors, the waft of his aftershave and that special something only he brings into the room.

  “Will you come and sit with us? There’s something we want to ask you.” I sigh, get my cup and wave to indicate he should pick up the two sitting on the worktop, and go into the lounge. Jon follows with the other cups and sets them on a table. Coulton indicates my settee, so I sit down, putting my tea on the side table. He sits in a chair opposite; Jon remains stan
ding.

  The detective glances up at Jon, frowns, and then turns to me. “Do you mind Mr Tharpe staying?”

  It hadn’t occurred to me that he shouldn’t be present, so I move my head from side to side. If he’s providing me with protection he needs to know everything. I’ve no secrets I need to keep from him. Well, nothing that has any bearing on what’s going on, I’m certain of that. The only skeleton in the closet I have is from long ago in the past and I’d rather that stayed locked away.

  Again Coulton looks at Jon, and I see them exchange glances. Whatever it is I just wish they’d get on with it. As the detective seems to have difficulty putting his question into words, Jon comes round and sits at the other end of the sofa. Coulton clears his throat. “Miss Fable, you write erotic fiction. Mr Tharpe has apprised me of your recent conversation and that you have, let’s just say, a very limited number of liaisons with the opposite sex. But despite this, I interpret from the intrusion into your study and this last note, that there might be someone who believes your books, or something in your stories, relates to an experience which involves them?” He considers me for a moment. I grow anxious as he skirts a little too closely to the truth. Not in the way he thinks, of course, but I glare anyway. My expression makes him back off a little, and he goes in a different direction. “If not a personal experience, someone you’ve spoken to perhaps? Someone, who may have unwittingly provided you with material for a plot?”

  I try hard to suppress my shiver. The skeleton I’m not prepared to expose is rattling his bones, but I’m not going to be prising the nails out of his coffin. Not just yet. Not unless I absolutely have to, and I can’t see it could ever come to that point. Surely something that happened seven years ago should have no bearing on the present? So I concentrate on thinking about the people who’ve I’ve spoken to about my work. While I’d like to have conducted research with someone actually in the lifestyle I write about, I’ve never met anyone who’d admit to it. So it doesn’t take long before I give a firm shake of my head, and say adamantly, “There’s nothing I can think of. No one I discuss my work with. Beta readers, editors and of course, my agent might give me suggestions, but I develop the plots and write the scenes purely from my imagination. I started writing five years ago, and my support group, if you like, have been with me all that time. If it was anything to do with them, why wait until now?”