by Linda Coles
Sam felt like she’d been the one shot in the chest, not Duncan, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Who knew disappointment could be so painful. She’d been ready for the knock at the door, been ready for one of Duncan’s colleagues to deliver the news, but not like this, not this news. She’d practiced her reaction in the bathroom mirror, acting it out over and over again, not wanting to overdo it but still be the shocked and distraught wife, overcome with grief at news of the death of her soul mate. What she hadn’t practiced for was the news that he’d been badly injured and was still alive in Croydon. She wondered now if she’d passed the test, pulled it off after all – in the end, her shock had been real, not acted.
Rick had only been gone five minutes and still she stood in the hallway, frozen to the spot, thinking. What happens next? she wondered. This was not going to plan so far – she should be spending the day being consoled at his death, perhaps even thinking about funeral arrangements, drinking sweet tea or sipping brandy.
She took a deep breath in, then let it stream out slowly through her nose, like a toke of cannabis, only not as relaxing. Inside she was revving up, anger starting to boil in the pit of her stomach. What could have gone wrong? And the money! Six thousand pounds gone to waste. Well, they’d have to give her a refund, wouldn’t they?
“Good luck with that,” said a mocking voice in her head.
Deciding she needed a drink to settle her down, she paced rapid steps to the kitchen, flung open the freezer section of the refrigerator, and grabbed a cold bottle of vodka she kept there. Not even bothering with a glass, she unscrewed the top and tipped the bottle into her mouth, taking a couple of large gulps. The icy liquid burned the back of her throat but it felt good, numbing her from the inside in an instant. Gasping, she caught her breath again then repeated it, clear liquid escaping from both corners of her mouth as she gulped greedily, trying to anaesthetize something inside her, screwing her eyes up against the pain of the freezing cold liquid.
When she was done, she stood motionless in the room. There was not a sound coming from anywhere or anyone, and for a moment she felt totally alone in the world. Tears sprang to her eyes without warning, her mouth contorting as she stood and sobbed, letting them flow. She heard herself wail in pain – pain that Duncan was still alive, and not because he lay injured in hospital after being shot.
Suddenly she stopped in mid-sob as the realization struck her that there’d be an investigation, and a large-scale one at that. Everyone knew that when an officer got hurt or killed, the police would leave no stone unturned to bring the culprit to justice, send the full force of the law slamming down on them.
And that could be her.
She needed to think, to work out what to do next, but there was a bigger pull – the pills in the side pocket of her bag. Her head swam; the vodka she’d gulped was swimming alone in her empty stomach, making her woozy. Grimly, she fought for control of her fluid mind.
“Sit down, Sam,” she told herself sternly, “and think. Think what to do next.” But the lovely white pills filled her vision, egging her on to take just a couple, to blot out all thoughts of Duncan, erase the memory of his face from her mind. They bobbed about tantalizingly, even when she closed her eyes to clear the vision. It was no use; she knew she’d succumb.
She ran out into the hallway, grabbed her bag off the banister end and dived into the side pocket. She clutched a handful of pills and shoved them greedily into her mouth, not bothering to physically count them, desperate for the relief they would give her. Slowly, forcing herself to breathe evenly now, she walked back to her spot in the kitchen and filled a glass with water to wash them down properly. Yes, that was better, just knowing they were inside of her, that the soothing feeling would follow in a moment. But she needed to think; there were things she needed to do to keep herself away from any suspicion. She forced herself to think about what any other woman, a woman still in love with her husband, would do in such an instance.
She’d call the hospital. Yes – I need to call the hospital.
She scrambled for her phone, her hands shaking with booze and nervous energy, and Googled the hospital in Croydon. She punched the number in and asked to be put through to Duncan Riley’s room. After a few rings, a nurse answered and told her he was doing okay under the circumstances but was groggy from the painkillers. They expected to move him to a ward later today, she said, all being well.
Sam thanked her, making sure the nurse knew she’d called, and checked the task off in her head. What next? What would she do next?
Ring a friend, tell her the bad news. Right.
Anika answered after a couple of beats and Sam told her the news.
“I’m on my way – you shouldn’t be on your own,” Anika said, alarmed.
“No, I’m okay now I’ve got over the initial shock, and I’ll have to get the girls soon. I just wanted to let you know. Stay where you are, but thanks.”
The last thing she wanted was Anika being a well-intentioned friend when there were things to be done – like get in touch with the man she’d organized to do the job in the first place. She needed a refund or the job finishing, not left dangling as it was. If Duncan lived, he’d find out about the loan and expenditure for sure, and that was something she’d have to address convincingly. Being married to a detective had its drawbacks.
Her head was beginning to feel sleepy, and Sam regretted the tablets on top of the vodka. How many had she taken anyway?
“I need food,” she said. She walked over to the toaster and slipped a couple of slices of bread in, not because she was hungry but to soak up the alcohol. While she waited for it to toast, she opened her laptop and found the relevant site. She posted a message for ‘him.’
“You fucked up. He’s still alive. Get it sorted.”
She hoped he’d see it soon and respond; she’d log on again in an hour or so. She wondered how he’d play it, what he’d do to make their contract right. All she could do now was wait until it was time to get the girls, then explain to them what had happened.
Tomorrow, she’d drive down to Croydon and play the dutiful wife – she’d better be convincing.
Thoughts of the Cornish coast were slipping away . . .
Chapter Seventy-Two
Back at the hotel and scene of the crime, Amanda was talking to the doctor on call, Faye Mitchell. She’d worked with Croydon for more than five years and was one of the best in the business. Never one to speculate before she had the facts to deal with, she often found herself at odds with detectives who wanted to get on with the job of detecting. But Dr. Mitchell could never be swayed – ever. Amanda stood waiting patiently in the doorway of the room Duncan had stayed in overnight, watching the last of the technicians finish their job. Faye raised her head and gave a brief smile, knowing what Amanda was thinking.
“All in good time,” she quipped. A moment later, she stood from the spot on the floor where Duncan had fallen before being shot through the back of his shoulder.
“Two bullets: one in the bed, one in the carpet. But you already know that. From point-blank range, too. He was damn lucky there wasn’t more damage to him than what he has. Any ideas your side who may have wanted him dead?”
Amanda stepped further into the room. “We may have a rather loose person of interest, and if it pans out, it would be a sad state of affairs, I’m afraid.”
“Oh? That sounds ominous.”
“It is. It’s also a bit left field, not what we normally come across in cases involving a shooting. We’re more used to gang-related hits. I’ll tell you more when we know more. We’ve only an inkling to go on, nothing concrete, so the more you can add to that, the better.” Changing the subject slightly, she asked, “Any DNA or fingerprints from the shooter?”
“There’s plenty – it’s a hotel room, after all – but from the shooter I couldn’t say yet.” Faye looked at the bed cover and added, “God only knows what and whose will be on that.”
The thought rolled Amanda’s emp
ty stomach. “I’d hate to be the one to work the bathroom plughole contents.”
Dr. Mitchell went on. “The tough bit will be eliminating those with legitimate reasons to have been in here in the recent past. The hotel has a transient clientele, as you’d expect. They could live anywhere and everywhere, but that’s over to you and yours. It seems the hotel’s cleaning team aren’t that thorough, given the amount we’ve recovered to work with so far. Let’s see whose fingerprints are on file, eh? A print is only good when it can be matched.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” she thought. Mitchell was renowned for remarks like this.
“Any usable camera footage?” the doctor asked her.
“Yes, but not much use. Two figures, presumably male from their stature, were seen leaving the back exit and headed off down the street on foot, not in any hurry. Dressed in what look like jeans and hoodies pulled up tight, but it was a cold, damp night. Could be coincidence, since it was around the right time, or they could have been visiting someone. Either way, they went down a side street. Jack and a couple of uniforms are talking to the neighbours down there, but it was the dead of night. Most of them were probably in bed. So we’re hoping you have better luck finding something for us to work with.”
“No pressure, then?” Dr. Mitchell smiled wryly. “And how’s our man Duncan?”
“Stable now, still groggy from the anaesthetic and painkillers, but we’ll talk to him again later when he’s a bit more compos mentis.” Amanda looked at her watch. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to finish off. Call me as soon as you hear something I can use.”
“Of course. You’ll be the first to know.”
As Amanda left the building, heading towards her car, her phone rang. It was Rick.
Amanda went straight to the point. “How’d she do?” There was no point dressing it up.
“Mixed, I’d say. Put it this way: she didn’t seem in any hurry to get to him, but then there are the two little girls to think of.”
Amanda grunted, not entirely convinced. There were ways to have the girls taken care of if she had wanted to dash off.
“She put on a pretty good act if it was one,” Rick went on, “but I saw a couple of holes. I’ve arranged to get her phone and bank account records, the usual, see if anything pops up. I’m also owed a favour up here. I’ll see what the word on the street is for a possible hit.”
“Someone with a grudge?”
“There’s always someone with a grudge when it’s an officer, isn’t there? One of the lads is checking recent releases, but I’m not aware of anyone from that side of things. Any news on transferring him up here? It would be great to see him.”
“Not that I’m aware of, but I’ll see Rochelle shortly. His groggy state will be wearing off soon. She’s with him now.”
“Good. At least a friendly face will be there for when he wakes up properly, eh?”
“Let’s hope he can tell us a bit more than he’s managed so far.”
They said their speak laters and hung up, promising to do just that.
Two hours later, Rick was at his desk when the first of Sam and Duncan’s account details hit his desk. He surfed through her mobile phone bill, followed by the house landline bill. There wasn’t much on either, nothing to use his highlighter pen on so far. Calls and texts to a regular number that turned out to be registered to someone named Anika, a friend of Sam’s, he assumed. He called it to confirm and then hung up before she asked any questions. If Sam did have something to do with Duncan’s attempted murder, he didn’t want her friend forewarning her of her involvement in the investigation. There was also a text sent at 9.32 p.m. the previous night from Sam to Duncan’s phone, a number Rick knew well. He had looked at Duncan’s phone and had read the loving message from Sam saying goodnight. He asked a colleague to see where exactly the phone had been when that text was sent. Other than that, there was nothing noteworthy.
He turned his attention to the bank statements for the last six months. There were the usual deposits and store transactions, but he did note a pattern of regular £100 and £200 withdrawals from cash machines, and not the same one each time. Most people used their bank cards these days, didn’t they? Weren’t they all becoming a cashless society? Maybe she liked to use cash when shopping, unless she was using it for something else. Still, it was to be noted as somewhat unusual.
He turned to the last page.
“Hello, hello,” he said to himself.
There in black and white was a transfer of £20,000 into Sam and Duncan’s joint savings account. And that was closely followed by the sum of £6000 leaving it. Rick was not aware of the couple having planned any home improvements or nice holidays. His heart slumped.
“Oh dear, Sam. What have you been up to?”
Chapter Seventy-Three
It was around 4 p.m. when Duncan’s throat worked a little better and he was finally able to put a coherent sentence together. Though he was still hoarse, he was sounding remarkably better than when he’d first come to and was glad to see a friendly and welcoming face as he struggled with one hand to sit himself up in bed a little more.
Rochelle was by his side as his eyes fluttered open
“Here, let me give you a hand,” she said brightly, rearranging his pillows behind his head. “Welcome again to the land of the living. How are you feeling now? You’ve been asleep for ages.”
“Sorry to have kept you.” Duncan smiled as he slumped back heavily into the softness of them. “And quit the hand jokes, please.”
Rochelle smiled and offered him a glass of water with a straw. He sucked greedily on the end, draining the glass again.
“Feel up to some questions, then?” It wasn’t a question that warranted a ‘no,’ no matter how he was feeling. She needed to push for some answers before more time elapsed and evidence evaporated. Duncan knew the drill. She dived straight in.
“Let’s start with what you know, then we’ll move on to theory, okay?”
He nodded his approval, saving his voice for real sentences.
“From the top, then. Let’s hear it.”
And so Duncan recited all he could remember about travelling down, checking in, Amanda and Jack picking him up, being ill and getting into bed back at the hotel. There were some blurry bits about the night, how ill he’d been and the visions he’d had, which had made it difficult to decipher what had been real and what was a figment of his imagination.
Intrigued, Rochelle probed about the visions.
“I’m sure I heard hushed voices at one stage,” he said, struggling to think. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have rolled off the bed and thrown myself on the floor, would I?”
Rochelle narrowed her eyes. It was a good question. “That roll could well have saved your life because that’s where the first shot was found. The bullet lodged in the mattress over to the right side of the bed. If the intruders had been over you and aiming for your heart, we wouldn’t be talking now.”
It was a sobering thought for them both. In the gap in conversation, there was a gentle knock on the door. Amanda walked in.
“Welcome back!” said Amanda. Duncan rolled his eyes and, croaking, said, “if anyone else says that I swear I’m going to slap them.”
Amanda turned to Rochelle and said, “Nothing wrong with his sense of humour, then.” Both women smiled at each other.
Rochelle filled her in from the notes she’d scribbled on her pad, and Amanda made her own notes as Rochelle spoke. Even though it was Amanda’s investigation, Rochelle was a close colleague of Duncan’s and she knew she needed to tread respectfully here.
“So can you remember what the voices said?” Amanda asked Duncan now.
“It sounds almost comical now, lying here, but I’m sure one said he couldn’t do it, and the other person told him he had to. They were definitely both male voices – if they were there at all. But like I said, why else would I have rolled?
“What did the other voice say?”
; “Told him to get on with it. Then I rolled and got shot. I couldn’t do much else, so I pretended I was dead. I don’t remember anyone touching me, though I might have blacked out. Then I got to my phone and called it in. It was so dark and like I say, I wasn’t well. Migraine or something nasty.”
Both women scribbled in their notebooks for a moment, and then Rochelle broached the subject of what he’d said on first coming to.
“Do you remember what you said earlier, about Sam?”
Duncan stayed silent for a couple of beats, considering.
“Maybe I had that wrong,” he said at length. “She wouldn’t do something like this, and she’d have no idea how to find someone either. It’s not her. Sam loves me and the kids. Where is she, anyway? On her way down?”
The two women looked at one another and Rochelle took the question.
“Rick told her this morning, but with the kids, she may not make it down today. But they’re looking to move you to Manchester, so there may be no need for her to travel all this way.” Rochelle hoped she’d sounded positive and convincing that all was well on that front, that Sam did care.
Changing the subject away from Sam, Duncan asked about what they had so far.
Amanda took over. “By all accounts there’s a few prints to follow up but CCTV doesn’t hold much apart from a couple of grainy figures with hoods up. But we’re making the most of what we have, so we should know something a bit later. DC Rutherford, Jack, is talking to neighbours in the area where the figures headed off to. We’ll find whoever is responsible for this, Duncan, no stone and all that.”
She beamed at him, but he seemed to be somewhere else as she said it, deep in thought, remembering back to events of the previous night, maybe. Rochelle looked at Amanda who shrugged her shoulders, also wondering where he’d disappeared to in his head.
Would Sam have done such a thing? Could she be capable of finding a hit man to take me out? And if so, why had she? We were getting on so much better –she’d turned the corner, had sorted herself out, was taking an interest in life again. I’ve been worried about her for a time, worried for the kids, and after their adventure that day, ending up at that elderly woman’s house – a woman with a past, albeit from years ago – I’d nearly torn my hair out. I’ve never told her about that part, not letting her in on the fact the woman had done time, had been convicted for her part in a paedophile ring, not wanting to offload any more stress into her life when she was just getting it together.
