by Tom Bale
The Tylers lived in a Tudor-style home in Woodland Drive that put Robbie’s apartment to shame in terms of both luxury and vulgarity. The living room had dark oak panelling on the walls and teak parquet flooring. It also had the largest TV he’d ever seen, and a dartboard right next to the French doors that overlooked the patio and swimming pool. One corner of the door frame was studded with tiny holes from stray darts, looking like it had been attacked by woodworm.
Bree greeted him at the door wearing a towelling robe. Robbie had barely stepped inside before she shrugged it off to reveal hold-up stockings and a lacy bra-and-knicker set.
‘I was gonna get properly dressed but then I thought: why waste time?’ She giggled wildly, and Robbie felt a twinge of concern. If she’d been at the Buck’s Fizz for breakfast he’d never get away.
‘Like what you see?’ she asked, preening for him. ‘We can spend the whole day in bed if you want.’
‘I’ve got to work later.’
‘Really? That’s not like you.’ Another giggle: it set his teeth on edge. Bree tilted her head and drew her perfectly threaded eyebrows together. ‘What’s up, hun?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Jimmy texted from the airport. Him and the boys were having a full English and a few pints before the flight.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Thank God he’s not back till tomorrow. Fried food makes him fart like a camel.’
‘I’m not worried about Jimmy,’ Robbie said, then realised it was virtually an admission that he was worried about something.
‘Is it your mum? Honestly, what a cow she is.’
Robbie shrugged, then looked at his watch. Bree slapped him on the arm.
‘All right, you’re in a rush.’ She tutted theatrically. ‘You know you can’t be this grumpy when you’re doing it for a living.’
‘I’m not gonna be doing it for a living.’
Ignoring the denial, she poked him in the tummy. ‘Better get to work on that six-pack, Mr Sex God.’
Sulking, he grabbed her arm, and was rougher than he intended. Her yelp of surprise turned into a moan as he slipped the bra strap off her shoulder and eased one perfect breast free from its cup.
‘I told you,’ he murmured, his lips moving from her cheek, towards her neck. ‘I don’t need to do that.’
‘You liked the idea last week.’
‘That was last week. Things are looking up.’
‘Wouldn’t have guessed it from your face.’ She shivered, and made to undo his belt. ‘You gonna tell me about it?’
‘No. The thing is, Bree, I’m really pushed for time—’ A gasp as her fingertips caressed his groin. ‘How about just oral, yeah?’
She snorted. For a second Robbie thought she was going to back off completely.
‘All right, babes, but on one condition.’
‘What?’
‘It’s my turn first.’
CHAPTER 15
Denham Electricals was a modest, family-owned retailer situated in an unfashionable part of Lewes Road, just north of Elm Grove. It was both an anachronism and a minor miracle. Unable to compete on price or range with the Internet retailers or the big chain stores, it concentrated instead on the quality of its service, and somehow it was still breaking even.
Dan Wade had been an integral part of that service for a little over eight years, having risen from a lowly retail assistant to his present role of sales manager. That sounded more impressive than it was, given that the store employed only eleven sales staff, of whom seven were part-time. There was a service department as well, dealing with repairs and installations. The recent TV switch-over to digital broadcasting had caused a welcome spike in business.
Add a pair of delivery drivers and a handful of office staff dealing with stock orders, accounts, personnel and payroll, and the building employed a total of twenty-six people under the benevolent, slightly erratic gaze of the managing director and third-generation owner, Willie Denham.
Only one member of the sales team had served a longer term than Dan, and that was Hayley Beaumont. Two years his junior, she had begun as a Saturday girl, aged fifteen, and then went full-time after leaving school a year later. She was a small, curvy, intense woman with dark wavy hair and warm brown eyes. She had doll-like features and a quiet, sensual manner which had disarmed Dan from the beginning, and which neatly camouflaged a will of iron.
Their relationship had begun seven years ago, and for more than half of that period they’d rented a flat near Queens Park. Then, just under two years ago, they’d split up by mutual agreement, Dan returning to his aunt’s while Hayley first shared with a female friend before going back to her parents’ home in Newhaven.
After six or seven months apart, during which time both of them had had a few casual dates, they had drifted back together. This time, however, they saw no point in renting: instead the seven or eight hundred pounds a month could be saved towards a deposit on a place of their own.
Or on a coffee shop. Dan felt that should be the priority. In the long term they stood a better chance of buying a home if they could rely on the income from a flourishing business. Hayley hadn’t opposed the idea, but he was aware that she wanted to fit the acquisition of a business in and around buying a house, getting married and having babies.
****
Today, because he had walked, Dan arrived later than usual. Hayley was waiting for him in the staff car park at the rear of the shop, sitting behind the wheel of her cherry-red Vauxhall Corsa.
She looked startled when he came around the corner on foot, and it struck Dan just how much effort would be required to maintain the illusion of normality: not only with Hayley and his family, but with colleagues and customers, with everyone he encountered. Having to behave as though nothing in his world had changed fundamentally since the day before.
He felt a surge of revulsion at the thought of kissing Hayley. He was unclean, contaminated by guilt and shame.
Perhaps the fear showed in his face, because Hayley wore a deep frown as she emerged from the car. ‘What’s happened to you?’
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘You look terrible. Where’s your car?’
In a flash of inspiration he tapped his temple: ‘Bad head.’
‘I thought you were driving last night?’
‘I was. We ended up in Hove. I got a cab back.’
She clicked her tongue. ‘Cabs cost money, Dan.’
‘I know. Sorry.’ He forced a smile. When she took a step towards him he braced himself for a kiss, but instead she lifted her nose to his face and sniffed.
‘What?’
‘Checking your breath. Can’t have you breathing alcohol over the customers.’
‘Bloody hell, Hayley, I’m the manager.’
‘Exactly. It would look really unprofessional.’
****
After Robbie had done wonderful things with his mouth and Bree had reciprocated with her usual enthusiasm, they both lay shoulder to shoulder on the bed, resting.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You could win awards for the way you do that.’
‘You were a bit selfish today. I’d have liked it slower.’
‘Didn’t hear you complaining.’
‘Oh, you’re still good, babes. Could earn a fortune if you put your mind to it.’ A pause. ‘Except you don’t seem to need it any more.’
‘Not really.’
‘So what’s changed, then? Last week you were desperate to lay your hands on some cash.’
‘Had a bit of a windfall,’ he said. ‘A lucky bet.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He could tell Bree didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push it. ‘Anyway, it’s worth thinking about.’
‘What’s your obsession with this? Do you wanna be my pimp or something?’
‘Yeah, your business manager. Love it.’ She sniggered. ‘It’s just such an opportunity, you can’t let it go to waste. Jimmy’s got all these mates, and if you saw their wives ... Most of ’em are twenty, thirty years older than me, but all they ta
lk about is sex. Lusting after their tennis coaches and fitness trainers, their plumbers, electricians, gardeners – even their bloody hairdressers. They are just gagging for it.’
‘Yeah, and I bet they’re a right bunch of trogs.’
He copped a playful punch for that. ‘A bit past their best, maybe.’
‘Saggy as Bagpuss and twice as ugly.’
She laughed again, shuddering. ‘Ooh, stop it. I can’t imagine getting all old and wrinkly, can you?’
‘No. And you want me to have sex with ’em.’
‘But for good money, babes. I’m sure they’ll pay a fortune for a bit of fun with you.’
Sounded like a fate worse than death, but as his phone bleeped Robbie said, ‘I’ll think about it. Right now I’ve got other stuff going on.’
He scooped up the phone. Bree nuzzled against him, trying to see the display.
‘I bet it’s your mum, getting on your case again.’
‘No.’ It was his sister, but he wasn’t going to tell Bree that. He wasn’t going to answer it, either. ‘Gotta go.’
He rose from the bed, moving out of range before she could deploy her one foolproof method for dissolving his willpower: clamping her mouth around his cock. But as he got dressed he sensed that the atmosphere had cooled. She was sulking about this gigolo thing.
It was his own fault. He’d suggested it, as a joke, when he was frantically trying to raise the cash for O’Brien. Stupid of him, especially as Bree didn’t have enough going on in her life. Something like this promised her easy thrills: once it was set up she could sit back and enjoy it while he took all the risks.
She accompanied him to the front door in only her bra and knickers, then waved him off in full view of any neighbours who might have been watching. Crazy bitch.
‘He’s away all night, remember,’ she called. ‘Come back later if you’ve got time.’
‘I’ll see how I go.’
No chance of that, even if Robbie did get in the mood for another helping. According to his phone he had four missed calls from Cate. That had to mean grief of some kind.
****
It turned out to be an agonisingly slow morning, Dan nursing his fictitious hangover under Hayley’s watchful gaze, pretending to be grateful that there were so few customers to serve.
A large part of the showroom was devoted to a display of televisions, most of which, for demonstration purposes, were kept on during opening hours. On some they played carefully selected DVDs, but others were tuned to BBC1 and ITV1, and that meant regular news bulletins.
The distinctive drum-heavy theme that heralded the BBC news soon inspired a Pavlovian response in Dan. He found himself irresistibly drawn towards the nearest screen, even though a simple hit-and-run was unlikely to feature on the national news. It might not even make the local news.
But he had to be sure. Even when Hayley noticed he was behaving oddly, he found it hard to resist the lure. It was like scratching at a scab, and he wondered if this was how his guilt would undo him.
There was a strict ban on the use of mobile phones in the sales area, which meant that he didn’t see Cate’s text until he popped to the rest room for a coffee at about eleven-fifteen. Sent almost two hours before, it said simply: Call me!
There was also a voicemail message. Dan had just noticed it when Hayley walked into the room. Ignoring his phone for a second, he put the kettle on.
‘Still quiet out there,’ Hayley said.
‘Mmm.’ There was no way he could sneak off now, but he was desperate to hear the message. He dialled, fighting the urge to turn away from Hayley. She was pretending to study the staff noticeboard, watching him from the corner of her eye.
The voicemail was from Cate, too: ‘Dan, I’m off to work now, but the police have just turned up.’ He heard her pause, breathing rapidly from shock. ‘This sounds mad, but Hank O’Brien was killed last night, on his way home from the pub. I think we need to talk. You, me and Robbie. Phone me, please.’
He deleted the message. Looked up to find Hayley staring at him.
‘Who was that?’
‘Just Robbie.’ The lie was automatic. ‘Suggesting a hair of the dog.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘Doubt it.’ Thankfully the kettle boiled, and he could give it his attention. ‘Want a tea?’
‘No. I just came in to make sure you’re all right.’
Trying not to sound irritable, he said, ‘It’s only a hangover.’
‘Why don’t we walk along to the Level at lunchtime?’
Dan had no good reason to refuse, so he nodded. ‘Yeah, okay.’ All he could hear was that one word repeating inside his head, pulsing like an abscessed tooth.
Police.
If the cops had already found Cate, then it was as good as over.
CHAPTER 16
Gordon loved nothing more than the mornings he spent pottering around the house. As far as his wife permitted, he strove for a lifestyle that could be described as at least semi-retired.
The Blakes lived in a five-bedroom Victorian rectory in a charming village on the North Downs, within a brisk hike of Box Hill. The kitchen had been extensively remodelled and now incorporated what had once been the scullery and a small additional sitting room. The result was a magnificent space with vast windows facing south and east to catch the morning sun. The sight of its golden warmth streaming through the glass rarely failed to lift Gordon’s spirits – although today it was a close-run thing.
Unless work or some kind of marital duty intervened, his favourite routine was to lose a couple of hours with a pile of newspapers and Google News on his laptop, Radio Four playing in the background, a couple of fresh croissants from his favourite bakery in Dorking, and the Krups coffee machine filling the room with an aroma so intoxicating that he barely needed to drink the coffee. Sheer bliss.
But not today.
Today the kitchen had the tense atmosphere of a war room: Patricia pacing restlessly, her heels click-clicking on the limestone floor. Gordon almost expected her to requisition the breakfast island as a plotting table; in full Churchillian mode she could spread out a large map of Sussex, adding little weighted flags or models to denote Hank O’Brien, and Jerry Conlon, and the driver of the mystery vehicle that had smashed all their dreams to kingdom come.
****
The bad news accumulated in dribs and drabs, starting with Jerry’s first call at seven a.m. As instructed, he’d already been out to O’Brien’s but had to abort his mission after spotting a police car on the driveway.
After that, a nail-biting wait for more information – and Patricia didn’t take kindly to waiting. The next update wasn’t until nine, after Jerry had thought to investigate in the village nearby. He’d discovered a hive of activity along the road north-west of O’Brien’s home: police, and forensics people, and what might have been a mortuary van.
Shortly after that, another report. The talk in the village was of a road accident, a hit-and-run, the body discovered by a farmer around five-thirty a.m.
‘Best guess is it happened last night.’ Jerry’s voice had taken on a rueful tone, but there was an undercurrent of excitement. Jerry enjoyed a drama, especially if he was close to the centre of it.
‘We need an identity,’ Patricia told him. ‘Find out if it’s Hank.’
‘Everyone’s saying “he”, so I’m pretty certain it’s a bloke.’
The most productive conversation occurred after he’d visited the local pub. The police had already talked to the barmaid, who’d confirmed Hank’s presence in there the night before. Patricia, her face grave, had put the phone on to speaker in time for Gordon to hear Jerry say: ‘It’s only her word for it, we gotta remember.’
‘This barmaid, is she reliable?’ Patricia asked.
‘Seems to be. I was listening to her holding court with a load of regulars. From what she said, it sounded like Hank all right. And it fits, dunnit, with him vanishing off the radar?’
Gordon leaned in, c
loser to the speaker. ‘Was Hank on his own in the pub?’
‘Dunno. She got called away before I could have a word.’
‘Try again,’ Patricia said. ‘We need to know if he was with anyone. As much detail as you can get.’
‘But you don’t think it could be connected ...?’
‘At this stage, we don’t know,’ Patricia said.
‘Best to be careful what we discuss by phone,’ Gordon chipped in.
‘Eh? Oh. Yeah, I get you.’
‘In fact,’ said Patricia, ‘I suggest you pay us a visit, as soon as you have everything you can find. And try the house again. If you can get in safely, bring his laptop with you.’
****
After the call, Gordon poured fresh coffee for them both. While reaching for the sugar he caught his reflection in a glass-fronted cabinet and had to pause. Much of the time he fought against his natural vanity, but every so often he didn’t see the harm ...
At fifty-two he was still slim, youthful, a full head of grey hair trimmed every three weeks at a salon in Richmond. He wasn’t tall, about five seven, but he kept a surprisingly muscular physique, thanks to regular gym sessions which had, if anything, grown more addictive in recent years.
And he was good-looking, he felt, albeit in a slightly old-fashioned way. The faithful sergeant to the maverick cop in a 1980s TV show. He had pale green eyes and a sensuous mouth. The lines of age on his forehead had been welcomed: they made him look serious, wise, pragmatic. He was a man, not a boy. Whatever the situation, whatever the challenge, he was there to meet it.
With this in mind, he placed the cups on the counter and addressed his wife in his best stern-but-caring voice. ‘No more pacing, darling. Come and sit down.’
Patricia saw that he meant it and did as she was told. She picked up her spoon and absently stirred the coffee, even though it was still swirling from when Gordon had seen to it.
