by Robin Storey
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Career conman Reuben Littlejohn is determined to go straight this time after his release from prison. But he hadn’t counted on stumbling across a plot to kill his parole officer Lucy, with whom he is madly in lust. The only way he can save her life is to commit a crime himself and jeopardize his own freedom – without his wife finding out.
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AN AFFAIR WITH DANGER
ROBIN STOREY
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person alive or dead is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Robin Storey
http://storey-lines.com
The right of Robin Storey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Act (Australia) 1968.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the copyright owner, except in the case of quotations used for reviews or articles about the book.
Cover design by Judy Bullard.
http://jaebeecreations.com/samples.html
Ebook formatting by Maureen Cutajar
www.gopublished.com
For Aaron
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 1
WHEN I think about the first time I laid eyes on Frankie, my mind imbues it with a significance it didn’t have – a recognition of kindred souls or a premonition of a shared future. The reality was that our eyes met for a couple of seconds in a courtroom. I was intrigued by her from that moment; although I can confidently say that I made no impression on her at all. I hesitate to use the word obsession but what the hell, I already have.
And if it wasn’t for my craving for a sausage roll, I wouldn’t have been in that courtroom at all.
#
June 2005
I CRANKED the car heater up and turned on the windscreen wipers against the steady drizzle. The suburban roads shone damp in the streetlights. At 10.15 on a Tuesday night, there wasn’t a lot of traffic. I hated working late in winter and couldn’t wait to get home to my warm, cosy apartment and collapse in front of the TV with a beer. I’d stayed back in the office to get my head around the financial reports of my newest client, a national chain of fitness centres, who’d been served with a bankruptcy notice by a creditor.
As I approached the lights of my local 7-Eleven store, I realised how hungry I was. I’d only had a sandwich at my desk for dinner. The empty parking space right in front vindicated my decision to stop. Mike was sitting behind the counter reading a newspaper.
‘Hi Mike! Busy night?
Mike grinned. ‘Flat out as usual. How about you?’
‘Same as always. Any sausage rolls left?’ I walked over to the hot food stand on the side counter. There was one sausage roll in the pie warmer. ‘Must be my lucky night.’
I tore a paper bag from the hanger, took out the sausage roll and popped it into the bag. I heard the entrance buzzer beep behind me.
‘Get your hands in the air!’
I whirled around. A man with a stocking over his face stood in front of the counter pointing a gun at Mike. Mike was standing, his hands raised, his face frozen into a sickly shade of pale. The man motioned to me with the gun. ‘Go and stand next to him.’
I forced my legs to move. Although fear had numbed my body, my mind was in overdrive, taking in as much as it could. The man was tall and solid, and dressed in jeans, pullover and joggers. He wore a beanie and although the stocking over his face blurred his features, I could make out a broad nose and square chin.
‘Is there anyone else in here?’
Mike shook his head. The man leaned forward and jabbed him in the chest with the gun. ‘Don’t fuck with me, mate.’
‘I’m telling the truth, there’s no-one else.’
The man waved his gun in the direction of the cash register. ‘Empty it! And move it!’
Mike opened the register drawer. His hands shook as he pulled out the notes. The man peered out the front door, rocking back and forth on his feet.
‘Hurry up!’ he yelled. Mike handed him a pile of notes and the man stuffed them into his jeans pocket. He jabbed his gun into Mike’s chest again. ‘Is that all?’
Mike nodded. The man backed out the front door, the pistol still trained on us, then ran into the night. It was all over in less than a minute.
Chapter 2
‘YOU’RE a lawyer, Mr McPherson?’ Senior Detective Hunter asked.
He was an imposing man with a deliberate manner; his presence filling the small interview room at the police station.
‘I’m a corporate lawyer at Chapman and Goode. I specialise in insolvency.’
‘You were never tempted to do criminal law?’ barked Detective Ross, a petite, dark-haired woman with an abrupt manner. Or maybe she was just having a bad day.
I shook my head. ‘There’s no money in criminal law, especially when you’re representing the dregs of society like armed robbers.’
I neglected to mention that my father’s illustrious career as a criminal law barrister before he retired to academia had also put me off, although he’d managed to make a very good living by only representing white-collar criminals.
SD Hunter pressed a button on the digital recorder on the table. ‘Interview with witness William James McPherson by Senior Detective Neil Hunter and Detective Fiona Ross. Wednesday 15 June 2005 at 10 am. Mr McPherson, can you go through the events of last night again, from the moment you entered the store?’
I stared at the dewy young Queen Elizabeth 11 smiling regally at me from the painting on the wall as I recounted the events of the previous night. My heart was thumping as if it were happening all over again.
‘Apart from his physical description, what else can you remember?’ SD Hunter asked. ‘What was his voice like?’
‘Low and sort of gruff.’
‘Did he have an accent?’
‘He only said a few words, but he sounded Australian.’
‘What about body odour?’ Detective Ross asked with distaste, as if she could smell it.
‘I wasn’t close enough to notice, thank God.’
‘Any distinguishing marks or tattoos?’ she pursued.
‘The only part of his body I could see were his hands and I didn’t notice any marks or tattoos on them.’
SD Hunter took over again. ‘What were his hands like?
‘Just ordinary hands,’ I snapped. �
�He didn’t have any fingers missing, if that’s what you mean.’
He looked at me coolly.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
After the police had arrived and taken our initial statements, I helped Mike to lock up, made sure he was okay to drive home, then drove home myself and fell into bed. I lay awake for hours, the events of the night churning over in my mind. The birds were chirping outside my window when I finally drifted off.
‘What I meant, Mr McPherson, was were his hands large or small? Did he have broad fingers? Were they hairy? That sort of thing.’
I shook my head. ‘Honestly, I can’t remember. I was concentrating on the gun more than his hands. He seemed agitated and I was terrified the thing would go off.’
‘Did he seem under the influence of alcohol or drugs?’ Detective Ross asked.
‘I don’t think alcohol. His reflexes were too fast. Maybe drugs.’
‘And you didn’t see his vehicle?’
‘No, I just heard a car revving up and speeding away. I was going to run outside as soon as he left to get the number plate, but Mike stopped me. He said the guy probably had an accomplice and if they saw me they could take a pot shot at me. Poor guy. It’s not the first time he’s been held up.’
‘Thanks, that will be all,’ SD Hunter said. ‘If you’ll wait outside, we’ll get a statement typed up for you to sign.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ I said.
SD Hunter paused. ‘Yes?’
‘I got the impression of strength. Not in a good way – the brutal, beat-you-till-you’re-senseless kind.’ I shrugged. ‘I might just have imagined it because he was pointing a gun at me.’
‘Thanks.’ Detective Ross said. She scribbled in her notebook then looked up at me. ‘How are you coping?’
‘I’m fine.’
She handed me a business card. Victims of Crime Counselling Service. ‘If you need support, contact this agency. You’ve been through a traumatic experience and sometimes the after-effects don’t show up till later.’
I pocketed the card. I doubted I’d need their services. I didn’t want to dwell on the experience; I wanted to put it behind me.
#
The Three Monkeys attracted a local clientele of up-and-coming professionals on a budget who appreciated cheap, hearty meals, a cosy atmosphere and music that was not only good as background noise, but that you could dance to if you were in the mood. But tonight, the crowd was more interested in watching the rugby league on the wall-sized TV or checking their iPhones than listening to me. You got those nights occasionally and after a couple of years of doing this gig every second Friday night, I didn’t take it personally. It was especially hard going tonight as I hadn’t slept much in the three nights since the hold-up.
I finished my set to a smattering of applause, propped my guitar on its stand and fronted up to the bar in my usual corner spot.
‘Tough crowd,’ Joe the bartender said, mopping up the spills in front of me.
‘Yeah.’
He placed my usual order, a glass of mineral water, in front of me. I made it a rule never to drink during my gigs.
‘Don’t worry; you’ve got one fan. I’ll put in an order now for your album. When are you recording it?’
‘I’m still getting my song list together. It’s a theme album called Life’s a Stage, and it’s about the stages of life – childhood, adolescence, adulthood, parenthood, old age and so on. I’ve written all the songs bar one. Every time I try, I come to a dead end.’
A large, ruddy-faced man muscled into the bar beside me. ‘Two rum and cokes with ice, please.’
Joe scooped two glasses into the ice bucket. ‘Let me guess which one. Parenthood?’
‘No, even though I don’t have kids, that song was easy. It’s the one about love.’
‘Ah, love,’ Joe said with mock solemnity as he squirted Coke into the glasses. ‘I’m no help to you. I’ve been married for ten years.’
‘I can tell you about love, mate,’ the man beside me boomed. ‘You fall in love, get married, she runs off with your neighbour after 20 years, you spend the rest of your life paying out the property settlement. Write a song about that!’
‘Thanks for the inspiration,’ I said to his departing back.
Joe leaned forward and under the cover of the Rolling Stones blaring out ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’ from the jukebox said, ‘Maybe you need a good night in the sack to stimulate your ... um … creativity.’
I grinned. I definitely needed a good night in the sack, but wasn’t so sure it would stimulate anything above my waist.
In my next set I played some covers from the 80s and 90s rather than my own stuff, but the crowd was still lukewarm. Once the football was over, it started to thin out. At 10.30, I packed up my gear and was about to load it into the car when Sarah, the assistant manager, appeared beside me.
‘Would you like a drink before you go?’
I hesitated. She’d asked me the same question a couple of weeks ago and I’d given some excuse. I liked her, but I sensed she wanted more than friendship; and I wasn’t sure if I wanted that with her. Statuesque blondes were not usually my thing. And I was still hurting from being dumped two months ago by Angelique, an exotic, dark-eyed brunette who’d reeled me in with curves, flounces and smoulders, and then run off with her Salsa dance teacher.
‘Are you okay?’ Sarah asked. ‘You look a bit spaced out.’
‘Yeah. I had a bit of a scary experience earlier in the week.’
I told her briefly about the hold-up. She looked aghast. ‘My God, that’s terrible! You should have told me before – I could have found a replacement for tonight.’
‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired, so I’ll pass on the drinks.’
‘That’s okay, I understand.’
She was disappointed, but trying not to show it. On impulse I said, ‘But I’ll take you up on it next time.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll hold you to that. Have the police caught the guy who did it?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. But they will. Armed robbers are not usually known for their brains.’
Chapter 3
One year later. July 2006
AN ICY wind whipped around me as I stood sipping my coffee outside the front entrance of the Downing Centre District Court. Barristers hurried past me, gowns flapping and bewigged heads bent against the wind. Solicitors with briefcases and harried-looking clerks trotted after them.
A TV camera crew was setting up nearby. I wondered who the celebrity criminal was. I doubted it was Edward Gisbourne, arrested for the hold-up two weeks afterwards and held in custody since then. Armed robbers were a dime a dozen.
I downed the rest of my coffee in one gulp, trying to drown the niggle of apprehension in my gut. I had appeared in court on numerous occasions before, but in the Federal Court on behalf of clients. Never in the District Court or in the witness box.
Court was due to start in 15 minutes. I threw my coffee cup in a nearby bin and was just about to go in when I heard, ‘Will!’
Mike was ambling towards me. We’d only been acquaintances before the robbery; but we’d kept in touch in the 12 months since, having the occasional drink together. Bonded by our one common experience. He looked as if he’d slept in his shirt and his suit had obviously fitted him better when he was ten kilos lighter.
‘Bastard of a day,’ he said.
He reeked of stale alcohol. This was the third time he’d been the victim of a hold-up, and he’d finally accepted that working in convenience stores was not conducive to his well-being. He’d left his job and was on the dole.
‘It’ll be warm in the courtroom,’ I said. ‘Are you ready to dazzle them with your brilliant powers of observation?’
Mike grinned. ‘I’ve been watching reruns of “Law and Order” and I know all the tricks of the trade now for outwitting the defence. Failing that, I can always break down and cry.’
‘Good idea; I’ll keep
that in mind. Two grown men blubbering in the witness box should be enough to sway the jury.’
‘We’re not supposed to discussing the case,’ I said in a low voice as we entered the courthouse. ‘So it’s best that we’re not seen together, so we can’t be accused of it.’
‘My lips are sealed.’ Mike said. We went through Security and took the lift to the fourth floor. We took our seats round the corner from courtroom two, sitting at opposite ends of the row. Our instructions were to wait there until we were called in. Despite the constant stream of people coming and going, the atmosphere was subdued, as befitted the higher status of the District Court.
The prosecutor Alex Coleby poked his head out of courtroom two, saw us sitting there and hurried over. We’d met him a couple of weeks ago at a witness briefing, to run through our evidence and give us an idea what to expect in court. He was thin and bespectacled with an intense manner, and I could well imagine him being the nerdy kid in his class at school.
He beckoned Mike over. ‘I’ve just been advised by the defence that Gisbourne has changed his plea to guilty.’
‘You’re joking!’ Mike said. ‘The bastard decided to see sense for a change.’
‘There’s no altruistic motive, I can assure you,’ Alex said. ‘The evidence is against him and he’s probably realised it and wants a discount on his sentence. Anyway, the upshot is that we don’t need you, so you can go home.’
‘Awesome!’ Mike said. ‘I’m off. Are you coming?’ he asked me.
I had a pretty good idea where he was going. I had no desire to go to the pub at 9.45 in the morning.
I shook my head. ‘I’m going to hang around. I want to watch him get what’s coming to him.’ I’d cleared my work calendar for the week in preparation for giving evidence, so I had no commitments.
Mike shrugged. ‘If I never lay eyes on his ugly mug again, it will be too soon. See ya.’
I watched him as he shuffled off, feeling a pang of pity. And helplessness. Part of the reason I’d kept in touch was out of concern for his well-being. He’d refused all offers of counselling, claiming he just needed time. But meanwhile, he was drowning in alcohol. I’d had a few disturbed nights, and I hadn’t gone into that 7-Eleven store since the robbery; but overall, I was coping fine.
