Detective Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  There was one other item on the pad, a word he’d written cryptically a few days earlier. Hit. He knew what it meant, but nobody else did. It was the last item on his list of things to research. He opened a new browser tab. He’d do the research, he told himself, then make a decision on whether it was something he could actually do.

  “It’s a fall-back option, nothing more,” he muttered out loud.

  “First sign of madness,” said a sing-song voice. It was Russell, who happened to be passing on his way out.

  “What is?”

  “Talking to yourself, though I hear answering yourself is far worse.” Russell smiled good-naturedly and gave a quick wink as the door swung shut behind him. How did he always manage to be so upbeat? Luke wondered. Maybe he needed to stew in as much whiskey as Russell did each evening.

  And some afternoons.

  He dropped his head back into the article he’d been reading before being distracted by the word hit on his pad.

  Chapter Ten

  Two hours later and Luke was still hard at it when Clinton approached his desk, rubbing his eyes, specs in his hand. He stretched his jaw and brows out and replaced his specs.

  “Shit, those figures are heavy going but I think I’m about there. Want to take a look?”

  “I’ll pass on the detail, thanks. Give me the main points.” Luke pushed his chair back, snagging a caster wheel on a rug just behind his desk. Annoyed, he pushed back a little harder than necessary and ended up rolling at speed across the room. It was what he needed to reawaken himself and focus on something else.

  “Steady on, Luke, you’ll do yourself a mischief,” Clinton said, laughing, as Luke rolled back towards his desk and stood. He stretched like a puppy preparing for a walk after a nap, quick and lithe.

  “So, what have you got, then?”

  Clinton pulled out the relevant pages from his folder and recited the figures.

  Luke looked at him blankly. “So, what does that mean exactly?”

  Clinton stared. “You don’t know what that means?”

  “No, not exactly. That’s why I’m asking.” Luke looked thoughtful for a minute and it was obvious he was pondering something.

  “Luke?” Clinton prodded him.

  “Hang on.” Luke was looking at the floor, deep in thought. Thirty seconds or so passed before he spoke. “I wonder if that’s it?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “We need to change the way we present this data. We need to make it more relatable, so it means something more, something they can visualize easily rather than a bunch of numbers.”

  “I’m listening. Go on.”

  “Do you remember when the iPod first came out and Steve Jobs showed it to the world?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, he said having an iPod was like having one thousand songs in your pocket. He didn’t say ‘It’s got a five-gig hard drive.’ He related it to something people understood straight away – one thousand songs in your pocket. People could instantly see that.” Luke was suddenly excited. “Do you get what I’m saying?”

  “I do, yes, I do. Do you think that’s what we need to do then, before we present this to anyone else?”

  “I’m certain of it. It worked for Steve Jobs. Why wouldn’t it work for us? We just follow the same concept, keep it clear and easy.”

  “Well, we’ve got to present this on Friday. Do you think there’s enough time? It makes sense to change it beforehand.”

  “Yes, it does. What we’ve been doing so far hasn’t worked, so let’s not waste another meeting doing it that way. Let’s make this happen for Friday.”

  They stood quietly for a moment longer contemplating their new direction. Could they pull it off?

  “This is what I suggest we do.” Clinton took charge. “I’ll pull out the main points, then together we’ll see how they can be turned into something more recognizable. Then we’ll work on finding the right way to present the data.”

  “I’ll see if I can find that presentation he did and take it a step further.”

  “Right. You start on the look and feel, and I’ll get the data and main points.”

  Clinton looked at Luke and said, “Do you think we have something now?” His tone was almost timid.

  “I hope so,” Luke added.

  In the back of his mind, the cryptic word hit blinked at him.

  Hit.

  Hit.

  Chapter Eleven

  Luke and Clinton nursed bottles of lager, but neither was drinking. An unopened packet of crisps sat between them along with the silence. The only conversation came from other drinkers in the pub on a Friday lunchtime. A slot machine in the corner clanked out coins to a lucky winner, a burly man by the bar laughed heartily at his mate’s joke, and the sound of music playing in the background was a quarter turn too loud.

  The boys couldn’t have cared less anyway. Their revised presentation had also fallen flat. The slug sure had a low belly.

  “On the positive side, the new style of presentation went down well, don’t you think?” Luke was ever the optimistic one.

  “Doesn’t matter too much now, does it? They still said no.” It was a statement rather than a question, and it sounded petulant. The fact of the matter was it had been an important meeting, because they’d exhausted their list of contacts and prospective investors. This last group had been their remaining hope. Now that hope was gone, and in its place was ‘What next?’ They’d both invested all they had personally, which wasn’t much, and cut corners at every opportunity. Their credit cards were maxed out, overdrafts at their limit. The added coincidence of its being Friday seemed to accentuate the fact that they had driven to the end of the road. There was no more money to be begged or borrowed. It was a good job they both still lived at home and had roofs over their heads.

  The barman turned the volume up yet more on the stereo system as Sam Smith crooned Stay with Me, adding to Luke and Clinton’s depressed mood. To the lovers in the opposite corner of the pub sharing fries and sandwiches for lunch, the song was perfect; to the two deflated men, it was far from it. Clinton took a swig from his bottle. The golden liquid held no real interest for him; it might as well have been lemonade.

  “So, what’s next then, do you think? Time to give up?” Clinton looked at Luke. He was the creative one – surely he’d think of something?

  “Hell, no. We’ve come too far and invested too much to let it drift off with the next tide. I’m not doing that.”

  “Then should one of us get a job, to bring some cash in? We’ve got rent due in a couple and Russell has already been great with us. I don’t want to overstep things.”

  “Maybe we should move out from there, operate from a café like other entrepreneurs. All we’d need is an internet connection.”

  “True enough, but what about the rent coming due? How are we going to fund even that?” Clinton reached for the bag of crisps and opened it. There was no point wasting food at a time like this. He pulled out a small handful of cheese and onion fried potato and handed the rest of the bag to Luke.

  “Getting a job – one that pays enough, that is – won’t happen overnight, though. It will take months. Unless you want to scrub floors, which is about all either of us would get in the next forty-eight hours, realistically. Even then, they’d say we were overqualified and probably not take us on,” said Luke morosely.

  “Well, at this rate, we might have to try. At least if we worked in a chippy we’d get fed into the bargain,” said Clinton gloomily.

  Sam Smith finished his song and Adele piped up.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! What’s with the depressing music? It’s like the last dance on a Saturday night in the sad part of town.” Luke slammed his hand on the table and the barman glanced over, although he left the music as it was. Luke shook his head solemnly. Maybe the guy was feeling depressed himself – or if he wasn’t before, he sure would be now. He turned to Clinton and said, “Come on, let’s get out of
here before I set fire to the damn rain myself.”

  That at least raised a smile on Clinton’s face and he quickly drained the rest of his lager in one. Grabbing his jacket, he caught up with Luke, who was already nearly at the front entrance, and they went back out into the cold street. The rain had stopped, at least.

  “Where to, Boss?” It was Luke’s way of being a little submissive when he needed to be. If Clinton was the serious data guy, that made him the boss man, at least for today.

  “Better tell Russell we can’t pay the rent, then I’m off home. Maybe a change of scenery on a cold Friday afternoon will do some good. I’m not doing much else here. I suggest you do the same.”

  “I’m not letting this mean it’s all over. Rover,” Luke said firmly. “It’s another setback, but that’s all. I’m hopeful we can carry on, aren’t you?”

  Clinton stopped walking and turned to meet Luke’s eye. “I’m really not sure, to tell you the absolute truth. I don’t see how, beyond prostitution or drug dealing.”

  “What happened to hit man, and where did prostitution come in?”

  “Whatever, smartarse. You know what I’m saying. They’re all illegal or dangerous.” Clinton started to walk off again and Luke sped up to meet his pace.

  “I hear you. Look, you’re right. Let’s tell Russell, then head home. The break will do us good.”

  So that’s what they did. Russell knew it was coming but didn’t seem to care too much.

  “Glad to have been a desk or two while you needed it,” he’d said. “See you around.”

  Luke and Clinton had gathered up their scant belongings and left the building, each with their laptop in one hand, plastic carrier bag filled with odds and sods in the other. No one claimed the begonia; it stayed in place on the windowsill, where it had sat for the last few months.

  Chapter Twelve

  As soon as Sam got back to the house, her good intentions were left on the pavement. She turned the key in the door and went inside, heading to the back and the kitchen. She tossed the biscuit wrapper in the bin and flicked the kettle on as she passed it. Her coat hit a chair by the table, and then fell to the floor, where it stayed. Full of chocolate biscuits, Sam slumped down to wait for the water to boil. Her newspaper lay unopened; her fingers drummed the tabletop in thought. The clock on the cooker said a little after 12 o’clock, lunchtime, and even though she wasn’t hungry, she craved something, anything to take away the depression of the situation, of her morning. Even for Sam, it was too early for a glass of wine, so she pulled her bag towards her, reaching for the inside pocket. There was little point, really; Sam knew it was empty. She’d taken the last ones yesterday.

  Being married to a detective had its drawbacks. It was hard to keep your secrets safe even in the inner sanctum of your handbag, and she had the girls’ safety to consider too, the responsibility of making sure that they never found her pills. But right now, the pills were what she craved, what she longed for – the promise of what they could take away for a short time, until it was necessary to return to reality and all that came with it.

  The kettle flicked itself off. She stayed put, not really that interested in another hot drink at all; her thoughts were on something much more desirable. Standing, she picked her coat up, grabbed her keys and headed back out, slamming the front door behind her. Her Ford Focus was parked in the drive of their red brick house, gleaming blue in the ever-present rain. It started the first time, but then it always did. The car was only a few months old, bought brand new as a gift from Duncan for her last birthday. She’d been so pleased, so happy back then. She gunned the engine and her tyres squealed as they tried to catch a grip on the wet concrete. Praying she wouldn’t see anyone she knew, she headed down Clumber Road towards the A57 and across to Beswick.

  And what she needed.

  While she steered with her right hand, her left rummaged in her bag, fingers seeking and finding the soft pink leather wallet that had also been a gift from Duncan, though some years back. Flicking it open deftly as she drove, she fingered the stiff new bank notes, hoping they all added up to £50 so she could get the hit she so desired. Anything smaller wouldn’t do, not today. The familiar anxiety crept into her body, making its way across her chest like a heavy-limbed giant spider, grabbing at her shirt, twisting the cloth together and tightening its grip until breathing was hard work, almost impossible. And so was driving. Her windscreen was fogging up with her panting as she fought to control herself and not have a full-on panic attack. Not at the wheel, at least. Not again. She practiced taking deep breaths as she drove, telling herself slowly, “In. Out. In. Out,” her chest rising and falling as air drained away and refilled. Up ahead, she saw the road sign for the turning she needed and she indicated right, though in reality the road sign was superfluous to her requirements: Sam knew exactly where to head and could have probably done so blindfolded. Right again, then left and the house she sought was visible up ahead.

  It wasn’t the nicest part of town, but drug dealers rarely operated from big houses on the affluent side of Manchester. Of course, someone would be servicing the celebs – they wouldn’t be slumming it in Beswick from an old semidetached house with grubby net curtains and weeds two feet high out front.

  The house looked quiet. She hoped someone was in to process her transaction and take the pain away, take her to somewhere more relaxing, somewhere that cushioned her, like covering her in bubble wrap, helping her through the day unharmed. Then the side door opened and a tall, willowy, well-dressed blonde woman came out. She wore a pale pink skirt suit with fine stilettoes on her feet and looked rather out of place. The woman walked towards the street and Sam watched her as she crossed the road and got into a racy little high-end red Mini, not a car you’d associate with these parts either. Maybe she was a customer too, one who hadn’t found a dealer closer to home that serviced the more affluent. Or perhaps she liked the drive out here.

  There was no point sitting in the car, so Sam made her own way to the side door and knocked, then waited a beat or two before knocking again. Through the opaque glass she saw movement, and the silhouette of a woman approaching. The door opened slowly. The woman, a bit older than Sam, said nothing, but beckoned Sam inside into the pokey kitchen area and motioned her to take a seat. She smiled a little and flicked the kettle on to boil, though it was all for show, in case she needed a cover story. Sam couldn’t help noticing the woman’s roots needed bleaching; there was a good four inches of dark regrowth streaked with grey in a wide stripe down the centre of her head. She was otherwise tidy in her dress, though, wearing fitted black pants and a pretty blue blouse with a tiny flower print. Her gold bangles clinked together as she busied herself. Funny the things you noticed even when you were nervous, Sam thought.

  “What sort of tea would you like?” the woman enquired as she brought a shallow wooden tea box out from the pantry. Sam stared at the box like she’d never seen it before. It was made out of a fine balsa wood, stained and decorated with an intricate pattern. It looked like something you might have found in a Moroccan bazaar, and Sam wondered, as she did each time, where the woman had bought it. Maybe she had been to Morocco. Sam worked on finding her voice.

  “I’ll know when I see it. I can never remember what it’s called.”

  The woman opened the lid, revealing several small compartments, and lifted out the top layer that contained individually wrapped tea bags. Underneath, of course, was anything but tea. Sam scanned the compartments for what she wanted. Each little bag contained an assortment of tablets, and Sam instantly spotted the ones she preferred.

  “I like it quite strong, please,” she said as calmly as she could, keeping to the code they used.

  The older woman picked up bag of 80 mg tablets and showed it to Sam.

  “That should be strong enough, do you think?”

  Sam reached greedily for the baggy between the woman’s fingers, but the woman deftly withdrew her hand. Of course, thought Sam, mentally smacking herself. She
wanted to see the cash first. Sam pulled out £50 in notes. The woman shook her head. Eighty milligrams was going to be more money. Sam pulled out the last note she had, another £20, and the woman handed over the pill.

  “Perfect,” Sam said, and slipped the pill straight into her mouth. The woman passed her a glass of water, which she downed nervously.

  “Actually, I’d better get going, but thanks for the offer of tea,” Sam said, and stood ready to leave. Inside she was climbing the walls, desperate to get out of the small kitchen and back into the familiar confines of her car, away from the woman, and away from the house.

  She wanted to be home when the effects fully kicked in.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Duncan pulled into his driveway. The house was in darkness again, save for the familiar chink of light showing through the curtains. A flicker of blue light accompanied it sporadically; the TV was on. He sat in his car; the interior was toasty warm after the drive home with the car heater on full. The kids would be in bed and Sam would be stuck in front of the television, he knew. He hoped she was at least dressed today. As for something warming and tasty to eat after another long day, he doubted it. Perhaps he should have stopped off at the chippy and eaten there, but he hadn’t fancied the grease overload.

  He opened the car door and the cold, damp air clung to his face as he took the few steps towards the side door and inside. He’d told himself on the drive over that he wasn’t going to be angry or disappointed, that he was to be positive and upbeat, pleased to see her, pleased she was okay, pleased the children were fast asleep. After a day working a missing children case, there were more important things to be thinking about than arguing with your wife. Everyone inside this house was safe and sound, and he thanked God for that.