by S. J. Coles
She fired again. The bullet smashed the window. More glass rained down and the cold, bitter February night swept in. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Cecily’s stilettos hush over the carpet.
“I’m going to put you out of your misery, Rick,” she said. “Come out and let me do it cleanly.”
“You’re fucking mad, woman,” Cooper grated.
“Cecily,” Rick barked, “I rang the police the minute I left your house. They know what’s really going on here. If you kill me, they’ll know why.”
“It’s my word against yours,” Cecily crooned. “Mine, my father’s and Valerie Stanhope’s. Valerie has found you can’t account for your absence from the wedding party at the time poor Harry was stabbed. Isn’t that funny?”
“This won’t work—”
“Did I ever tell you Dad plays golf with the Detective Chief Inspector? Has for years.”
“Being a fucking toff is no match for proof of embezzlement, extortion and murder, Swanson,” Cooper growled, though Rick could hear him fighting to keep the pain out of his voice as he reloaded his gun with shaking hands.
Another harsh laugh. “If you had proof, why are you poking around here at this hour? And don’t think we didn’t know about your little hiding place, Rick,” she went one. “Who locks their file drawer? Too bad everything that was in there has long since found its way to the shredding room.”
“You’re not as smart as you think you are, lady,” Cooper muttered.
“Look, scum. I don’t know who you are—”
“I’m his boyfriend.”
Rick’s stomach flopped over. By the sudden, shocked silence that flooded the room, he could tell that Cecily was having a similar reaction, though for very different reasons. He suddenly wished more than he’d ever wished for anything that he could see Jack Cooper’s face.
“Yeah, fucked up there, didn’t ya?” Cooper continued, gesturing for Rick to move back as he crept to his end of the desk, closer to Cecily. “All that planning and research and it’s all falling apart cos you assumed he was straight. Discrimination never pays, lady.”
Cecily let out a wordless cry of fury and stepped round the desk. She fired at the same time as Cooper. The world stood still for a frozen, agonising moment then Cecily Swanson crumpled to the bloodstained carpet.
Chapter Ten
One year later
“Great session, Rick.” The producer was a stout, balding man with a crooked smile and kind eyes. “Same time again tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here,” Rick said, shouldering his Strat and making for the door.
“Don’t worry about being too early,” the older man’s grin widened. “No need to put a damper on any Valentine’s plans on my account.”
“Afraid my plans don’t extend beyond a beer and the Tottenham match highlights.”
The older man frowned. “No way. Good looking lad like you?”
Rick chuckled and pushed open the studio door. “Night, Kev.”
The night was cold when he stepped out onto the pavement but the rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh and clean. He took a deep breath and struck out in the direction of the Tube stop. He pulled out his phone to text Ella to see if she wanted anything picking up for dinner then stopped and frowned at a text message on the lock screen.
Look behind you.
He turned slowly. The pavement was deserted. The only noise was from the busy junction at the end of the road. A fraught second passed then a lithe figure detached itself form the shadows of the studio’s side entrance and stepped into the light. He wore the same pair of ripped jeans and his denim coat buttoned to the top. A black scarf was wound round his neck. He held something in his left hand but the glinting sea-ice eyes were all Rick could focus on.
“Cooper?”
His smile was mischievous, like Kim’s, though hesitancy stopped the mischief from reaching his eyes. He held out a flower. A white rose.
“Still can’t call me Jack?”
Rick looked at the rose then at the man’s face, keeping his own blank.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Rick held himself still. “What do you want?”
Cooper held the rose out another moment then lowered it, smile falling away. “Can we talk?”
“Why?”
“Please, Rick. Just ten minutes. Somewhere warm, if poss. I’m freezing my bollocks off out here.”
Rick glared for a long moment then turned and headed for the door of the Dog and Parrot just opening across the street. He picked a table at the back of the dingy snug. Cooper brought him a shot of Jack Daniel’s and himself a G&T with a twist of orange. The fresh, citrusy smell sent sparks up Rick’s spine but he didn’t move or look as the PI took the seat across from him.
“Go on then,” Rick said, spinning the glass round on the table. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
Rick gritted his teeth. “I told you last time. I’m grateful for everything you did—for helping the police, for getting me cleared—but it doesn’t undo everything else.”
“Nothing can undo that,” Cooper replied. “Things what are done can’t be undone, Rick. But you can do new things. Start off in new directions. Take new chances.”
He shook his head. “Too much has happened.”
“We can put that all behind us,” Cooper said. “We can start from here.”
“You killed Cecily Swanson—”
“She was going to kill you, you dozy twat,” he retorted. “You can’t seriously be holding that against me.”
“I’ve never seen anyone killed before. Since I met you, I’ve seen three violent deaths.”
“I never said life with me was boring.”
“You made me believe I was worth something,” he said, his voice trembling. “For the first time. Ever. You, no one else, finally made me believe I could be something. Be fulfilled. Be happy. That I deserved that. And it was all a lie.”
“No, that was true, Rick. You did deserve it. Still do.”
Rick snorted.
“You lied to me too,” Cooper said, the plaintive note returning to his voice. “We were both playing a part, Rick. And, yeah, I agree it didn’t work out well. But look, a year on, here we are. Together again.”
Rick stared at him. He wanted to reach out so badly it hurt—so badly that it was safer not to move at all.
“That time in the Radisson,” he said, so low Cooper had to lean in to hear him, “I heard you say something as I was falling asleep. I heard you say you were sorry. I think part of me knew, then. Knew something was wrong. But I didn’t let myself believe it. And that’s how it all went to shit. I’m listening to that part of me now and it’s telling me to run a fucking mile before I let you anywhere near me again.”
Cooper’s face was tight with pain. “Go on then. Leave. Walk away, Rick. I won’t come after you again.”
Rick watched Cooper for a long time. He watched Rick right back. Neither of them moved.
“I’m sorry about your mum,” Cooper said when the silence had stretched on for several moments.
Rick clenched his jaw, the dull pain behind his ribs sharpening for the space of three breaths. “Thank you,” he managed.
“How’s Ella?”
“She’s fine.”
“Heard she made sous chef at Casa Domingo.”
Rick took a sip of his drink and didn’t answer.
Cooper let out a big sigh then nodded to the carry case. “How’s the session work going?”
“Spying on me again?”
Cooper raised his eyebrows. “You just carried a guitar out of a recording studio. Don’t need to be a PI to figure that one out, mate.”
“And how’d you know where to find me?”
Cooper had the grace to look bashful. “Okay, so maybe I spied a little bit. But I had to tell you that, even though it was so messed up, I didn’t think it stood a chance…I’ve never been able to stop thinking about you.”
“It was all based o
n lies.”
“Not those last few times,” Cooper said, leaning in. Rick could smell citrus and the crisp, fresh scent of the rose sticking out of his pocket, and his blood started to race. “When you came to my flat after the arrests… The night at the Travelodge after your court appearance… There were no lies between us then. And even before, even when I was Kim…” He took a breath and seemed to fight for words for a moment. “It wasn’t all an act.”
Rick stared at the wall. Everything he thought he’d buried along with the memories of Jack Cooper came bubbling up. His taste and smell, his unbridled laugh, his honest and sometimes-cutting sense of humour, his twisted smile that made Rick’s insides dance… Also the aspects of Kim Bailey that he had since discovered had been parts of Cooper all along—his courage, his strength of character, his confidence. And, above all, the unwavering interest in Rick that had never faltered, even though he’d known all the worst things about him all along…
These thoughts, so carefully kept under control for almost a year, all rose at once and threatened to weaken his defences. He had to bite his lip to stay in control.
Cooper watched him for a long time then leant forward, slipped his long fingers behind Rick’s head and pulled him close. His kiss was hesitant, but when Rick let out a shaking sigh and opened his mouth, Cooper dove his tongue in and spent several long, slow minutes lighting all Rick’s nerves on fire.
When he finally broke away, they were both panting hard and drawing a curious gaze from the middle-aged landlady.
“I’m just asking for a chance, Rick,” Cooper said, his voice a little shaky, “a chance to see if you could fall for the real me.”
“I already did,” Rick forced out, “a year ago. That’s the whole problem. Even after everything you did… Even after you treated me like shit, I still—”
“I’m sorry,” Cooper cut him off, the pain bright in his eyes. “I told myself at the time it was for the best, for the case.”
“You’re the one who said there’s more to someone than their CV.”
“Getting my job done isn’t about adding to my CV.”
“No, just your ego.”
Irritation rippled over Rick’s skin when Cooper just smiled. “That’s just a bonus.”
“You said yourself this was fucked from the start,” Rick bit out. “You must know after all this we can’t—”
“But you’ve got a real life now,” Cooper said. “The compensation paid everything off, right? And gave you enough to get yourself straight?”
“What’s your point?”
Cooper brushed his lips over Rick’s again. “Neither of us have to pretend any more…about anything.”
“I wasn’t pretending to be hurt,” Rick murmured. “You hurt me, Jack. I don’t know if I can ever forget that.”
“I don’t want you to forget it,” he replied. “I did a bad thing. I’ve done plenty in my time and will probably do plenty more. The real me ain’t much of a cop, Rick. I’m sarky and defensive and I’m far too good at lying. A right handful all round, me mam always said. But I’m good at understanding, always keep things interesting and am absolute dynamite in the sack.” The flippancy was negated by the nervous slant to his smile. “And I swear, on my life, that I will never hurt you again.” He held out the white rose again. Rick took it, careful to avoid the thorns and breathed deep the fresh, clean scent.
“If you’d brought me a red one, I’d’ve left and never looked back.”
Cooper’s lopsided smiled turned up half of his mouth. “I figured. So…does the white one mean that I played this right?”
Rick searched the Jack Cooper’s face for a long moment, his words, his sincerity and the possibilities in his eyes washing away the last remnants of the cage of hurt that had held tight to Rick’s heart for over a year.
“No more playing,” he said. “No more games.”
Cooper grinned. “Deal,” he said and kissed Rick again, pulling him close and crushing the white rose between them.
Want to see more from this author? Here’s a taster for you to enjoy!
Straight to the Heart
S. J. Coles
Excerpt
James Solomon knew it was unprofessional—unethical, even—to be grateful for the murder of a high-profile businessman two days before what would have been his parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary. But his robust professional pride couldn’t put a dent in the very real relief he felt when the call had come through.
He climbed out of the rented car outside Benson Industries HQ and breathed in the brisk sea breeze. The early morning was still gloomy, casting everything in shadow. Gibson slammed the passenger door with a sigh as a woman in a sheriff’s uniform hurried over to meet them.
“Agents, thanks for coming so quickly.”
“No problem, Sheriff,” Gibson replied, her face schooled professionally blank. “The sooner we start, the better. Sheriff Coyle, right?”
“That’s right,” the middle-aged woman said, her smile doing nothing to warm the pale set of her face.
“Agent Lisa Gibson,” Gibson responded, shaking the other woman’s hand then indicating James. “Agent James Solomon. We’ve had the incident reports, but can you fill us in using your own words?”
“Sure. Follow me,” Sheriff Coyle said, her voice a bit steadier. She preceded them to the wide, glass entrance and swiped a card through a reader. They paced past the empty reception desk and down a marble-tiled corridor. The place was deserted, the black eyes of cameras the only things watching them. “The vic is Derek Benson, fifty-five years old,” the sheriff continued. “Born here in Winton, then got a job with the FDA in Maryland after college. Struck out on his own at age thirty. Now he’s the owner, CEO, director—you name it—of Benson Industries.”
“Specialist pharmaceuticals, right?” Gibson asked, scanning reports on her phone.
“That’s right. Pulling in some pretty serious business these days. Some big names on the client list. That’s why we called you guys in.”
“So what happened?”
“Benson was found by the janitor in his office this morning, shot three times in the chest.”
“Time of death?” Gibson asked.
“Our ME is putting it around nine p.m. last night, though he says he can be more accurate after the postmortem.”
“And you said the security camera footage is missing?” Gibson asked, eyeing another camera as they strode past.
“Yeah,” said the sheriff with a weary exasperation James could more than identify with. “The security system backs up everything onto disk. The disks from eight p.m. last night to three this morning have been taken.”
“No online backup?” James ventured, not hopefully, as they stepped onto an elevator.
Coyle shook her head. “I don’t think Benson trusted the cloud and all that. They’re dusting the Security Room for prints where the disks were kept now.”
“Did Benson often work that late?” Gibson asked as the elevator hummed up to the seventh floor.
“He put a lot of hours in, sure, but there was some kind of business presentation last night. All the heads of department and senior staff were here from seven-thirty onward. Plus, some of the lab rats were working late on a deadline.”
“Lab rats?” James queried, as Coyle led them out onto a level that was all glass walls and spacious offices with big desks and bold, minimalist furniture.
“The technicians,” she said, glancing this way and that, as if wary of what might be hiding in the maze of glass. “We have a list of everyone who was in the building at the time from the swipe system, though so far no one saw anyone leave the conference room or the labs.”
“How many people are we talking?” Gibson, warily.
Coyle pulled a battered notepad from a back pocket and flipped through it. “Thirty-one.”
“That’s a lot of people with opportunity,” Gibson muttered.
“One of them was his wife,” Coyle added. “Melissa Benson.”
/> “His wife was at the business meeting?”
Coyle nodded. “She’s a senior partner in the firm. She delivered one of the presentations.”
“At what time?”
“Pretty much the same time they reckon he was shot,” Coyle said and grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want it to be too easy. She looks younger than him,” Gibson said, examining a photo of Melissa Benson on the arm of her husband at some event on a news website.
“She’s his second wife. He and his first divorced about ten years ago.”
“Amicably?”
“I’m afraid so,” Coyle said with another sympathetic expression.
“What did you think of the victim?” James asked, watching the sheriff’s face.
“Me?” Her forehead creased. “I didn’t know him.”
“But you knew of him,” James pressed. “Big company. Small town. You had to have some impression of what he was like.”
Coyle slid him a sideways glance. “He did stuff for some local charities. Donated to a few nature conservation causes and the homeless actions—that kind of thing.”
“But?” James prompted, seeing her face had tightened.
Coyle looked uncomfortable. “He hired most of his staff from out-of-town. They don’t live here. They don’t contribute to the economy and they can get the locals’ backs up. Snobbish, some say. Elitist.”
“What would you say?”
“I’ve never had much contact,” Coyle hedged. “They’re law-abiding and keep to themselves.”
“What do you make of the wife, Melissa?”
“Reserved.”
“She’s not upset?”
“Oh, she’s upset,” Coyle said. “But she’s not the sort to go to pieces in front of the likes of me.”
“The report said the murder weapon was his own gun,” James said, carefully logging the sheriff’s last reply away for further consideration.
“Sure looks that way. He kept it in his desk.” Coyle stopped at one of the glass doors, where a uniformed officer, looking a little green, stood at attention. The body of Derek Benson was slumped in a large, designer office chair under the window. Blood splattered up the glass behind him, looking like red rain suspended in the gray sky. The crime-scene photographer was taking close-ups of the bullet wounds while his partner, who looked old enough to have been the scene technician at the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, was bent over the desk, sweeping for prints as delicately as if he were applying makeup.
