Personal Favour (The Neve & Egan cases)

by Cristelle Comby

  Cristelle Comby

  T H E

  NEVE & EGAN

  C A S E S

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PERSONAL FAVOUR

  PERSONAL FAVOUR | a free short story

  PERSONAL FAVOUR

  Copyright © 2013 by Cristelle Comby

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Cristelle Comby.

  Edition: 2

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  Dear reader,

  You received this free book as part of a promotional campaign or a giveaway and I sincerely hope you will enjoy the story. If you do, maybe you will consider picking up the complete Neve & Egan series.

  They’re available on Amazon as both eBooks and paperbacks. And good news: the first book in the series, Russian Dolls, can be downloaded for free.

  If you want to get in touch or find out more about my works, don’t hesitate to visit my website: www.cristelle-comby.com

  Happy readings!

  Cristelle

  PERSONAL FAVOUR

  a free short story

  Autumn is one of my favourite seasons. From an artist’s point of view, it’s almost perfect. The array of colours in the sky, the scattering of leaves across pavements and grass, and the weather changes of rain and wind are a landscape artist’s dream. It’s also great for portraits; I like drawing people bundled up from the cold and the couples strolling through the park, hand in hand and kicking up leaves as they walk.

  The University College London is an endless supply of material for my sketchbook, despite having attended only for about six weeks. I’m in love with the architecture of the building, developing an eye for the beauty for such things through my father’s taste for art. Sitting on one of the benches in the courtyard, I’m idly sketching a girl seated on the grass, scarf wrapped tight around her neck, and reading a book I recognise from my own Literature class. I have my own coat wrapped tight around me, and my black converse are propped up on the bench seat, keeping me as warm as possible in the early morning chill. My mother’s always trying to get me to eat more, hoping I’ll fatten up enough that the chill won’t affect me, not matter how many times I tell her that my lean stature is thanks to my father and not through lack of food.

  The walkways are littered with students of all races and ages, and as I let my gaze wander across the grounds, I spot a group of girls I’m already familiar with. They’re part of what I call the group of ‘rich kids’. They sit at the back of the lecture theatres, paying more attention to their phones and each other than to the professor. I turn back to my sketchbook as they pass, disinterested in the conversation that washes over me. It’s seemingly self-centred and vapid nonsense, and it’s easy enough to get deeply invested in my drawing. As I draw, my dark-brown hair falls down around my face and I bite off a frustrated sigh, quickly drawing it into my customary plait and tossing it behind my back.

  ‘Lexa!’ a familiar voice disturbs my concentration, and I set my pencil down.

  I look up as my friend, Irina Anderson, peels away from the group of girls and starts up the path towards me. I met Irina in my second week at the university when she approached me while I was sketching. She proceeded to watch me for a while and while I’d never had someone that interested in my work before, she was nice enough. We were friends in that we didn’t really hang out all that often outside of classes, but we sat together in lectures and exchanged numbers after that first meeting. Irina and I were from completely different social groups, and she’s three years younger than me, but I liked her and she seemed to enjoy the times we had hung out together.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask as she sits down next to me, almost immediately leaning over to look at my work.

  She rests her bag on the bench and tosses her blond hair over her shoulder with a sigh. Irina’s pretty easy going and I haven’t seen her look irritated at much of anything, so when she gives me a look that’s equal parts annoyance and concern, I wonder what’s happened. ‘Someone stole my credit card.’

  ‘Call the police,’ I offer.

  She shakes her head negatively. ‘I can’t tell my father, Lexa. He’ll go mad.’

  I frown, I don’t know much about Irina’s father except that he’s a banker and she has a slightly difficult relationship with him. She’s never offered up information and I don’t ask. She’ll tell me if there’s anything to say. ‘Have you told anyone else?’

  Irina shakes her head slowly. ‘Not yet. I need to discover what’s happened before my father finds out.’

  I’m confused. ‘And you’re telling me this why? I’m not sure what I can do.’

  She flashes me a knowing smile. ‘You observe. You’re really good at it.’

  I easily understand the true meaning of her words. This is a conversation we’ve had before, usually in regards to me not always paying attention to what people say. Somehow, I don’t think that’s what she’s alluding to right now, however. ‘So?’

  ‘You’re always looking at people, watching. You see things other people don’t.’ She shrugs, dislodging a lock of hair and re-tucking it behind her ear with a huff of annoyance. ‘I can’t tell anyone else about this, not until I know who has my card. Please, you’re my only hope.’

  I let out a slow breath and tap my pencil idly against my notebook. What the hell does she want me to do about it? I’m not a detective and I don’t know how to begin finding a thief.

  Irina reaches into her bag and pulls out some papers. ‘I want you to take a look at something,’ she says, handing them over to me. ‘I think a female student stole it.’

  I take the papers with a frown, but don’t look at them. I’m not even sure that I really want to do this. I rest them in my lap and finally look into Irina’s eyes. She’s watching me with an expression that I can’t decipher, but there’s something else in her light blue eyes that makes me turn over the papers. I realise that they’re bank statements and immediately try to return them to her. ‘I shouldn’t really—’

  ‘Please,’ she says, pushing them back. ‘Just take a look.’

  Relenting, I scan over the first statement and frown. Most of the purchases are from stores I recognise; independent boutiques from Selfridges, the Gucci store, and various cosmetics outlets. Irina’s assumption is valid. The culprit is obviously a female, most likely a fellow student. The only question is whether or not I wanted to be the one to discover which one of them had done it. And how? ‘What makes you think it’s a student and not somebody else?’

  ‘The last time I saw my credit card was when I went shopping at the weekend. The only people I’ve seen since then have been at the university. It has to be someone here, Lexa.’ She pauses. ‘It narrows it down, right?’ She gives me a look I have a feeling I’m going to become accustomed to. ‘Will you help me?’

  I look over the statement once more. I have no idea what I’m actually going to be able to accomplish for her and when I say so out loud, she snorts unattractively and nudges me with her elbow.

  ‘You’re an outsider. Not that I mean that in a bad way,’ she hurries to correct when she sees the look on my face. ‘I just mean that it won’t be obvious that I’m trying to find out who did this. If I start asking questions of my friends...’

  She trails off, but I understand what she means. I can find out who
did this much easier than she can, although if it were me, I would just ask them outright. ‘None of them even need your credit card,’ I say, looking over at the girls now settled on the grass. ‘Are you sure it’s one of them?’

  ‘No,’ Irina says with a wry smile. ‘That’s why I need your help.’

  The words needle and haystack come to mind, but I sigh and hand the statements back to her. ‘Fine, I’ll help.’

  ‘Keep them.’ To my surprise, Irina leans over and hugs me, before pulling away and grabbing her bag. ‘Thank you so much, Lexa.’

  I nod, stuffing the bank statement into the side pocket of my own bag. ‘I only meant that I’ll try. I might not even find anything.’

  With a shrug, Irina stands. ‘I know. I appreciate that you’re going to try.’ She turns on her heel and heads across the path to rejoin her friends.

  Giving up on finishing my drawing, I gather up my things and make my way across the courtyard, contemplating Irina’s request and how exactly I’m going to discover who’s stolen her credit card. The problem, I realise quickly, is that there’s no real place to start. I can’t just stroll into boutiques and shops, show them the bank statement, and ask whether or not they remember the face of the person who came to purchase items from the list. Not only would people refuse to take me seriously, it would also take me forever to get through them all. I have only a bank statement and the knowledge that these purchases were obviously made by a young female.

  I’m still pondering the situation as I walk into my poetry class and take my seat. I share the class with two of Irina’s friends, Stephanie Harvell and Lily Corrigan. Neither of them seems particularly interested in the subject at hand, usually spending most of the lessons passing notes and talking under their breath, but I decide that now is a good time to start working on my special assignment. Lily is conspicuously absent today, which is a surprise in itself. The two girls might not pay as much attention as they should, but neither of them has ever missed a class before. It wouldn’t be odd, but Lily once turned up with a fever and refused to go home. It doesn’t bother me for long, and I tune back into the lecture and take notes. Every now and then, I chance a glance at Stephanie, but without her partner-in-crime she remains quiet and attentive.

  The day passes quickly and I push Irina’s problem to the back of my mind while I focus on my classes and take down the notes I’m going to need later in the term.

  As I walk home that evening, I ponder which course of action I could take to fulfil Irina’s request. I could watch her friends for anything that doesn’t make sense; any obvious guilt or shame. I frown, as I realise that I don’t know them well enough to know whether or not they’d be behaving unnaturally, I still have no clue what to do, as I enter the flat and join my mother in the kitchen.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she asks, as I sit opposite her at the table.

  ‘Just a uni problem,’ I say, trying not to worry her. She worries enough about me as it is. I smile to give credence to my words. ‘It will pass.’

  She nods. ‘They always do,’ she assures me. ‘I’m sure you’ll come up with a solution.’

  I’m grateful for her faith in me, but I’m still not sure I’m the right person for the job. I may just have to give in and get Irina to go to someone with a better grasp of things like this. It would involve telling her father, something I know she doesn’t want to do and with what I know about him, I’m not that surprised.

  I resolve to give it another try and keep watching Irina’s friends for the next couple of days and hopefully something will come up. Who knows? She might be right, maybe I’ll see something. If nothing turns up, I’ll speak to Irina and together we can decide exactly what to do about the situation.

  The college is exceptionally busy the next day and I’m forced to thread my way through the students gathered in the corridor. I manage to make it into the canteen at lunch and grab a tray from the stack. They’re serving the inevitable industrial food that appeals, or doesn’t, to everyone, and I take it outside with the intention of leaving most of it behind. My mother’s always complaining that I don’t eat enough, but if she saw the food they had on offer at the UCL, she probably wouldn’t eat it either. It’s not completely terrible, it just conforms to the usual canteen standards you’d expect anywhere. I sit at one of the tables and push my food around the plate, deciding that now’s a good a time as any to sketch something else while I wait.

  There are enough students around the campus for me to get some fresh inspiration for a drawing, and I’m half way through a sketch when a shrill voice drifts from a few tables over.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  I look up from my dinner and sketchbook to see Stephanie Harvell showing off a new top to Lily. They’re both seated and eating what looks like a salad. Between them. Stephanie has the blouse spread out on a plastic bag, and Lily’s looking over it with an expression that borders on envy. It’s not unusual for them to buy new clothes and they’re always coming in with a shopping bag from some pricy store.

  Lily sounds almost wistful when she says, ‘It’s gorgeous. Where did you get it? I thought your father had cut you off.’

  I frown, remembering my quest to find the mysterious thief who stole Irina’s card. Stephanie had been cut off by her father? Where had she got the money to buy new clothes? Was this it? Had I just resolved the case?

  There’s an hesitation before Stephanie answers, ‘My mum loaned me some money until Dad wakes up and realises that me having a credit card isn’t the greatest crime.’

  My enthusiasm sags — evidently, it couldn’t have been that easy. Stephanie’s explanation sounds... plausible, but I store the information — and the hesitation — away for consideration.

  I turn back to my sketchbook, but look up again when Lily lets out a small exclamation. She’s holding the blouse flush against her body, standing next to the bench and she does a small twirl. I frown in incomprehension. The blouse doesn’t seem all that spectacular, and I have no idea why Lily’s viewing it with such enthusiasm. I don’t think I will ever understand these girls.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me where you bought it,’ she says, smoothing it down her body. ‘I think I’d like to get one.’

  Stephanie grins and puts the top back in the boutique bag — some store from Oxford Street, if memory serves — and the two of them leave the benches and make their way back to the university. I narrow my eyes, as I look down at my half-finished sketch, and wonder what to think about the girls’ display.

  I finish my food, and then swivel around on the bench, taking a moment to kick at the leaves as I look around the campus. From where I’m sitting I can see Irina and the rest of her friends sitting outside the door to the Literature block, and I watch them. No sudden clue jumps up at me, but a lot can be learned from seeing how Irina’s friends interact with her. I find that none of them seem particularly guilty, surely a thief would act cagey and show signs of nervousness, right? Then again, on second thought, I realise that I’ve never taken the time to count how many friends Irina has and that I have no way of knowing if they’re all present.

  Stephanie joins the group, dropping down onto the grass and immediately fitting into the conversation as if she had never been sitting apart. Lily isn’t with her, so I can only assume that she left at some point. It’s Stephanie I have my attention on, however, and as she sits down, she brings out her blouse once again and I roll my eyes. The enthusiasm these girls have for clothing is something that I will never understand. I’m happy enough in my converse trainers and jeans. I don’t overly care about my appearance, but I like to be comfortable when I do.

  Everyone fawns over the blouse for a minute, and Stephanie seems to revel in their attention. When she puts the blouse back in her bag, I keep my eye on her and study her interactions with Irina; she seems a little reserved, and doesn’t meet Irina’s eyes once during their conversation. It can be a sign of guilt, I know, and I add that to my list of clues. I need to know more about Step
hanie, and resolve to ask Irina about her later. I keep watching them from afar until the time for my next lecture comes.

  I sit up, realising that I need to make a little stop beforehand.

  As I push open the door to the ladies toilets in the east corridor, I see Lily hurrying out of one of the cubicles, wrestling her way into a new sweater. There’s a tag still hanging down the back and as she pulls it off, she looks up to see me standing in the doorway. ‘Oh, hey.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say, opening one of the cubicle doors. I keep my eyes discreetly on her as I shut the door, and see the bag she stuffs into the bin by the sinks, Prada. She’s obviously just bought it and wants to wear it straight away. I snort inwardly, as I lock the door and I try to imagine Stephanie’s reaction. After washing my hands, I hurry back in the hallways. It’s almost time for history class and I don’t want to be late for that. It’s one of my favourites.

  The subject is interesting, of course, but I also like the professor. Most of the students, for whatever reason they’ve decided upon this week, don’t like Ashford Egan very much. He’s the hardest professor to get along with, mostly because he spends a lot of the lecture sitting behind his desk, observing the class. You wouldn’t think that he could, considering he’s the only blind professor in the university. It’s not observing in your usual sense, of course, but it must be true what they say about your other senses getting better. He can hear exceptionally well; stopping students from texting, or mumbling under their breath. He also calls some out on behaviour nobody else will have noticed. It’s impressive.

  The other students’ penchant for giving Egan the worst monikers is a little at odds with how much attention they pay to the subjects he teaches. It has a lot to do with his enthusiasm for the subject. He doesn’t seem like it outside of class. Professor Egan isn’t really what you could call a people person; he’s cold and a little strange, and seems distant when he speaks to you outside of class. If he does. I don’t know why I find him so fascinating to listen to when he could easily be considered one of the least friendly people I’ve ever met. Then again, I’m not exactly the easiest person to get along with.