Detective Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  “You sound like a cement mixer. What are you eating?”

  “Muesli. It’s good for you.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Prefer a bacon sandwich myself with plenty of ketchup, but I didn’t ring to discuss breakfast options.”

  “Oh?” Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  “Thought you might like to know another child went missing last night. Another girl, seven years old, so similar in age to the others. She was playing with her friend in their back garden and then suddenly she wasn’t anymore. Mother reported her missing at about eight p.m. after she’d searched and called her friends.”

  “Eight p.m.? Why so late? It would have been dark long before then.”

  “Let’s just say the mother was out of it. Poor kid probably wasn’t even noticed as missing until she’d been gone a couple of hours. Fat lot of help the mother is going to be, I’m afraid. You nearly ready to leave? I’ll fill you in properly.” Duncan was draining his bowl as she spoke.

  “Just leaving now. Want a coffee on my way in?”

  “Always.”

  They hung up. It wasn’t just on American cop shows they did that. Rochelle did it all the time and Duncan had found himself copying, though not intentionally. It really pissed some people off, including Sam. He shook his head to dislodge the thought of his sleeping wife and all that meant. He grabbed his jacket and left through the side door, closing and locking it behind him. If she was going to lie in bed a few more hours, at least the girls would be safe from potential intruders.

  The outside was drizzly and cold, the slate-grey sky hanging heavily with no chance of the smallest chink of blue to ease the oppression of the coming day. Duncan turned the car’s heater on full; tepid air blasted at the windscreen and he willed the engine to warm it quickly. When a small, round space had been cleared on the glass, he pulled out into the road and headed off for coffee and then the station.

  Watching from the bedroom window, Sam stood gazing down as his car drove off into the wet, grey distance. Her face was blank. There were no tears; there was no emotion. Nothing registered on her face. Apart from dislike.

  Chapter Six

  The coffee shop was her local and looked like any other chain of coffee shop. Red or green logo – you choose; it was about all that was different. The same food, the same coffees, the same featureless service and the same unsmiling people, customers and staff. There really must be a nicer place to meet.

  Sam nursed her latte and filled Anika in on the previous night’s events. Anika listened with some interest, making relevant noises at pertinent times to let Sam know she was still paying attention. Anika had heard her friend’s grumblings about Duncan on many occasions but stuck it out anyway. What else was a friend supposed to do?

  Sam whined on. “And when he said he was off if I didn’t change, it put the fear of God into me. He’s been no support whatsoever while I’ve been trying to get another job and it’s really upsetting me. Why can’t he come home one night, just once, and hand me a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates or something nice? Maybe wrap his arm around me? Why not, eh?”

  When Sam looked up from her drink, she had tears in her eyes. Anika put her arm around her shoulder in comfort. Sam let the tears spill over and trickle down her face. Her nose started to run and she blew it loudly into her serviette. Snuffling, she scrunched it up and tossed it onto the table for the staff to clear away. Anika bit back a grimace of distaste.

  “It’s not nice when you have a row, I know, but you’ve got to clear the air Sam,” she said. “Tell him how you feel. He might not know that you feel unsupported and stressed. If he did, he might cut you some slack, help you around the place, do his bit, like. It’s worth a go, isn’t it?”

  Sam nodded. “I’ll have a chat when he gets home. But he’s always late back in the evenings now, and knackered, so it might not be a good time.” The whine was back in her voice again

  “There’s never a good time,” Anika said, willing herself to be patient, “but you have to try. No one ever wants to talk about their issues, but you can’t fix things if you both don’t accept they need fixing.”

  “I’ve tried to get another job, I really have, but there’s not a lot out there. Not one that doesn’t pay peanuts, anyway, and I’m not going flipping burgers somewhere. I’m better than that. I had a decent job twelve months ago. It wasn’t my fault they downsized. I liked it there.”

  Anika felt the sting of the burger comment but kept her face carefully neutral. Sometimes Sam could be so thoughtless, but Anika was stronger than people gave her credit for.

  “I know, Sam, but getting another job, whatever it is, will at least get you out the house again, give you a purpose. More than the girls, I mean. It will be good for your spirit.”

  Sam rolled her eyes at the word spirit. Anika was a believer and Sam wasn’t, but that didn’t stop Anika mentioning it.

  “There’s loads of jobs you’re qualified to do, Sam. I think you need to get a bit more active on it, though, be proactive even. Send your CV on spec, see what comes back.” Sam nodded half-heartedly and Anika took a deep breath. Sam’s lack of interest was beginning was to rub on her and she could feel her exasperation simmering.

  Gathering her things, she fixed a smile on her face. “Look, I’ve got to get off now, as much as I’d like to sit drinking coffee all day. Give me a buzz tomorrow and let me know if you talk to him and get things sorted. But do try, won’t you? And take another look at your CV, see if you can beef it up a bit. Make a list of where you’d like to work and I’ll help you if you like.”

  Sam had her head down, finding a stray piece of cotton on her thigh of immense interest.

  “Sam?” Anika prodded. “Give it a go, yes?”

  “Yes. I’ll give it a go. And thanks for listening.”

  Sam sat with her coffee dregs, watching as her best friend left the café, headed outside into the light rain that had yet to let up. The remaining cold froth in the bottom of her cup looked uninviting, and she’d had enough coffee for one day. She gathered her phone and her bag and trudged out of the café through the same exit, leaving the soiled serviette in the middle of the table.

  The cashier glared at her back, knowing full well what was inside it. The gall of her, she thought, and headed off to the storage room for a pair of rubber gloves.

  Once outside, Sam walked towards the newsagents to buy a newspaper. Maybe Anika had been right; maybe getting herself a job, even a basic one, would make her feel better, a bit more upbeat, until she found something more suitable. She didn’t have to stay there forever, did she? Just until she found something better, at any rate. And she’d spruce up her CV, spend the afternoon on the job sites. The more she thought about it, the more energy she gathered for the task ahead. If she was going to save her marriage, she had to do something.

  She selected the local paper and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.

  ‘By the end of the day’, she told herself, ‘I’ll be ready to roll.’

  After she paid the cashier, she unravelled the top of the packet of biscuits and stuffed half of one into her mouth in one go. The sweet, oaty chocolate biscuit soothed her nerves, and she chewed contentedly as she walked back towards her house.

  The walk took her twelve minutes. The packet of Hobnobs was fully devoured within ten.

  Chapter Seven

  It was no use. They needed more working capital; there was no getting away from it. As Luke thoughtfully scratched his designer stubble chin, he knew they’d exhausted most of their options. The banks weren’t interested in yet another underfunded, bright but wacky startup idea; nor were the few investors they’d approached. It seemed unless you were a tech startup, you weren’t trendy enough to warrant the interest. And even then, it was tough going, but at least you were taken a bit more seriously.

  Their venture was food – mobile food vans with a trendy take on traditional foods: gourmet organic burgers and mouth-watering pulled pork in BBQ sauce. But while it was a sexy i
dea, to the moneylenders it was also a huge risk. Everyone knew the food business failure rates were catastrophic, but Luke and Clinton felt otherwise. They’d had the idea, made their plan and were hell bent on making it work – not becoming another depressing statistic.

  Luke was aware Clinton was talking to him and pulled his mind back to the present.

  “Sorry mate, I missed that last part.”

  “I think you missed most of it, didn’t you? Were you listening at all?” Clinton said indignantly. Luke had the good judgment to apologize.

  “Sorry, Clinton. My bad. I was just thinking about not being that failure statistic – drifted off for a moment. But I’m back in focus now.” He slapped his thighs noisily. “Tell me again?”

  Luke sighed loudly and pushed his specs back up his sweaty nose.

  “I said, maybe we should revise our presentation. Maybe it’s too dull, too many figures in it or something. Whatever it is, it’s not doing us any favours, is it? Either that, or it’s how we ourselves are presenting the info when we get in front of prospective lenders and investors. Maybe we should look at the whole thing again with fresh eyes, or, better yet, ask someone else to give us their educated opinion. It’s got to be worth a try, has it not?”

  Luke rubbed his stubble again in thought. “I am thinking as I sit here. I heard every word that time,” he said, smiling easily.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. When you’re ready, do tell me your thoughts, won’t you?”

  Luke tapped his chin with two fingers now. “Well, aside from doing something dodgy to raise the money, like becoming hit men or drug dealers, I guess we don’t have much of a choice. I can’t see what we’re doing wrong, but there’s obviously something not hitting the spot, because I feel sure the idea itself is sound. We’re just not explaining it well enough or succinctly enough, maybe, or perhaps the offer itself needs adjusting.”

  “You mean like the percentage on offer for the investment? You want to give more than ten percent away?”

  “I don’t want to, no, but if ten percent is not attractive enough for the money we’re after…” He paused. “Think Shark Tank or Dragon’s Den. They barter on the percentage given away for the sum invested. The contestants rarely get what they go in for. I’m saying we have perhaps been a bit too optimistic.”

  “I’m happy to negotiate, but we have no one to negotiate with yet. We’re not even close to either. It’s like selling your house – you’ve got to have someone interested in it first to talk price with, and we have no one.”

  The small room fell quiet as both men sat deep in thought. After a few minutes, Clinton got restlessly to his feet. Even though it was a cold, wet day outside, the space was stuffy and he needed some air.

  “I can’t think straight in here. It’s too warm. Want a coffee? I need a walk.”

  “No, thanks. Want me to come with you?”

  “No, I need to think. I won’t be long.” He headed out.

  Luke stood and walked across to the window. Raindrops ran down the glass, and he watched people scurrying through the street below, most wielding brightly coloured umbrellas, indicating that there were women under them. Men never carried coloured ones, usually sticking to black, blue or grey. Why was that, Luke wondered?

  He watched as Clinton emerged from the front door and made his way towards the small green park area and the coffee shop just past it. Luke knew his partner well; he needed his air and space. He even had a favourite seat in the park where he’d escape each day with his packed lunch, weather permitting, and watch the world go by. It was where Clinton did his best thinking.

  Turning from the window, all Luke could do was hope Clinton had a brain wave while he was out because, right now, they were out of ideas.

  Chapter Eight

  Clinton sat looking at no one in particular. Traffic chugged by in the light drizzle, hot exhaust fumes from buses rising like steam from a New York city underground vent. Clinton didn’t usually sit on a wet seat, but with little in the way of shelter in the little parkway, it was either that or sit indoors. The appeal of steamed-up café windows and equally steamed-up second-hand air was zilch – he needed to breathe. He’d purchased a newspaper from a vendor on his way there and used it as a seat cover, which at least kept his bum dry. There was no one else sat nearby; no one else was stupid enough to sit out on such a wet day without an umbrella. He’d probably regret it later, but that was later. He watched an older man shuffle past with a white woolly dog in a damp tartan jacket; the old man himself wore a matching deerstalker hat. Was that intentional, Clinton wondered? Matching outfits was something women with expensive handbags and huge diamond rings did, not elderly men in overcoats. Now there was a market, he thought: people spent silly money on their pets these days. As the man shuffled on, the small dog with its nose to the ground behind him, Clinton tried to focus on what he’d come out of the office to think about.

  Clinton was the sensible one of the two partners, the calm one, the one with the thinking brain, the logic. He needed data to back up his decisions, not just gut instinct like Luke did, because without data, without evidence, anything they came up with was only opinion. And the wrong opinion could lead you into a whole lot of trouble. He liked to be the thinker, the balance to Luke’s creative side, but at the same time, he felt the pressure of being the one to come up with the right answer all the time – and of being to blame if things went wrong. That was what being a partnership was all about, though: knowing your strengths and weaknesses. If creativity was needed, he had none; that was Luke. If confidence was needed in an important casual meeting, that was Luke too. But if it was a suit meeting, then Clinton was the man for the job. It made things interesting when their areas of expertise crossed over, and they were careful not to come across as a double act.

  Clinton smiled outwardly at the double act reference; he was too young to remember the chocolate caramel biscuit advert, but his mother referred to it regularly. Something about chewy caramel on the inside, delicious with a cup of tea, and the whole thing was portrayed as a double act. But thoughts of biscuit adverts were not going to solve the problem, so he decided to leave his relatively dry seat and walk a while. He sauntered along, taking shelter where he could from overhanging store fronts, until he came across a shop that had cheap umbrellas on a stand. He selected a black telescopic one, thinking he’d use it again at some stage. It would fit nicely in his bag, but really, there was no chance he’d ever remember it. He gave the cashier a £5 note and carried on up the pavement, knowing he wouldn’t get any wetter though his head was already soaked. Funny how light rain seemed to soak through so quickly.

  Luke, however, was warm and dry back in the small office space they shared with a couple of other small companies. It was the trendy thing to do. There was a perfectly good coffee machine in the kitchenette and Luke preferred that rather than spending cash on a fancy latte while they were desperate for money. He waited for the brew to finish, poured a dash of milk on the top and added sugar. He took a thoughtful sip and savoured the taste before swallowing it down. There was no view to speak of from the tiny kitchen window, nothing of note, nothing to stand and stare at while waiting for inspiration to strike. Just a few wet rooftops, glistening slate grey, some with disused chimney stacks left over from before gas and electric heat, when people took the time to actually light a fire. He’d always enjoyed the smell of a coal fire; it reminded him of his gran’s house, the brass coal scuttle sitting ready to top up the dying ashes when the need arose. There was always a smoke that went billowing up the chimney when damp coal was first thrown on, and as a boy Luke had been mesmerized by the wonderful smell it produced. He missed his gran. He even missed the coal smoke, but he could see why people chose the speedy way to heat their homes.

  He took his mug and wandered around the communal area looking at nothing in particular, trying to find inspiration in the mundaneness somehow. A voice caught his attention: it was Russell, a partner in a small accountant’s that also worked i
n the space. He was also their landlord.

  “Sorry, Russell, I was someplace else.”

  “So I see. Was it warmer and sunnier than here, perhaps?” Russell always had a cheery face, much like a butcher, though more likely from too much whiskey. Noses as bulbous as his rarely came from anything other than drink, and since Russell had the stomach to match, alcohol was the obvious culprit. And lots of it over a long time.

  “I wish, but no. Deep in thought trying to sort a problem.” He added, “The same problem as always.” His voice and enthusiasm were lower than a slug’s stomach.

  “No luck then, I take it?” Russell knew the boys were desperate for funding and had offered his own advice for what it was worth.

  “No luck, no. There will be an answer somewhere; there’s one for every problem. Our job now is to find that answer. I wish it were simple.” He sipped his coffee and rubbed the rim of the mug absentmindedly with his thumb.

  Russell patted Luke on the back as he passed back to his own office, leaving Luke to drift off back to where he had been before Russell had interrupted him. Absolutely nowhere.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time Clinton had returned, Luke was hard at work with his head buried in his computer. Even though they hadn’t yet got a firm plan of how to sort their cash issue, he figured he might as well spend some time researching what others had done before him.

  What had the world used before Google came along?

  There were all kinds of articles on generating funding, as well as forums and blog posts, and he began scrolling in the vain hope that something would stick out for him, something he’d missed during their first research. On a pad next to him, he wrote down a few key points to talk to talk to Clinton about. He also had a list of people to contact through his extended business network, see if he could buy them coffee and pick some brains or garner an introduction or two. If they could just get in front of a few more investors, that would be a start. Clinton himself was looking at the presentation content, though it would be down to Luke to recreate the data into something more visual. Sadly, he had few ideas at the moment.