by Karen Botha
‘What on earth is that, I thought we were snooping?’ Lucy asks.
‘I should have taken notes when Jerome showed me what to do…’ I mumble, trying to remember the configuration which seemed so easy a few hours previously.
‘What is it?’ Lucy asks.
‘A drone!’ I adopt a ‘doh’ tone, like I understand all about the latest engineering. Which I do not. And Lucy knows it. She chortles. A Bentley pulls round where we’ve parked almost knocking off my wing mirror.
‘Oi,’ I shout, gesticulating over the steering wheel, before catching a glimpse of the driver in their rear view. ‘Oh, that was him!’ I rustle about in the carrier bag Jerome gave me and retrieve another device sporting two aerials. ‘Here we go.’ I poke a USB stick in the back. Now... where is that power button?’
The engine springs into life. ‘We’re off.’ Lucy says.
‘I’m not so sure, this thing is showing no signs of life.’ The screen on the tablet remains blank.
‘Shall we alight the car?’ Lucy winks at me. Fair point, I think and unclick my driver’s door.
‘You’ve not told me what we’re doing here yet?’ Lucy asks.
‘Shhh, I’m concentrating.’ Lucy follows me over to a green square of grass in the centre of the busy intersection, local shops on one length, gated estates on all remaining sides.
Eventually, after some fiddling, the thing starts up.
‘It sounds like a swarm of bees are coming.’ Lucy giggles. The instrument bounces around on the ground, half taking off. It doesn’t appear particularly promising.
‘Whoa!’ I cry as it stutters into the air, a shaky first flight. ‘Right, now I need to fly to Graham’s house.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Over there.’ I shove my head forward as I have no hands free. It’s in the direction of a double height wrought iron gate blocking an entire street entrance. My fingers are gripping the controller so tight my knuckles turn white. I unfurl one long enough to press the general location of Graham’s house on my tablet. The drone hums off.
‘How long does the battery last on this machine? We don’t want to lose it when it’s irretrievable over that locked gate, or worse still, in Graham’s rear garden.’ Lucy’s tone is fake serious.
‘Shut up you, I brought you for moral support, not to mock.’ I toss her a sharp glare before returning to the bigger concern of this remote control.
‘You’re not a big computer gamer, are you?’ She’s laughing, trying to contain the bursts of hilarity threatening to explode. I lob another glare in her direction. She’s too busy holding in giggles to notice.
‘Stop it. This is serious. I’m working.’ I jab the screen with my index finger and the swarm of electronic bees, hover over an innocuous driveway.
She holds both palms up towards me. ‘I’m sorry. You’re just so stressed, you're not normally like this. It’s only a toy.’
‘Lucy, it is way more than a toy. To Jerome, it may only hold light entertainment value, but to me, this is how I’ll find out what Graham is like - the behind closed doors version.’
She finally seems to grasp it. I punch the machine again and it takes off with alarming speed, I’m out of control. I fidget with the levers some more and it starts to drop out of the sky at the same rate of knots.
‘Oh bugger!’
‘Where is it?’ Lucy asks, peering over my shoulder.
‘I’m looking, hang on…’ I steer towards a front door, mumbling as I do. ‘OK, so that is number 39, and we need 43, so it’s next door but one.’
The machine lurches up to a bay window rather than gaining height, and sweat is forming on my top lip. A frazzled housewife with her blonde hair clipped high on her head screams and clutches her hand to her neck. The child she is burping over her shoulder screws it’s face, about to howl.
‘Oops,’ we giggle despite almost getting caught. The camera glides past her bedroom window, recording glimpses of messy piles of coloured washing dumped on the floor.
‘Seriously Paula, how long does this battery last?’ Lucy asks.
I’m regretting bringing her, I thought she’d be moral support. ‘It’s OK, stop worrying. It has twenty minutes on it. And it has some kind of homing device, so we’re fine… there it is, 43! Black front door, typically on trend.’ More fiddling. ‘Let’s get this thing around the back and then we can have a proper nosey without neighbours spotting us.’ I raise levers and the drone simultaneously lifts in the sky and flies over the roof.
‘You’ve got the hang of this.’
I am starting to relax a little ‘I can see how this could be fun in a different situation. Now, let’s see what we find.’
We peer through Graham's window, filming precisely nothing other than an overtly lavish sitting room. Two crushed velvet silver sofas rest on parquet flooring offset with pale walls. A feature stone fireplace backs up against one wall, the mirror above it sporting more gilded gold frame than reflective insert.
‘Yes, all these trappings cost a lot of money, but it seems showy.’ Lucy says.
‘I was thinking exactly the same. It’s trying too hard. There’s not a single item out of place, have you noticed?’ She zooms in almost touching the glass. All the cushions are suitably plumped, throws folded with neat edges, heck, even the wood in the fireplace is arranged to perfection.
‘And it’s spotless. Maybe this is the entertaining room? There’s no TV in here.’
‘Yeah, I bet you’re right.’
I’m growing in confidence. Pulling a few levers, I manoeuvre the drone to the next window. An equally spotless cream kitchen, cream tiled flooring, and cream quartz countertops. Not a spec of dirt. No pans in the sink or left on the range. Not even a teaspoon by a kettle. In fact there isn’t a kettle, they have one of those hot taps on the sink. The space opens out under a beam into another seating area containing an alternative crushed velvet sofa. This one is an ‘L’ shape and is in navy blue. The giant settee faces a flat screen wall mounted TV.
‘Are you sure he lives here? This doesn’t look lived in. Perhaps it’s a location for photo shoots or something? We used to visit places like this when I was working in my previous job,’ Lucy says, her voice soft even though we’re not going to be overheard.
‘No, this is the right place. For certain. This is the home of someone who loves control. What I need to work out is whether or not it’s his wife who disinfects excessively. She could use this to impose some domination in the relationship. Or, Graham may insist on it. Either way, it’s not a great picture of Graham’s mental state. A man who elicits this level of discipline at home, such that his supposed partner feels it necessary to maintain such sterility, is a prime example of someone who is able to justify fraud to himself.’
‘Hang on, how did you get from clean house to fraudster? I bet he doesn’t even do his own cleaning.’
‘To commit fraud, you must feel you are owed by whoever it is you are defrauding.’
‘OK…’
She’s not catching on, so I continue. ‘Graham here, will most likely display confidence issues, which he hides by surrounding himself with perfection.’
‘Yeah, I can see that, he turned up the Hunger Games in a suit for goodness sake. But, how does lack of confidence lead to being fraudulent?’
‘Well, it’s a sweeping generalisation, but I’d bet his low self-esteem means he’s also jealous.’
She has a light bulb moment. ‘Ah, right. So, then his jealousy means he then believes he’s entitled to things he hasn’t earned, just because others have them.’
I’m about to agree, but don’t get the chance. ‘Hey, watch!’
A woman in her mid-forties slides into the kitchen on the marble tiles. Her long dark hair spills over her cheeks, legs strewn, one red high heel missing from the end of her skinny jeans. Lucy and I take a simultaneous in-breath and then hold it. Graham bowls in, puce and screaming. Spittle lands on the female as he stands over her, clutching the breast of her
expensive top, and pulling her up from the floor. Her face crumples, but she doesn’t cry. Instead her chest, swells as she holds her emotions together, her lip quivering. She speaks to him, eyes downcast, not meeting his. He slaps her forehead with the base of his hand snapping her neck backwards. She stumbles on her remaining stiletto and steadies herself on the counter.
‘I feel bad spying, this is private stuff,’ Lucy whispers, not wanting to break the heavy silence that has descended on us.
‘Yes, that’s why these sorts get away with it.’ I reply. We’re whispering even though we’re down the street and well out of earshot.
A beeping breaks through our conversation. ‘What’s going on?’ I mutter, flipping the same switches as before to no avail.
The drone moves away from the silent movie and past their conservatory. More white marble tiles are clinical in contrast to the earthy grey hews of a garden table and rattan chairs. It’s no surprise that this room is also pristine.
‘Ooh, there’s a massive jukebox in the corner.’ Lucy points. ‘The first hint of any personality. It is a very masculine space. Cold and clinical. I don’t sense a lot of love in this home - obviously we’ve just seen evidence of that, but the space doesn’t imply that Graham’s behaviour was a one off.’
‘Exactly! We’ll make a detective of you yet.’
‘Hey, you’re not a detective any more, did you forget?’
I nod. ‘I was down there again the other day, at the station. Steve still makes me uncomfortable. I can't get him out of my head.’
‘In what way?’
‘There’s still that chemistry between us. I bet if I said the word he’d be delighted to rewind a few years.’
‘But you don’t want him anymore, do you? That’s why you quit your job, to escape him and move forwards with your life?’
‘My head may not want it, but it doesn’t stop my heart from racing whenever we’re near. It’s not like I miss the fact he's no good for me, and I have Andy now who is great, but oh, that chemistry. It’s dangerous.’
‘Well, you just deal with Mo. Don’t get yourself into any sticky situations with him. You broke his hold on you. Don’t go backwards.’
The drone drops back down in front of us, distracting our talk of fallen love lives.
‘Whoa, that’s so clever.’ Lucy says, her eyes wide.
‘Yeah, it picks up the receiver, so when the battery runs low, it switches into homing pigeon mode.’ I faff with the bits and pieces, fumbling with the carrier bag as I struggle to squeeze too much back in.
‘Did you get enough of an insight into Graham’s character?’ Lucy asks.
‘Well, yes and no. Obviously, he’s not winning any awards for husband of the year, and his characteristics mean he has the correct foundation for the type of jealous behaviour we’re suspicious of. But plenty of men are wife beaters but not stealing cash off their brother. Graham will require further investigation.’
‘It’s a good start though?’ Lucy asks.
‘Oh, for sure. It’s a good start!’ I say more to myself than Lucy. I’m already planning my next move.
Graham
I storm out of my house. As if I don’t have enough stress without Emma playing up. I provide her with whatever she asks for, and she can’t even perform her marital responsibilities with any level of conviction. I’ve explained nicely that it’s my right, that when I’ve had a tough day, to feel her need me is my reward. I don’t think once a day is too much for a husband to expect. Really, it’s not like she has to do anything else. She’s happy to take the shopping trips and spa days with her friends, but when it comes to paying me back, she comes up short.
‘I’m not in the mood,’ she says.
Well, quite frankly, I’m not in the mood to go to work every day, to pay for her lifestyle, but I manage it. She can’t even wear the sexy lingerie I bought her. Asking her to dance for me is futile.
She was happy enough before we got married, but as soon as that ring was on her finger, bam! Suddenly she wasn’t in the mood. I should have trusted my instinct and got a prenup. Idiot that I was thought she loved me.
At least my preoccupation means the drive passes quickly. Before I’ve had chance to become enraged with traffic, pedestrians, or cyclists, I’m already pulling past Hana’s central fountain and around to park in front of her garage door. The panoramic forest views overshadow her elegant Victorian home. After parking my car next to her Aston Martin, I cross her new resin drive. I open her front door and step into her tiled hallway. It’s large enough to be accessorised with not only the obligatory chandelier, but also a sofa and fireplace. I pass the kitchen, glancing at the temperature controlled wine cellar encased behind impressive glass doors, then head into the orangery.
The steam sweats, clashing with the cool outdoors, running down the glass walls. I slip my shoes and socks off, slide my pants over my bare feet, and rip off my tie. Loosening my shirt from my waistband, I undo the buttons and fold all my clothes on a lounger at the side of the pool.
‘Hurry up!’ Hana waves as I ensure my clothes are straight.
‘Did you hear me come in?’ I ask.
‘Yes, you shouldn’t wear those brogues if you don’t want to be heard. You know my floors are tiled.’
I slide into the pool, the warmth of the water greedily ravaging every nook of my nakedness. I exhale, my muscles relaxing as the water washes away my stress.
‘Why are you here?’ Hana asks.
‘Needed some time out. Usual story.’
Hana glides towards me, her arms moving slowly, her hair remaining dry above the surface. I catch a glimpse of her bare bottom as she lifts her hips to kick. Her legs splay. A gentle ripple emanates from her feet as she spreads her legs in time with her arms, a lazy breast stroke.
‘I hope the stress isn’t getting too much for you?’ She caresses my cheek with her wet fingers.
‘Never, but it’s nice to have some respite. I wanted to talk to you as well, I didn’t have chance to catch up with you at the fundraiser.’
Her eyes meet mine, an intensity filling the few centimetres between our equally exposed flesh. I drop my eyes; her full breasts bob under the surface, her nipples disguised by the ripples of water. I don’t touch. Her hand cups under my chin, raising my stare.
‘Come with me to the sauna.’ She moves away, revealing her nakedness one step at a time as she climbs out of the pool. She turns, and stands, legs hip distance apart, a gentle teasing from my position beneath her in the pool. I slide my hand over my hardness, appreciating her display, and follow her lead.
Her hips sway in front of me, then jiggle as she pulls on the glass door. She climbs onto the top bench and bends, teasing me with a half glance as she lies down with her knees bent. She flattens her hips, touching the hot wood. I take the bottom row and settle myself, resting my head at the opposite end to hers.
‘So, like I said, I wanted to catch up with you at the fundraiser.’
‘Yes, you said…’ she drawls, her accent stronger now we’re not working, her barriers down.
‘Adam has been checking the books. Did you know?’
‘Nuala mentioned something in passing.’
‘So, Adam didn’t?’
‘No, but why would he? What has he been investigating, Graham?’
‘I’m not sure investigating is the right term to use yet, I just wanted to let you know.’
‘Well, all is well then, nothing to be concerned about,’ she says.
I raise my hand and run it across her foot closest to me. She dangles it over the edge of her bench. I continue, running my fingers gently up her leg, my hardness throbbing with every inch my fingers climb. When I reach the crease at the top of her thigh, I sit up, allowing my nails to graze past her private place. Oh, how I’d love to spread her swollen lips and send my fingers deep inside her. I circle the outside, run down her most private pleat.
She snaps her legs closed. ‘Naughty boy, you know the rules.’
&nb
sp; I say nothing, leaving my fingers to linger as long as I dare, before moving up. She inhales, a sharp intake of breath as I touch the delicate skin under her flat stomach. Her muscles twitch, the only indication that she enjoys my touch. Her breasts rise, then fall, in time with her increased breath. I run my fingers underneath her heaviness, up between her full flesh, to her chest, her neck and then back down the side of her fullness under her arm.
She sighs, moans even.
I lean over, take her nipple in my mouth, and suck gently. Then I’m more urgent as my erection stiffens, nibbling and then biting. I bring my hand around and grab her other breast, kneading it, enjoying her softness in my hand, her hardness between my teeth. Her back arches, a muffled murmur.
I can’t contain myself. I raise up and release over her stomach. As I jolt away, the dim light catches her wetness; it glistens down her thighs. I trail my fingers along the slippery evidence of her pleasure.
Her pleasure at my hands.
Adam
‘I want my phone call. You can’t do this! I have no idea why I’m being arrested.’
‘Mister Rutherford, we have read you your rights. You’re not a silly man, I’m sure you understand why you are in the police station. If you don’t, we’ll explain everything fully when we get you seated.’
‘Seated where? In a cell?’ I’m trying not to scream.
I’m manhandled through some double doors that, whether by intention or accident, close suddenly and with force. I manage to jut my leg out ahead of me in time to prevent it from smashing my nose. My head is whirring, a ringing in my ears drowns out the commotion of the drunks waiting in reception for who knows what. My neck is stiff and my jaw tight, my eyes lasers taking in every piece of information but retaining nothing.
I end up in a grey, locked interview room. Thankfully, I’m not cuffed like you see in the movies, I’m free to roam around, except there’s nowhere to roam. The space is devoid of any personality - or heat. I run the last hour or so through my foggy brain. It had been a great day. I was basking in the success of raising more than we’ve ever raised before and I admit it, I was proud.
