His Secrets - Episode 3

by Gl Corbin

  Arnold seemed to consider this for a moment, and said, “Is it okay if I make a call?”

  *********

  Chris had warned Bradley she'd be late, and had told him not to cook. The kitchen still smelled of burnt chicken. They were going to eat out.

  After leaving Arnold's house, she called ahead, so Bradley would be ready when she arrived at her apartment. She hadn't told him where they would be going; it was to be a surprise.

  “This is ridiculous,” Bradley protested.

  “Shut up and put your hands down!”

  He relented and allowed her to slip the blindfold over his head.

  “I can't see,” he moaned.

  “It's a blindfold. You aren't meant to see. Duh?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You'll find out soon enough.”

  Fifty minutes later, Chris turned into the car park and killed the engine.

  “Can I look now?”

  She pushed the blindfold up off his eyes.

  They had first met in the Lakes Inn. Coincidence, chance, luck – all of these things can and do affect a life. Chris had never been in the Lakes Inn before, and had not been back since. Bradley too had never been in the Lakes before or since. He had been travelling south, and had simply wanted somewhere to grab a snack and drink en-route. He had actually planned to stop at a different pub, but its car park had been full. Life is full of strange coincidences. Chris had been working on a case – yet another cheating husband. She had followed him to the Lakes, but the evening had been a bust. The target had met with another man who Chris later discovered was his brother.

  Bradley told her later that he had noticed her as soon as he walked into the bar. He had deliberately sat at the next table to hers in the hope he might strike up a conversation. He had been out of luck; Chris had blanked him. What he hadn't known at the time was the reason she had given him the cold shoulder. It hadn't been because she didn't like the look of him – quite the opposite; she'd done a double-take when he'd walked in. Chris had ignored him because she was working; she'd ignored him because she was on surveillance. Bradley hadn't been put off – he had tried every chat up line in the book – much to Chris's annoyance. When her target and his male companion had got up to leave, Chris had been about to follow when Bradley, never one to give up, had tried to tag along. She couldn't allow him to do that because it would have made tailing the target impossible.

  He'd agreed to let her leave alone, but only on the condition that she gave him her phone number. She hadn't wanted to cause a scene, so had agreed and had handed him her card. He'd told her later that he had thought the card must be a fake; she couldn't possibly be a PI. He had figured she must carry the cards around to give to arse holes like him who were pestering her.

  Bradley had called her the next day, fully expecting the number to be some kind of wind-up line. When she'd answered, and he'd realised she really was a PI, he'd been almost lost for words. He had eventually found his voice, and they had arranged to meet. The rest, as they say, is history.

  *********

  A memory revisited often proves to be a disappointment. The Lakes Inn had been 'revamped', and as a result had lost all of its original old world charm. 'Class' had made way for 'Cool'. Neither of them liked the new look, but the place did still bring back memories. The food was something of a disappointment too – good old fashioned English cooking had been replaced by nouvelle cuisine – in other words a piece of salmon, a lettuce leaf and a squiggle of sauce.

  “Dessert Sir, Madam?”

  The waiter asked after they had finished (two mouthfuls and it was gone) their main course.

  Bradley looked at Chris; she shook her head.

  “No thanks. Just the bill please.”

  “So much for my brilliant idea,” Chris said as they made their way back to the car.

  “I'm glad it wasn't like this the first time I dropped in, I never would have stayed.”

  “I'm glad you did.” Chris kissed him.

  Bradley was at the steering wheel now.

  “Pull in over there!” Chris pointed to a narrow dirt track on the opposite side of the road.

  “Why?”

  “Just do as I say!”

  “I love it when you're assertive.”

  “Park over there.” Chris pointed to a small grassed area behind a line of trees and bushes.

  “Why are we here?” Bradley turned off the engine.

  “I thought I would treat you to dessert.” Chris kicked off her shoes, and knelt on the passenger seat. As she leaned forward to kiss him, her hand went to the waistband of his trousers. Working from feel alone, she managed to undo the button, and to unzip the fly. As her hand slid inside his boxers, she felt his whole body flinch. Moments later, she had his cock in her hand.

  “Take them off!” She ordered.

  “You really are assertive.”

  “Just do it!”

  He raised his bottom from the seat, and pushed down his trousers and boxers. Chris noticed him glance nervously around. No one would disturb them here.

  She licked the drops of pre-cum from the head of his cock, and began to stroke him slowly. Her other hand cupped his balls which squirmed to her touch. Bradley had his head on the seat rest; his gaze fixed on her. She licked his shaft from balls to tip, and back again. After kissing the head of his cock, she took him into her mouth. He groaned as she slid her lips down to the base of his shaft. His hands grabbed her hair as she teased his balls. Bradley watched her head bob up and down as she gave him the most exquisite blow job.

  She knew he was about to come even before he spoke.

  “I'm coming!” He was no longer concerned that someone might hear.

  That was the signal for her to take him as deep into her mouth as she could. Her hands cupped his balls as she felt his load shoot into her throat.

  “That was some dessert,” he said.

  *********

  “Why don't I come to your office?” Chris was in a queue at the drive-thru waiting for her breakfast to appear from the small window at her side. “Okay, be at my office at ten then,” she told the caller while juggling the food and coffee.

  Just as she had feared, Cassidy had no intention of leaving her to get on with the Jeremies investigation. What had she expected? He was a reporter after all. Chris had offered to drop in at the Record's offices, but he was working on this story without the blessing of his employers.

  “Mr Broomhead?” Chris was in her office; her tongue still tender from the molten hot coffee. “Yes, I have something for you. No, I need to see you in person. It will have to be this evening because I am out of town all day.” Lying came naturally to her these days. “Can we make it seven o' clock at your offices? Great – see you then.”

  Cassidy arrived fifteen minutes early; he was clearly eager.

  “Like I said on the phone, I've not found anything I can run with yet,” Chris said.

  “Surely there must be something. Who have you spoken to?”

  Chris forced herself to ignore his pushiness, and took out the file.

  “I tried to see Sarah Milner's parents, but they have gone to ground. I did manage to speak to one of their neighbours. A dear old lady who had known Sarah since she was a child. Mrs Flowers seemed to think Sarah might have started to see a new boyfriend shortly before her murder.”

  “Did you talk to the boyfriend?”

  “No one knows who he is or even if he exists. The police couldn't find him. I have talked to Mrs Moore, but I didn't find anything to help connect the dots. I'm beginning to think maybe there aren't any dots to connect.”

  “What about Susan Moore? Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “She preferred girls apparently.”

  Cassidy thought for a moment.

  “What happens next?”

  “I'm hoping to see Mrs Jeremies' sister, and as many of the other families as will see me. But unless something drastic changes, I'm going to tell Mrs Jeremies that there is no
connection.”

  “No, you can't do that!”

  Chris was rather taken aback by the strength of his reaction.

  “Sorry. I just meant you mustn't give up on it yet. I'm sure Mrs Jeremies is right.”

  “I wished I shared your confidence.

  It took Chris a while to get Cassidy out of the door. Like every other reporter she had ever met, he was persistent to the point of being a pain in the arse.

  *********

  Chris's phone had been switched to silent during her meeting with Cassidy. When she had finally managed to lever him out of the office, she switched on the volume, and noticed she had two missed calls and a text message – all from Bradley. The text message read:

  can't get you on phone

  think I dropped my wallet in your car – can you check?

  Bradley

  A smile flitted across Chris's face as she recalled Bradley with his trousers around his ankles in the car.

  When she checked under the driver's seat, sure enough there was the wallet. As she picked it up, a blue debit card dropped out. Chris was just about to slot the card back into the wallet when she realised there was something odd about the way the name was printed on it. It appeared as:

  James Bradley

  For the life of her, Chris could not understand why it would have been printed in that way. Even if they had intended to put his last name first (why would they?) surely there would have been a comma after 'James'.

  There were times, and this was one of them, that Chris wished she wasn't a PI. Why didn't she simply put the card back, and forget about it? She flicked through the other cards in the wallet. Every one of them had 'Bradley James' embossed on it. Maybe the card which had fallen out had been printed incorrectly? She wanted to ask Bradley about it, but that would have meant admitting she had looked through his wallet. Just then, she noticed another zipped pocket; the zip appeared to have worked itself open. Chris slipped her fingers inside. There were two other credit cards in there, both in the name of James Bradley.

  She had so many questions, but for the moment simply tapped out a brief text:

  I have your wallet - it was in car

  See u tonight – might be late

  Chris

  *********

  Chris arrived at Broomhead's office at seven on the dot. The building was in darkness except for one office which she knew was Malcolm Broomhead's. The only car in the car park was his. Because of the hour, the main doors were locked. Broomhead must have seen her arrive because he appeared at the door, and let her in. They walked in silence to his office; Chris had his file in her hand.

  “Sit.” Broomhead pointed to the chair in front of his desk. “What do you have for me?”

  “There's good news and bad news.” Chris put the folder down on the desk in front of her. “The good news is your wife isn't having an affair.”

  Broomhead sat back in his seat. “You're wrong. I know she is. What the hell am I paying you for?”

  “The bad news is your wife has left you.”

  “What are you talking about? I should have known better than to employ you. If I had realised your father was no longer in the business, I never would have come to your office in the first place.”

  “Do you have a problem with women Mr Broomhead?”

  “What?”

  “Is that why you hit your wife?”

  Broomhead's face turned bright red. He pushed back the chair, and leaned forward on the desk – his face was inches from Chris.

  “How dare you suggest...”

  “I'm not suggesting anything.” Chris remained seated. She appeared perfectly calm although her heart was racing. “I'm saying quite clearly that you have verbally and physically abused your wife.”

  “Get out! Get out right now!”

  “If I leave now, it will be to go to the police.”

  “Where is Cynthia?”

  “She has gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where? She wouldn't just leave. Where would she go?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  Broomhead sat down; he appeared more stunned than angry now.

  “I have proof you have been violent to your wife. If you try to find her, I will hand the file over to the police.”

  “You're lying.”

  “I'm a Private Investigator. Gathering evidence is what I do for a living. Planting cameras and microphones isn't difficult.”

  This was a total bluff.

  When Chris had confronted Craig Arnold, he had asked Cynthia Broomhead to come over to his house. It had been an uncomfortable meeting, but Arnold had eventually persuaded Mrs Broomhead to open up to Chris. Chris had been sickened by what she had heard, but even more sickened by what she had seen. Cynthia Broomhead had bruises on her back and upper thighs. Not only was Malcolm Broomhead a violent bully, he was also calculating – none of the injuries could be seen when his wife was out in public. After talking to Cynthia, Chris had been left in no doubt these were not isolated incidents. Craig Arnold wasn't having an affair with Cynthia Broomhead; he was simply a Good Samaritan. Together, they had formulated a plan which would allow Mrs Broomhead to escape. The meeting at the hotel which Chris had captured on camera had been the final one before Cynthia was to make her exit. Fortunately, Chris had heeded the words of her father, and had trusted her instincts. She had sensed something was wrong, so hadn't passed on the photo of Arnold and Cynthia to Malcolm Broomhead. If she had done, the consequences could have been devastating for both Cynthia and Craig Arnold.

  Malcolm Broomhead looked as though he wanted to kill Chris. His face was now even redder; his fists were clenched tight. Chris half-hoped he would try something; she would take great pleasure dishing out some of his own medicine.

  “Get out!” He shouted.

  Chris stood up, and walked over to the door.

  “Shall I post my invoice to your home address?” She said straight faced.

  “Fuck off!”

  Back in her car, Chris checked her phone. There was a single text; it was from Cynthia Broomhead:

  Thank you

  *********

  “You're late.” Bradley was in the lounge when Chris arrived home.

  “I told you in my text I would be.” Her voice was clipped.

  “Where were you?”

  “I've just told you – I was working!”

  “Wow! Okay. Take it easy. I only asked.”

  “Your wallet.” She thrust it into his hand.

  “Thanks.”

  Bradley tried to put an arm around her waist, but she took a step back. She couldn't bear him to touch her – not when she didn't even know who he was. Who was this man who shared her home and her bed? Bradley James or James Bradley? If she couldn't even be sure of his name, what else didn't she know about him?

  “Are you okay?” He was confused by her sudden coldness.

  “I'm fine.”

  The sharpness of her words took him by surprise.

  “You don't sound fine.”

  “I'm just tired. It's been a long day. I'm going to have a lie down.”

  “Oh. Okay. Do you want anything to eat?”

  “No.”

  Chris disappeared into the bedroom, slamming the door closed behind her.

  Bradley called in on her a couple of times to check she was okay. She gave him some line about feeling under the weather, and said she would be fine in the morning. It was a lie. She wouldn't be okay until she knew what was going on, until she knew who he was, and why he had lied to her. When he came to bed, she pretended to be asleep. She didn't want to face his questions – not until she was sure of her ground.

  The next morning, she woke early and managed to creep out of bed without waking him. She showered and dressed as quickly as she could, and managed to get out of the house while he was still asleep. The self-pity from the previous day had been replaced by a determination to get to the bottom of this. She was a PI after all. Who better to find out who Bradley James really was? This might turn
out to be the most important case she had ever undertaken.

  ********************************************

  Also from GL Corbin:

  His Property (serial)

  Her Master (serial)

  His Decision (short story)

  His Rules (short story in 3 parts)

  His Plaything (short story in 3 parts)

  http://www.GLCorbin.com