by Linda Coles
One Last Hit
Linda Coles
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Blue Banana
Chapter One
Winter in Croydon was always dull. Cold, damp and dull. Rarely did it snow, rarely were there clear sunny days, and cold miserable rain fell like it owned the place. Summer could be stifling, with the density of buildings, hot traffic pollution and a lack of breeze that turned the city into an oven.
“Shame some summer heat couldn’t be stored for days like today,” said DS Amanda Lacey, as she and DC Jack Rutherford dodged the raindrops. “Even the smallest amount of heat would be welcome right now,” she grumbled as they dashed from Jack’s car towards the white mobile food van. They stood huddled together under the far-too-small striped awning along with two other hungry individuals. There was barely enough room for all four of them, and Amanda’s trouser seat and legs, exposed to the elements, were getting damper by the minute.
She and Jack were on their way to see a CI, a confidential informant, and had stopped for sustenance. Amanda’s stomach had been making more noise than a motorway grader levelling the road surface as they drove, so rather than treat the CI to the noise, they’d pulled over for food. Jack had his fun facts handy and as always chose that moment while they sheltered to educate her and the other two suits.
“A rumbling stomach is the sign of a healthy digestive system as well as possible hunger. Did you know that?”
“No, Jack, can’t say that I did, though you’ve enlightened me once again.” She smiled, knowing there was more to come, grateful for the distraction of waiting under the wet awning. “Do tell me more.”
“It’s your digestive muscles contracting and releasing little pockets of gases that build up, which is why your gut gurgles after a meal, but more so when it’s empty. There’s food absorbing the noises when your tum is full, so it’s quieter. Then, as you get hungry it growls, letting you know it’s ready to take food on board.”
“Good to know. Thanks, Jack.”
They stepped forward to place their order.
“Two bacon rolls and two teas, please. No sugar,” said Amanda. She turned back to Jack, who was looking a little dubious. She knew exactly why. “You can’t have a bacon roll and sugar in your tea if you’re going to lose that weight, Jack. You can’t have it both ways,” she told him as gently as she could. “Which would you prefer to give up today – bacon or sugar?”
Jack conceded with a submissive sigh. “If it was up to me, I’d have two sugars in my tea,” he said petulantly.
“Well, it’s a good job it’s not up to you, then. Your doctor told you to drop a few pounds for a reason and it’s better you do it now than when you get much older. It’s easier on your body all round.”
Jack saluted Amanda cheekily, as he often did. Even though she was technically his boss, they were extremely close work partners and friends too.
“Well, I’m having a dash of brown sauce. Can’t eat bacon without it.”
“As you wish.” Amanda turned back to watch their rolls being put together and slotted into paper bags. The man inside the caravan had heard the brown sauce conversation and slipped a sachet in alongside one roll before handing them both to Amanda.
He handed over two white cups and Jack took them both. There was no need to ask which was which.
“I’ll get the car opened,” Jack said, and dashed off to let himself in
Amanda followed a moment behind him. Inside, she put the bags down, shook her head and ruffled her blonde hair with her fingers in hopes of heading off a bad hair day. Her short, loose curls had a habit of looking like an angora goat once they’d got wet. Marilyn Monroe she was not, though she had the hourglass figure buried beneath her sensible work attire. As a detective, there was little point in her wearing heels and tight skirts like they did on Netflix; she was more the Doc Martens type – highly polished and just as tough.
Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she sighed at the wet angora looking back at her, then wiped her side of the windscreen with the back of her hand so she could see out to the rain.
“What’s so interesting out there?” Jack asked her.
“Just watching those two over in that car, the ones who were being served when we pulled up.”
“What about them? They’ll be on their lunch break, same as us, probably.”
“Well, that’s just it. They look like they don’t normally eat from a roadside van, and since they got in their car, they haven’t touched their food. The bags are still on the window ledge. I can see them.”
“Well, maybe they’re talking or something.”
Amanda didn’t reply as she finished her own roll and sipped her tea. More cars pulled up, more suits bought their lunches and then hurried back to their vehicles as the rain fell. Finally, the original navy BMW pulled away, spinning its wheels on the loose wet gravel. The passenger window opened and an arm appeared and threw two white bags and two white cups out into the bushes. Then they were gone.
“Now that’s odd, don’t you think?” asked Amanda.
“Yeah, I’d say so. Who throws perfectly good bacon rolls away – and why?”
Chapter Two
“Fancy a swift one before home?”
Duncan looked at his watch; he was one of the few men at the station to still wear one. It informed him it was just before 7 p.m. and he’d been due home an hour ago. He looked at it a moment longer, asking it for the answer: to drink or not to drink; that was the question. With no obvious clue as to what he should do, he let his own head guide him.
“Just one – why not?” he said. And that was that. DS Duncan Riley collected his few loose belongings off his desk and made his way out of the Greater Manchester police station accompanied by his colleague and friend DS Rochelle Mason. Neither of them spoke until they were clear of the building. A comfortable yet excited silence buzzed through both their bodies, though each kept it from the other.
Rochelle finally broke the silence as they approached their individual vehicles, which were parked next to one another. Duncan’s car bleeped loudly as he pressed his key fob.
“Usual place?” he asked her.
Rochelle was still busy fumbling in her bag for her keys. “May as well, if it’s just a quickie,” she said at last. Even though he couldn’t see her eyes shining in the light from the streetlight, he knew they would be; her tone had given the game away. As a detective, he didn’t miss a trick, not from a criminal, and certainly not from a flirty colleague. And besides, he liked it. He watched as she slipped astride her Triumph motorbike, started the engine, and pulled her helmet on. The throb vibrated through them both. She lifted her visor to speak. Her breath floated on the cool evening air, forming a long cloud in front of her, like cigarette smoke, only far sweeter.
“I’ll see you there. I’ll have a lager and lime if you get there before me.” She winked at him invitingly and made her way cautiously out of the car park. Duncan pushed a lustful thought away and smiled to himself as he slid inside his car.
He pressed the ignition and the engine sprang into life. Putting the car into gear, he accelerated out of his spot and then pulled alongside Rochelle’s bike at the exit.
“And I’ll have a pint, no lime!” he yelled through his open window. But he knew she would arrive after he did – not that she was a sponger. No, she had a different reaso
n.
Rochelle liked to make her entrance.
At nearly six feet tall with a dirty blond ponytail, she was a real head-turner, particularly in snug jeans and a leather jacket. With a generous mouth and bright blue eyes, she’d appeared in many of her male colleagues’ dreams at some point or other. And a fair few of his own, he had to admit, though nothing had ever come of them.
At the bar, Duncan resigned himself to buying Rochelle another lager and lime, and the thought of her brought another smile to his otherwise tired face. And tonight, like other nights, it was two work mates, one drink. Any more and it would be another row for sure, though not with Rochelle but with the other woman in his life – his wife Sam.
The very thought of Sam sent a ripple of depression through his body. The feeling was not new to him over recent months, but as Rochelle made her entrance into the crowded bar, the thought shimmied off back from whence it came and he enjoyed the view while it lasted. He waved her over and noted the envious looks of the other male drinkers; there was apparently a fair amount of hormonal jealousy in the room. He chuckled to himself as he watched her pick up her lager and tip the glass back greedily, the golden, frothy liquid vanishing as she half-drained it. She slammed it down on the bar and let out a satisfied gasp. A bit of white foam stayed on her top lip and she cleared it expertly away with her tongue. Watching the whole scenario play out in front of him, Duncan realized he was gawping – much like the other men immediately around them. He closed his mouth again, embarrassed. Did she know she had such an effect on men? Because if she did, she never let on or played to it, particularly – except while making an entrance, that was.
“Thirsty?” he said evenly?
“You bet. I’ve been dreaming of that since about four o’clock. With my nose stuck in paperwork all day, I’ve been dying to break away for a swift one, but alas, it wasn’t to be.” She waved her arms around the room as though acting in a Shakespearian play. Always the exuberant, theatrical one.
Duncan nodded and sipped at his own lager, waiting for the conversation to flow to something other than work, though what she said next wasn’t really what he wanted to talk about.
“How’s things at home? Are you still hiding out?” She took another long mouthful of lager. There was no malice in her voice, just friendly enquiry. It was no secret at the station that Duncan and Sam weren’t getting on too well, though it wasn’t discussed out loud. Sam could be a real ball-breaker at times, and a lazy one at that. How and why she’d turned out to be so was still a mystery to Duncan, and most of the time he ignored it. Until they rowed, that is. This was becoming much more frequent, and he had noticed increased venom from her side. He pushed the gloomy thoughts to the back of his mind now and answered Rochelle’s question.
“That’s why I’m having a swift one, and only one. Gives me chance to unwind before I get re-wound. Call it Dutch courage.” It sounded sad and pathetic to his own ears. He picked up his glass and took a couple of large gulps, partly to keep up with Rochelle’s consumption and partly to find the hit that came with the alcohol. “So, no, things are no better. I wish they were,” he added. Their eyes met for a second or two and he could see the pity in hers. Was there pity in all his colleagues’ eyes? It wouldn’t surprise him. He felt her arm around his shoulder and made no move to change it. It was welcome, and he knew she was being a mate, that there was no ulterior motive at play. He forced a smile before draining the last drops in his glass.
“Thanks for your concern, Rochelle. Let’s hope today was a good day for her or else I’ll be back here drowning my sorrows in an hour.”
“I won’t wait for you, then. Let’s be positive.”
She pecked him lightly on the cheek, and he got to his feet to head home.
Home. Could he call it that? It didn’t feel like it much.
Chapter Three
The air was as cold as a snowman’s ear as Duncan pulled up outside his house. The street was quiet, too cold for even the hardiest of kids to be loitering outside or kicking a ball around their back garden. Dogs had been walked, owners tucked up in the warmth back inside until nearly bedtime, when the back door would be opened briefly for toilet emergencies and final calls before the household retired for the night. Duncan was glad he didn’t have a dog to worry about, something else to be left up to him to look after.
He stayed put in the driver’s seat, the last remaining heat seeping out of the metal to meet the cold and evaporate into the night like a ghost. The lights in the lounge were on, curtains closed so only a chink of gold shone from the top where the two curtains joined in a thin wedge shape. The only other rooms with a light on were the girls’ bedrooms, the light reflecting down onto the small grassy garden below. He opened the car door, and the frosty air enveloped him as he grabbed his bag from the seat next to him and headed for the side entrance and warmth. Inside, he closed the door quietly and stood listening for a moment. The only sound was the TV. He heard the familiar notes of Coronation Street’s theme music playing out before news of yet another caramel biscuit you simply couldn’t do without filled the gap. Maybe she’d come out to greet him, get his dinner out of the oven, make a hot drink, even, he thought, but so far, the only warmth greeting him was from the central heating.
No surprises there, then.
Duncan placed a smile on his face and pushed open the door into the lounge. Sam was spread out on the sofa, a mug of tea on the small table next to her, spilled crumbs from a half-finished packet of biscuits beside it. Not caramel, as the advert had suggested; just chocolate. Without turning to look at Duncan or greet him properly, she said simply, “Hi.” That was the sum of it.
“Hi, Sam. Had a good day?” he enquired, struggling to keep the aggravation from his voice.
Still without turning, she replied, “Not bad.” She couldn’t have sounded any more nonchalant if she’d tried. Duncan noticed she was in her nightdress and robe, her hair all mussed up. That in itself wasn’t a problem; it was evening, after all. But it was what she had been wearing when he’d left her that morning to go to work – except then she’d been under the bedclothes.
Sam hadn’t bothered to get dressed all day.
All. Sodding. Day.
Stay calm, Duncan.
“I’m guessing you’ve eaten already?” he said evenly.
“Yes. Me and the girls had fish fingers at five o’clock.”
The kids must be sick of fish fingers by now.
She still hadn’t taken her eyes off the TV; he might as well have not been there.
“Right. Okay, well, I’ll make myself something to eat, then.” He waited a moment, in the unlikely event she might just oblige and be helpful, just for a change. After all, she’d been home all day, as she was every day, and he’d been out grafting for the last eleven hours. While he didn’t expect her to serve him, he did expect some sort of a meal in motion; she didn’t have much else to do. But it was too much to wish for; he knew that. This was the same thing that happened most nights now, so why was he surprised? Why he hadn’t stayed on and eaten at the pub or grabbed a takeaway on the way home he’d no idea; at least he’d have had a hot meal and a smile for his trouble.
Duncan headed for the kitchen and pulled the fridge door open; the bright light glared into his eyes in the otherwise dark room. Milk, cheese, two eggs and half an open can of baked beans. Slipping his jacket and tie off and dropping them on to a kitchen chair, he busied himself beating eggs and grating cheese, then shoved two slices of bread into the toaster. The smell gave him comfort; at least his meal would be hot and tasty. He sprinkled salt and pepper into the egg mixture and heated the beans in the microwave. Within a couple of minutes, he had a decent cheese omelette, toast and beans. He set the food down on the table ready to eat. He was exhausted, and even though he was famished, he felt totally deflated as he sat down.
That was when Sam walked in, shuffling in her too large slippers. She bent and took a piece of his toast.
“Didn’t think to ma
ke me any, then?” she said, her voice full of hatred as she bit into the slice.
Duncan sat still, breathing evenly. “You’ve already eaten, you said.”
“So?”
“So, it’s gone seven p.m. and I have just finished work and made myself something to eat. I’m knackered and hungry, so if you don’t mind, I’ll eat first, and we can argue later.” He picked up his knife and fork again and started on his omelette, scooping a forkful into his mouth to stop himself from getting into another argument with her.
“Selfish pig,” she hissed in his ear.
Duncan’s stomach rolled. Here she goes – here we go again.
He heard her put more bread into the toaster. He stayed quiet, eating and hoping she wasn’t going to kick off.
But he was wrong.
Chapter Four
Spittle flew from her mouth as she ripped into him. Duncan had barely eaten half of his meal but he downed his cutlery to add his side, hurling his fuel onto an ever-burning fire between them. Some couples thrived on their own heat and enjoyed make-up sex afterwards, but not Sam and Duncan. They’d gone way past that and there was no going back. There was not a day went by now that they didn’t have crossed words, unless they weren’t physically in the same place.
“What are you getting so upset for again, Sam? Eh? What I have done now to piss you off so much? Tell me, because I’d love to know!”
“You didn’t ask me if I wanted some toast, you selfish pig,” she spat at him. Specks of spittle landed on his face.
“Really? That’s what this is all about? You’ve been home all day, not even got showered and dressed while I’ve been at work, and you want me to make you toast?” He stopped himself short of adding what he really wanted to add.
“Would it have been so hard to ask?” she yelled back.
