Last Goodbye_An absolutely gripping murder mystery thriller

by Arlene Hunt

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘That’s good, ’cos I probably don’t want to hear it.’

  They ate for a while in companionable silence. Roxy took a sip of her wine. Like the food, it was good. She had to admit, Boy had great taste.

  ‘I think I’m messing up my promotion.’

  ‘How?’

  Roxy felt the heat from Boy’s food loosen her sinuses. Boy didn’t believe in less is more when it came to spices. Everything was always subject to his personal Richter scale of heat, and this was a solid 8.

  She drank some more of her wine.

  ‘Morrissey dumped us, and now I’m working with a squad who I’m pretty sure think I’m either an idiot or a liability.’

  Boy digested this for a moment.

  ‘So prove them wrong. Show them your strengths.’

  ‘I don’t always work well with other people,’ she admitted after a moment. ‘I think I’m like cucumber, an acquired taste.’

  Boy laughed, but not unkindly.

  ‘Cucumber?’

  ‘Never mind, it’s your turn. What are you doing home before midnight?’

  He raised his glass to his lips and waggled his eyebrows. ‘I’ve been free since four o’clock.’

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘That’s when I told Annika to stuff her shitty barely-minimum-paying job where the sun will never shine.’

  ‘You quit your job?’

  ‘Don’t look so panicky! There’s plenty of jobs out there for a seasoned barman with a winning personality, believe me. I won’t stiff you on rent.’

  ‘Oh I wasn’t—’

  ‘You were, and that’s okay too.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Let’s have a toast.’

  She lifted hers. ‘To what?’

  ‘To acquired tastes.’

  Roxy grinned and clinked her glass against his.

  ‘Acquired tastes.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Noel woke with a strangled scream and a weird stabbing pain in his calf. It felt like his entire lower leg was encased in a vice.

  He straightened his leg with a kick and opened his eyes. For a single second he had no idea where he was or what was going on, then he remembered and a wave of nausea engulfed him.

  Andrea was dead, and he was on the run.

  Shit.

  Storm lay sprawled across his chest, one arm draped on the floor. She moaned when he tried to slide out from under her but she didn’t wake.

  He looked around for his clothes, found his jocks on top of a plastic cactus and pulled them on. Moving made him dizzy, and he could hear his heart beating in his ears, so he sat back on the edge of the sofa and put his head in his hands to keep it from exploding.

  After a while, he gingerly located his jeans and his phone. He placed the mobile on the cluttered coffee table and stared at it, chewing his thumbnail. This was the problem with technology, he thought sourly, nobody knew phone numbers by heart any more; everything was stored on this one little machine, just sitting here offering fingertip access to the world.

  He tried to think, but it was hard to form thoughts when his mouth felt like asbestos and his head was pounding. Too much blow, way too much. Storm was a bloody hoover, but what could he say: he was at her mercy and the dozy cow knew it.

  His sister would probably be awake now, if she’d slept at all. He thought about his room at her house, visualising it. There was a couple of hundred stashed in the mattress (she was going to do her nut over that, but it couldn’t be helped now) and his passport was under his socks in the third drawer of the dresser. Clothes, other shit, none of that was important. He needed the passport and the money; that was it.

  Would she bring it to him if he called her?

  This was something he’d never really considered before. Caroline was his sister, she loved him, she had to help him; those were the blood rules.

  Weren’t they?

  He chewed his thumbnail some more, peeling off a piece of skin in the process. On the other hand, his sister was a bit of a square, as straight as he was crooked. She might think involving her in crime was pushing his luck; she might think this was beyond her remit as family.

  Behind him, Storm snorted and muttered something in her sleep. Noel ran his hands over his head. He had the strangest sensation that he was stuck in an alternate universe or a bad dream, and that he’d wake up any moment with an overwhelming sense of relief.

  Andrea was the gentlest sleeper he’d ever known. She always lay on her right side, curled up like a kitten. Her breathing was soft, steady. Sometimes he’d get in late from a gig and slide in behind her, tucking his legs into the crook of hers, slipping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her hair.

  Her hair always smelled like jasmine. Funny, he’d forgotten that little detail until now.

  No, there was no time for that kind of thinking, not now.

  Caroline would be getting ready for work soon. He needed to make a decision. Either phone her before she left the house, or risk going there after she had gone to work. What if the cops were following her? Even assuming she’d come, she might lead them right to him.

  No, it would be better to leave her out of it. He’d go around the lane at the back of the cottages, skip over the wall. No one would be any the wiser.

  Would they have eyes on the house? Front and back?

  He hissed and slapped the side of his head in frustration. He was as paranoid as hell. It was impossible to think straight like this.

  He stole another look at his phone.

  How much risk could there be in a quick call?

  What if Caroline said no?

  What then?

  He had to do something; he had to be … what was the word? Proactive. Throw them off the scent a little.

  A thought struck him. He got up, ran to the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. The beard, he thought, running his hand over it; the beard would need to go.

  Using a pair of blunt toenail scissors, he cut off as much as he could, then made foam with some shower gel and hacked at his face with a disposable razor he found in the shower.

  When he was done, he rinsed his face, then dried it with a pink hand towel and looked at his handiwork. His chin was covered in nick and cuts, and multiple patches of bristly hair remained.

  Shit.

  He looked like the world’s creepiest child-molester. Had he always had that funny-looking chin?

  ‘Babe?’

  It was Storm.

  ‘Yeah, be right out.’

  ‘I got to pee.’

  He stared at his reflection. Okay, it was bad, it was really bad, but on the other hand, it didn’t look anything like him. He grabbed a hank of hair and held it aloft.

  Actually, his sleep-deprived brain told him, if he shaved his head, nobody would recognise him, period.

  ‘Storm?’

  ‘Wha’?’

  He yanked the door open. She shrieked when she saw him and leaped backwards.

  ‘You got any more of these crappy razors?’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I’m … improvising.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. Look, I’m real sorry about this and all, but you gotta go.’

  ‘What? Why? I thought you said I could stay here for a few days.’

  She scratched the bird’s nest she called hair.

  ‘My boyfriend came back from Manchester early. He’s gonna call over.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ Noel stared at her, gobsmacked. ‘You never mentioned anything about having a bloody boyfriend.’

  ‘You never asked,’ she said, shoving him out of the way and dropping onto the toilet with a plop.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dr Gregory Milton slid out from under the sun lamp and removed his protective goggles. He took a quick shower and got dressed, deliberating carefully over his choices. He was fifty-five years old and cared deeply about his appearance. A thrice-weekly game of competitive racquetball kept his belly tr
im and his buttocks firm. Genetics had blessed him with thick hair, and the increasing grey did not detract from his handsomeness; if anything, he felt it added a layer of distinguished charm. His clothes were subtle and expensive. He shopped exclusively at Reiss, Alias Tom and Brown Thomas. His shoes were hand-made from the best-quality leather. He would rather die than wear jeans, or trainers outside of the gym.

  Downstairs in the kitchen he prepared a breakfast of organic eggs, lightly scrambled, turkey bacon and half a beef tomato, with fresh grapefruit juice and coffee, which he’d taken black ever since he was told dairy could affect his voice.

  Shortly after breakfast, the studio car arrived to take him to work at the television studio. En route he read the papers on his laptop, checked his shares on the stock market and sent a message enquiring after the health of his wife, Nadine.

  April, his PA, was standing waiting at the studio door with his itinerary. As always, she was decked out in the most garish of outfits; he sometimes wondered where on earth she shopped, as he had never seen anyone else wear the sort of ensemble she cobbled together. What was she wearing on her head? It looked like a crumpled paper bag.

  Still, despite her dreadful clothes and her braces and her frankly hideous hairstyles, she was a superb PA. If anything, her unattractiveness made her a valuable asset; certainly nobody could ever accuse him of impropriety with her.

  ‘Good morning, Greg,’ she said.

  ‘Good morning, April.’ He touched his fingers to her cheek. ‘How are you today?’

  She giggled slightly. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Love the hat.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, it’s vintage.’

  ‘I can tell.’

  He took the itinerary, glanced along it and frowned. Walter, the station owner, had called another one of his interminable staff meetings, tedious affairs that bored him senseless. He wondered if he might be able to wriggle out of it somehow.

  April leaned in close.

  ‘Maureen was looking for you.’

  The frown deepened. Maureen Kelly, the station manager, was second in command to Walter. She was a first-rate manager but a second-rate human, and for some reason she was impervious to his charm.

  Over the five years he’d worked for the station he had grown to dislike Maureen enormously, and yet, he suspected, not nearly as much as she disliked him. Certainly she was always professional in her dealings with him, but she had on more than one occasion frozen him out of conversation, and she avoided him at parties. He got the distinct impression she had also been instrumental in a show he’d proposed never making it past the treatment stage.

  ‘Did she say what for?’

  ‘No, just that she’d like to see you in her office before this morning’s meeting.’ April furrowed her brow. ‘Did you have an accident?’

  He followed her gaze to his hands. ‘Oh, this? No, nothing serious; had a little tumble playing racquetball.’

  ‘It looks swollen; I’ll send someone to you with some ice right away.’

  ‘No need to fuss.’

  ‘It’s not a bother, honestly.’

  She was gone before he could stop her. He took the lift upstairs to his office and shut the door behind him.

  He liked his office. The shelves were filled with the various broadcasting awards he’d won over the years, and books he’d written and co-authored. Three framed posters depicting his image art deco style hung behind his chair; a framed photo of him and the Dali Lama took pride of place on his hand-tooled desk.

  He sat down and flicked through the stack of open letters April had left for him. He read one quickly, tossed it aside and chose another. The letters mostly contained dull, pedestrian problems – low self-esteem, a cheating spouse, challenging children – but every so often a pearl appeared in the dreck and it was these he liked to incorporate into his shows.

  Someone knocked on his door.

  ‘Come in.’

  A girl he’d never seen before entered carrying a bowl of ice cubes.

  ‘Hi.’ Her smile was shy, almost apologetic. ‘Um … April asked me to drop this in for you.’

  He put the letter to one side.

  ‘Why, thank you, that’s very kind. If you could put it on the sideboard over there, I’d be very grateful.’

  He studied her closely as she did his bidding, liking very much what he saw. She had a tiny waist, larger-than-average buttocks, round breasts, tear-shaped, natural. He imagined cupping them, feeling their heft in his hands, his thumbs exploring, circling the pert nipples. She was a redhead, so her nipples would be pinkish, her skin pale …

  ‘Do you need anything else?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, there are some towels in the bottom drawer. Would you be a darling and fetch one for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He watched her bend over to open the drawer. He could see the outline of her underwear through her skirt; probably cotton, white no doubt.

  Virginal.

  ‘I don’t remember seeing you before, and I always remember a pretty face. Are you new?’

  She selected a towel and brought it over to him.

  ‘Yes, this is my second day. I’m on work experience.’

  ‘Really, and how are you finding it so far? Not too dull, I hope?’

  ‘Oh no!’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘It’s great. And can I say how much I love your work. I listen to your show all the time and I think it’s amazing how you help so many people the way you do.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He gave her his most paternal kindly smile, the one he knew made the ladies tremble at the knees. ‘I feel it’s my privilege to help people.’

  ‘That woman who phoned last Friday, I mean, she was such a cow, like I don’t know how you kept your composure with her. I would have told her where to get off …’ She stopped and put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so negative.’

  ‘Please don’t apologise for a natural and genuine reaction,’ he said, laying it on thick. ‘Of course, I feel it’s unproductive to assign blame or shame in my clinical cases. That poor woman you refer to was hurt and angry, and anger is a naked flame. It consumes the host as readily as it consumes its surroundings. The best remedy for anger is compassion. I try to douse the flames with understanding, and most importantly, with love.’

  She was staring at him, head tilted to one side, lips slightly parted, mesmerised. He wondered what she tasted like.

  ‘That is so inspiring, Dr Milton.’

  ‘Please, I’d like you to call me Greg; all my friends call me Greg.’

  She blushed. ‘Okay … Greg.’

  ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Oh, it’s Olivia.’

  ‘But of course it is, taken from the Latin oliva. Did you know, a branch from an olive tree has long been regarded as a sign of peace? It’s no wonder you’re interested in the plight of others; it shows how emotionally evolved you—’

  The office door opened and the small, malignant toad that was Maureen Kelly appeared, instant disapproval and suspicion on her face.

  ‘There you are, didn’t you get my message?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled, but as usual it was wasted on her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped at the girl.

  ‘Oh, I was bringing Greg some—’

  ‘There’s a meeting in twenty minutes. Go see if the conference room is presentable. Make sure the water jugs are filled, and no lemon slices in them this time. If I see lemon, someone is going to get fired. Still water or carbonated, that’s all, got it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you still doing here then?’

  The girl fled.

  ‘Goodness, Maureen.’ Milton got up, walked to the sideboard and put some of the ice into the towel. ‘You’re testy this morning.’

  ‘What happened to your hand?’

  ‘Sports injury.’ He went back to his chair.

  She closed the door behind her and folded her arms. He dr
opped the smile; it was starting to make his cheeks ache.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Does the name Andrea Colgan ring any bells with you?’

  This felt like a trap. He leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips, acting nonchalant.

  ‘I know the name … Wasn’t she the woman from Albas Entertainment who handled my book tour?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  So you already knew I knew her, you miserable old hag, he thought.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that.’ He waited a beat. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Apparently she was found murdered yesterday.’

  ‘My God,’ he said, carefully.

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘We had a professional relationship, Maureen. I hardly think that qualifies as knowing her.’

  ‘Just professional, was it?’

  He didn’t like the way she was looking at him; he didn’t like it at all.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well that’s interesting, because as you know, I sign off on the expense accounts here, and I seem to recall shelling out a lot of Walter’s money on fancy restaurants, wine bars and top-end hotels during your tour.’

  ‘You’d rather we ate in McDonald’s and drank tap water from a spigot, is that it? Slept in a camper van or pitched a tent on the side of the road?’

  She smiled, showing a lot of gum. More snarl than smile really.

  ‘You always have an answer, don’t you, Milton?’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t realised you’d asked a question.’

  Maureen took a few steps closer to his desk and leaned on it with her little fists.

  ‘I hope for your sake that the Garda don’t come rat-tat-tatting on our door. I hope for your sake your relationship really was simply professional.’

  ‘I can prepare a statement, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘I think that would be best.’

  He was surprised. The bitch really did suspect him of something.

  ‘Was that it?’

  ‘There is one other thing.’

  ‘Do tell.’

  ‘That girl you were making googly eyes at …’