One Last Hit

by Linda Coles

  Rick had been puzzled by that; he wondered if Duncan was telling the truth or just trying to convince himself of the opposite to what he had already suspected himself. Reluctantly, he decided not to question him about the bank loan; he had no wish to upset him further. It would have to wait until later.

  Sam had left just after 2 p.m., Duncan told him, so with a bit of luck she’d be home before the traffic really jammed up.

  That left Rick precious little time to get a warrant and find the offending pies.

  A short time later, Rick entered the Rileys’ home accompanied by two officers dressed in white coveralls. They quickly found what they were looking for – the remainder of the home baking nicely tied up in a bin liner and shoved halfway down the bin. Why she hadn’t flushed them down the toilet instead Rick had no idea. If you were planning on poisoning someone, it seemed pretty obvious to him to dispose of any further evidence, but then that’s why the prisons were filled the world over: they were filled with dumb pricks. He was, however, grateful that Sam fell into that category. Now they had real reason to question her formally. He was looking forward to hearing what she had to say on the matter. And soon.

  Sam saw two cars parked outside her house as she turned into her street. The girls were in the back, chattering about their day and about how they’d had donuts with Anika after school. She only half-heard them now. One of the parked cars was Rick’s; the other was a painted squad car. What the hell had happened now? And what did they want with her?

  Pulling into her drive, she instructed the two girls to stay in the car for a moment while she went inside. She climbed out and almost sprinted up the path. She yanked open the front door and . . . silence. Where were they? As she passed through the house, she spotted them through the kitchen window: they were going through her rubbish. At that precise moment, maybe he sensed she was home because Rick Black looked up and their eyes met. And held. Suddenly it dawned on Sam what they were looking for exactly – and they were in that bin. Inside, she was screaming at her own stupidity.

  Shit, she hissed – and saw Rick watching her face.

  Sam wanted to bolt but that wasn’t possible. They’d only give chase, making it worse for her in the long run. What reason would she give?

  Think, think, think!

  Sam stood stock still as Rick approached the back door, his eyes never wavering until he reached the step. Knowing the door was locked, he knocked politely and she went to let him in.

  Act normal, Sam …

  “Hello, Rick. What’s going on out there?” She hoped her smile wasn’t too false; it was the best one she could muster under the circumstances.

  “Hello, Sam. May I come in?”

  She stood back and opened the door fully, then stood aside to let him in. He stood in front of the kitchen window, looking out at nothing it seemed, and then he spoke. Slowly.

  “It looks like Duncan had been poisoned as well as shot.”

  She raised both hands to her open mouth in shock. That bit was real – how had they found out that nugget of info when they’d only just retrieved the pies?

  “Oh my God! How?”

  “Looks like something he ate that day; something was put in his food. But here’s the thing – apart from a bowl of cornflakes and a canteen meal of egg and chips, he only ate one other thing before falling ill.” He looked straight at her. “And that was your home baking – quiche, I believe.”

  She swallowed deeply. So they already suspected her. But did they know about the contract to have Duncan killed?

  Rick moved on. “Sam, are we going to find something in the rest of those pies that, for some reason, you put in the bin? Something that would have given Duncan such a serious reaction?” He paused. “Poisonous potatoes, perhaps?”

  They knew. And as soon as the pies were tested, they’d know it was her. There was no point in denying it. Sam took a seat at the table and put her head in her hands, hoping for a moment to think through the mess. As far as she knew, it was only the poisoning, nothing more. Waterworks might help.

  “Looks like I’ve been rumbled,” she said wearily. Tears welled in her eyes and she let them fall freely. “I only wanted to give him an upset stomach so he’d come home the next day and not go on the stupid course. We never see him anymore. It’s all work, work, work with him, and when he is here, he’s not really present. I didn’t mean to do any real harm – you’ve got to believe that!” With each word she sounded more distraught, so by the end of her last sentence, she was almost shouting her innocence.

  Rick stood silently, watching Sam’s tear-stained face, which was turning pinker by the second. Had he got it wrong, then? Was this part as she said it was, and not actually an attempt on his life? But he knew about the contract, the one she herself – the woman sat in front of him, the wife of his work partner – had set rolling and paid good money for. Six thousand pounds, to be precise.

  No matter that it was illegally obtained evidence. He couldn’t let that go.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  They’d finally left her in peace. But had Sam been convincing enough? Would her spur-of-the-moment story fly? She mentally slapped herself for being so careless with the remaining pies. Why the hell hadn’t she dumped them away from the house, in a public rubbish bin for the rats to feast on? But it was done and dusted now: they had the hard evidence in their bag and she’d had to admit as much as she’d sat there in the kitchen with Rick.

  The big question now was, what would happen next? With Duncan in hospital for another day or two, there was precious little time to cover her tracks if they did look at her any further. The money was an issue, though, and one she knew they’d easily find out about, though she figured the crypto transfer aspect would be safe. Once she had a plausible explanation for the loan and the missing £6000, there was nothing else to tie her to his attempted murder. No, she’d been tucked up in bed when he’d been shot. The text she’d sent shortly beforehand would prove her phone had been used near to or inside their house. And her car wouldn’t be on a CCTV motorway camera anywhere because she hadn’t stepped out the door. No, she had been safely at home and safely out of trouble.

  But the £6000 irked her, and the fact that she’d had no reply and no means of contacting ‘him’ irked her even more. She pulled her laptop close and began to search; maybe he had another site, another shop – though how she’d know if another was his, she had no clue. It was worth a try, though. The money needed returning and soon.

  From the privacy of his knocked-through house, a G&T by his side, Wilfred Day followed her keystrokes as she did her best to search. He watched as she scrolled through other hit-for-hire sites, clicking, backing out, clicking the next one, backing out again. He raised an eyebrow. Good lord – was she actually searching for another hit man, someone to finish the job off properly?

  “Feisty little minx, aren’t you, Mrs. Riley?” He picked his phone up and dialled.

  Rick stared at his phone as it vibrated. The screen said Will D, his own code for Wilfred Day in case someone was looking over his shoulder. He clicked accept.

  “Thought you should know, she seems to be searching again, looking for another hit. It’s over to you,” Day told him.

  “Thanks. I’ll get a uniform on his door,” Rick said wearily. After all this, was she actually stupid enough to come back for a second kick at the can? He made the first phone call, and then sat back, shaking his head. That settled it; Rick had no choice but to tell Duncan what was going on. What happened then would be up to him.

  It wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to.

  The following morning, after she’d dropped the girls at school, Sam took a detour home – first to a chemist on the outskirts of town for some everyday help, then over to Beswick to visit the tea lady. With everything that had gone on in the last 24 hours – the finding of the poisoned pies, her own lame story to Rick, and her growing anguish over the £6000 and her vanished ‘employee’ – a few Paramol were not going to d
o the trick today. No, Sam needed something far stronger, and the £200 in her purse was going to provide it for her. With no one in the house all day but her, she’d spend the rest of the day looking after herself for a change and not worrying about anyone else. Some people drank, some spent money they didn’t have. What Sam chose for her stress relief was no different, really, she told herself huffily.

  It took an age to get to the house; the traffic was backed up on the A57, adding to her nervous, irritable mood. But finally, she parked up outside the grubby little house and almost wept with relief. There was no one else about, no smartly dressed woman with a racy red Mini parked nearby, no one to bother her while she made her purchase. In her agitation, Sam didn’t bother pulling a cap over her hair – which really, needed a wash, come to that – before getting out the car and approaching the door.

  It opened just before she knocked. The woman must have seen her approaching on a security screen – either that, or someone had notified her of Sam’s arrival. She slipped gratefully inside. The woman looked the same as she had on Sam’s last visit – four inches of dark roots, the same fitted black pants and pretty blue blouse with little flowers on it, the same clinking gold bangles.

  “What kind of tea would you like?”

  “Something nice and strong, please.”

  Sam felt her pupils dilate in anticipation as the lovely little balsa-wood tea box came out. She watched as her hostess removed the top layer and exposed the variety of little bags underneath.

  “How strong would you like it?”

  The woman allowed Sam to scan the contents and select two bags. They were £80 apiece, Sam knew. Thinking of the £200 burning a hole in her purse, she tried her luck for a discount and picked up another bag, making it three in total. The woman raised her eyebrows and held her hand out, reminding Sam to show her the money. Sam met her eyes and held out the four crisp £50 notes. The woman paused for a moment and then, nodding her silent agreement to the discount, quickly pocketed the money. She closed the tea box and put it safely back in the cupboard as Sam slipped her purchase into the side pocket of her bag.

  The transaction was over as quickly as it had begun, and Sam stood up to leave. There were no thanks today. Sam’s mind was preoccupied with bigger problems than the possibility of someone listening in to the trade going on. If she ever got caught, she knew, it would be her first offence and a slap on the wrist would cover it. If the tea lady got nicked, though, she would be in for a good deal more, and Sam couldn’t care less.

  Once back inside her car, Sam hit the accelerator harder than was necessary and spun out of the quiet cul-de-sac like her life depended on it, headed back to the quiet sanctuary and safety of her home. She resisted the urge to swallow a tablet on the way, fighting it hard like an alcoholic fighting a beer stood in front of him. She could almost feel herself drool at the thought of the relief ahead.

  When she hit the return traffic on the motorway, her resistance crumbled. She had no strength left. Figuring there was no point in delaying the inevitable, she reached across to the passenger seat and fiddled around the inside pocket of her bag until she felt what she was looking for. With a sigh of relief, she swallowed it dry.

  By the time she got home, the edge of her problems would be sanded clean off, as smooth as a pebble from the bottom of a riverbed.

  Wilfred Day traded in information. From long experience, he knew that almost all information had a value to someone, somewhere, and that meant he could leverage it for his own gain. And in the last short while, Wilfred had gained some very interesting information indeed. The tracker he’d ordered placed under Sam’s bumper when her laptop had been returned that night showed a familiar address. He’d been there himself many times, but not for the same reason Sam and most of the others dropped by. No, Wilfred really did stop in for tea, and to catch up with one of his most valued employees, one he’d set up in business after he’d helped her out of a sticky situation with her violent ex-husband. He chuckled to himself as he realized the similarity between the two women: they had both wanted their husbands out of their lives, though for rather different reasons.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  By the time she was putting the key in the door, Sam could barely see straight. How the hell she’d managed to drive back unscathed she had no clue, but how long would the gods, or the angels, or whatever they were, look out for her from this point forward? Throwing herself on to the couch, she kicked off her boots and lay face down without moving for a good five minutes, thinking, a little drool leaking from her open mouth onto the cushion. There were no cares in her world when there was oxy floating around her system, and the feeling of utter lethargy was divine.

  The sound of her phone ringing shattered the quiet of the empty house and forced her back into a hazy semblance of reality. It was Rick.

  “Yeah?” Even that one word was a struggle.

  “Sam, are you okay? Only you sound half asleep.”

  “Yeah, a bit under the weather. Taking a nap.”

  “Oh, okay. I won’t keep you. But I thought you should know they aren’t transferring Duncan to hospital up here any longer. He’s going straight home instead. They say they’ll schedule his next hand operation from hospital here. Good news, eh?”

  That got Sam’s attention. Struggling, she managed to sit up straight, head lolling on the sofa back.

  “Great news! When will that happen?”

  “Should be tomorrow if all goes to plan. I can pick him up if you like. Might be easier with the girls and school. I’m not sure yet what time it’s likely to be. Then I can drop him off at your place. Will that work for you?”

  Sam was too fuddled to think straight. Her eyelids kept falling closed as the oxy rushed through her system, trying to pull her down to oblivion.

  “Sam? Are you there?”

  “Yeah. Sounds great. Thanks, Rick,” she slurred, and pressed end.

  On the other end of the call, Rick stood in the station car park staring at the phone as if something was going to jump out of it. Sam had sounded so drawn out, like she was in a deep slumber. She’d told him she wasn’t feeling too good, though, so maybe that was it. She had been through quite a lot lately.

  Still, Duncan would hopefully be home the following day. Home. Rick sat up uneasily. Maybe, given the circumstances, he’d have Duncan stay at his place for a couple of days while the dust settled. He needed to have a long talk with him before he went home to Sam and the girls.

  He was still stood in the car park thinking things through when his phone buzzed. Wilfred Day again. What could the man want now? He pressed answer.

  “Another call? People will get the wrong impression about us,” he joked.

  “You’re not my type, actually, but that’s another story. I bring news to your ears.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your friend Sam likes the stronger pills too. In fact, she has just made a purchase. Can’t tell you where, but my source said three oxy tabs. Strong ones. Our young lady must be feeling stressed over something.” He gave a sing-song tone to the last word – something.

  Rick let out a loud sigh. Would Sam never cease to surprise him? A few packets of painkillers were one thing, but oxy? That was something else. He thanked Wilfred and hung up, wondering why the man had bothered to call him with that tidbit. Rick was grateful for the intelligence, of course, but if Day was working on getting a copper in his pocket, he’d have another think coming.

  My source says. . .

  Rick blinked. Had Sam inadvertently bought her drugs from one of Day’s outlets?

  Well, there was no time to find that out now. There was work to be done, and since Rochelle had been out of the office for a couple of days and Duncan was laid up in hospital, he needed to get to it.

  So that’s what he did.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  All Sam wanted to do was sleep. But the news that Duncan could be home the following day fought for space in her head and brought her problems so much closer. N
ow she had not even 24 hours on her own before he’d be back in her life.

  And he’d know her secret

  He’d know she’d poisoned him, at the minimum, because Rick undoubtedly would tell him. He had searched her rubbish bin, for heaven’s sake. But would he believe her cover story about the loan, the one she’d settled on – that, as a surprise, she was planning on buying a caravan for family holidays and weekends away with the girls when he was working? And taking him and the girls away for a fantastic holiday abroad, somewhere warm, after his big case? Could she fudge it without raising more questions? It seemed plausible in her mind, but then her mind was as dull as the sky outside her window. A tear slid down her cheek and she let it roll without wiping it away.

  “I’m so tired of this, so tired of him. So tired of everything,” she moaned to herself, her voice trailing off as the tears slid untouched down her hot sticky face. Thoughts of ice creams on the Cornish coast with the girls were now gone, her happy dreams rolling away like her tears. Was she strong enough to face him if the truth came out? Could she be that woman? Did she even want to be?

  In her half-conscious state, she wondered about leaving it all behind. About taking the remaining two tablets that were hidden discreetly in the side pocket of her bag, swallowing them down with ice-cold vodka, never waking up again. The blessed relief of her wrongdoings being forgotten.

  To leave everything. Find the peace she so desperately craved.

  And that’s exactly what she did.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Wilfred liked it when things turned out well, especially the unplanned – because that meant fate had intervened and something was destined to be the way it was. And that’s why making this particular house call was going to be the start of something special.