He excelled at school, getting straight A’s in both his GCSE and A Level exams. He graduated from university with a first class degree in Law. His father, of sounder mind back then, had pushed for him to be a lawyer. But Starling had always known what he wanted to be. It was that intelligence and commitment that had led him to ace his police exams and finish with one of the highest test and training scores the Hendon Police Training Facility had ever seen.
Now twenty-six years-old, Starling was considered one of the Met Police’s finest officers, with important people high up in specialised units keeping an eye on his progress.
It made him proud.
And he knew it made his father proud. Especially as that morning he had decided to wear his uniform, his father showing him off to all of the other residents who ventured into the lounge area where they had their tea and catch up. His father even tried to pair him off with one of the care workers, Kimberly, a pretty blonde who had built quite a rapport with his ageing father.
The years after Starling’s mother had passed away in a traffic collision had been hard for his father, he knew that. Having spent thirty-five years with one person, nothing can prepare you for the void it creates when they are gone. After a few years of trying to fight through it, his father fell victim to a stroke. Although he made a wonderful recovery, Starling was more than aware that his father hadn’t completely returned. Now he sat in the retirement home, where he received the best care and tried to set his son up with every woman who came into their vicinity on his visits.
Of course, Starling respectfully declined the notion, instead informing his father of his new girlfriend, a geeky, computer whiz who was also drop-dead gorgeous. He showed his dad pictures and beamed as his dad told him ‘You done well there, son. That would stay with him.
Life was turning out quite well it seemed. And even though it made him sad to leave his dad, he stepped out into the rain, admiring the beautiful flowers that were beginning to reveal their spring bloom. A few rays of sun cut through the trees at the far end of the car park, and Starling smiled to himself.
Great career.
Great girlfriend.
Great flat.
You done well there, son.
Another year on the beat and he would be ready to move on, take his detective exams and begin to delve deeper into cases.
His police boots clomped along the wet tarmac, his uniform getting damp. His short, blond hair began to stick to his head and the rain splashed against his handsome, clean-shaven face. One of the doctors exited their car and shared a respectful nod at a fellow public servant.
Starling thought about the day ahead. The few stops he had to make on his rounds to follow up on a few crimes he’d been working on. Thursday involved a trip to the local court house to testify against a man who had been arrested and charged with breaking and entering. Starling had been first on scene and knew, like always, his testimony would be clear, concise and on the mark. His sergeant had already told him he had the gift of gab. He was able to charm the court room but in a way that made him seem like one of the Met’s elite, and not, as his superior so eloquently put it; ‘a slimy wanker.’
It was a skill that he knew would make him a great detective when the time came, the ability to not only communicate with people but to draw information, gain trust and illustrate important points that were going to be invaluable.
He got to his car and removed his helmet, ducking in from the rain. He tossed it onto the back seat, next to his stab-proof Met vest. He reached up and pulled his seat belt across and let his mind dream of a time when he would be driving at full speed to catch a murderer or any other overly dramatic cliché they spin out in detective shows.
He longed for the excitement, the chance to build on what was already a great career. To see the pride in his father’s eyes when he told him he had caught the bad guys.
“You done well there, son,” he said to himself with a smile, as he turned the key. He reversed out of the car park and headed off for another good day in the city of London.
Starling dreamt of excitement.
He pulled out onto the main road and drove off into the rain.
CHAPTER THREE
John held the door to the office open, welcoming Lucas in and ushering him into the chair opposite the desk. The manager's office at 'Minute Motors' used to be a staff room so size-wise it wasn’t anything grand. However John had made the most of the space, his small oak desk pushed against the far wall and and sticking out almost cutting the room in half. In the corner over Lucas’s left shoulder was a grey filing cabinet, every folder and file organised to the finest detail, which Lucas admired.
Above John’s seat, on the wall behind, was a thick shelving unit with three shelves, all of which were occupied with folders and books.
Lucas looked up at the framed certificates of safety in the workplace, workshop of the year and other accolades that John was so rightly proud of, which hung to one side of the shelves..
John poured himself a cup of ‘posh’ coffee from his cafetière, offering one to Lucas who respectfully declined.
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” John said as he poured a generous spoon of sugar into his steaming cup. “No coffee for you.”
Lucas smiled warmly as John walked to his leather chair behind the desk and dropped into it, almost in relief, crushing the blazer that hung over the back of it. Lucas went to rest his hands on the arms of his own chair but decided not to upon seeing how filthy the sleeves of his overalls were.
“Right then!” John always perked up after a few sips of coffee. He stacked a few sheets of paper in front of him and propped them on top of the closed laptop situated to his left, next to his phone. “How are you Lucas?”
“Me? Same as ever, boss. Can’t complain.” Lucas responded. He realised how nice John’s office smelt and concluded it was the bowl of pot-pourri on his desk. It made a big difference, especially compared to the amalgamation of paint, exhaust and oil fumes that made up the atmosphere of the workshop.
“You never do. I’m beginning to think it’s all this healthy living nonsense.” Lucas let out a sharp laugh, his fitness regime had long been a source of ridicule for John, especially as John was a bit on the heavy side. “Although I will say, if you get any bigger, you can pay for your own bloody overalls.”
Lucas looked down and he had to admit John had a point. The sleeves of his overalls were tightened around the bugle of his biceps, and the rest of them clung tightly to his well-built physique.
“Well if you paid me a decent wage...” Lucas cheekily replied.
“It’s probably not that bad for business. Think of the lonely housewives who will probably total their cars just to watch you rolling around underneath them. I could charge for tickets.”
“Are you flirting with me, John?” Lucas asked, almost provoking a response.
“Oh god no. You’ve seen my wife, right? I prefer a much rounder figure, evidently,” John replied, looking at the framed picture of him and his wife in Portugal that he had on his desk. “Besides, you could probably get a much better guy than me if you wanted.”
“Thanks?” Lucas shrugged.
“I fear we may have gone a little off topic,” John suggested, taking another sip of his quality caffeine boost.
“Yeah, I was going to say something,” Lucas smirked. “How are you?”
“Busy,” John said through a sigh.
“That’s a good thing, though. Right?”
John nodded his head and then finished the last pf the coffee, placing the empty mug to the side. He pulled out a piece of paper from the previously moved stack and laid it in front of him. Lucas watched with admiration, John had always carried himself with an air of authority during the years he’d worked for him. Even on his very first day.
“So, you want a job, huh?”
John was slightly slimmer seven years ago, his hair thicker and fuller, swept to the side with a hard parting. A scrawnier, younger Lucas stood with his hands t
ucked into the pockets of his jeans and nodded his head.
“A lot of kids come walking in here telling me they can fix cars. Turns out they are all cock and no bollocks. Ain’t that right, Den?”
“You’re always talking about cocks,” Den piped up from his work station, his hair a healthier colour but his belly still pushing unflatteringly against his overalls. “Or bollocks.”
“Look, Sir,” Lucas interjected. “I can fix cars. You show me how to do the things in this garage you need doing and I will get them done. I’m not going to lie and tell you I know it all. I don’t. But I know enough. And I know that I can learn.”
John wiped his mucky hands on his overalls, knowing he was coming to the end of his time as one of the UK’s leading panel beaters. He looked Lucas over one more time with a curious eye. Lucas held his gaze, kept his back straight and radiated someone who could back up his claims.
The garage was slightly less PC back then, the work stations all being papered with calendars of naked women straddling car equipment, filthy jokes written on paper and John’s ‘How to have a perfect shit’ chart covering part of it. How time shad changed.
Eventually, John nodded at him.
“Well we have been thinking of taking on an apprentice.” He smiled at Lucas, who returned in kind. “Be here at eight on Monday and we'll give it a shot.”
“Thank you, Sir. You won’t regret it.”
“Make sure I don’t. Oh, and Lucas.” Lucas turned back as he headed for the open shutter.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t call me sir.”
“Yes, you’re right, it’s great. Business is booming.” Something about John’s tone didn’t convince Lucas, who leant forward in his chair, his hands resting between his legs.
“So what’s up?”
John picked up a paperweight from his desk and stared intently at it as he slowly turned it in his fingers.
“Lucas, have you ever given any thought as to why Nick and Den listen and react to everything you say? You know, apart from the fact that you are built like a brick shithouse and could karate them to death within seconds.”
“Well I’m not too sure about that, John” Lucas said, politely chuckling. “And I don’t do karate, I practice Muay Thai.”
“Either way, you can hand somebody a pasting if need be, right?'
'Never competitive, you know that,” Lucas hunched his shoulders a little, the uncomfortable feeling of talking about his fighting evident.
“But I’m right. They both listen to you the second you start talking and they both ask for your opinion on either the work they’re doing or need to do. Ideas. Suggestions. They always come to you.” John put down the paper weight and sat up straight, resting his arms on the table and interlocking his fingers, his gaze firmly on Lucas. “Nick is understandable, that idiot still has a lot to learn. But Den, he was doing his job when you were starting school. Yet he still comes to you on near enough everything. Why?”
Lucas blew air out of his mouth and shrugged, too modest to say what John was about to.
“It’s because you set an example, Lucas. I mean, you’re never late, you’re never hungover. You never come in first thing with a face like a wet Wednesday and bore us all with your personal problems. And even if you did, I would bet this whole business that you wouldn’t let it interfere with your work. You’re dedicated Lucas, you don’t believe in the no-win situation. You see a problem and you stand and you face it. Head on. It’s admirable.”
“Thank you, I suppose…” Lucas looked openly shocked at the compliment and John nodded in appreciation.
“I’m not kissing your arse for no reason Lucas, but it does need to be said. The fact that you complete every job, no matter how much of an arseache it is, has helped solidify this garage's reputation as having the most thorough but also fairest mechanics in this county. I know if something happens, or something fucks up, you will do everything you can to put it right. And for that, I am truly grateful.”
“You sure you’re not flirting with me?” Lucas smiled, trying to break the awkwardness of being praised.
“I’m just being honest, mate. The best decision I ever made for my business was giving you a shot. I mean that.” The sincerity in John’s voice was surprising and Lucas sat up straight.
“You’re welcome, John. I take a lot of pride in my work and how far this business has come. So thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” John flashed a cheeky grin before tapping the piece of paper he had set in front of him. “Not yet anyway.”
“Eh?” Lucas raised an eyebrow, suspicious of what his now excited boss was up to.
“Like I said, I didn’t call you in here so we can hold hands, kiss each other’s arses and sing kum-bay-ya. I mentioned that our reputation has grown, didn’t I?” Lucas nodded, interested. “Well I have been on the phone a lot this week, speaking to a gentleman named Steve Draper.”
He looked at Lucas, gesturing with his hand that Lucas should know the name. Lucas shrugged.
“Well, Steve Draper is the head of Premier Ride, the biggest independent luxury hire car service in the entire North West of England. Beamers, Mercs, Astons, you know the score. Well, I’ve just secured us a deal, based on a trial period, where we get to service all of their cars exclusively.”
“John, that’s incredible!” Lucas smiled at his boss who looked thoroughly pleased with himself, evidence that hard work does pay off.
“It is incredible. It’s great news and not just for me. With this deal and the work that needs to go in around it, I am going to have to take a seat further back from the workshop. I know I don’t put the overalls on any more, my back won’t allow it, but it does mean with the increase in business, I am going to have to hire a Body shop Manager.”
“That makes sense. I mean, we get a lot done but having someone in to keep it all ticking over isn’t the worst idea you’ve had.” Lucas said, nodding in agreement at the idea. The smell of pot-pourri was beginning to get too sweet and he found it odd that he wanted to get back out to the garage.
'Interested?' John held his hands up, as if offering the job physically. Lucas sat back in his chair.
“Me? Really?”
“I just spent the last ten minutes feeding your ego, I didn’t do it for my health!” John smiled and Lucas looked completely overwhelmed. ”It’s a lot more pay for a bit more responsibility.”
Lucas leant forward again, taking a deep breath. He loved his job, perfecting his craft over years of hard work and broken vehicles. This would mean actual progression, responsibility and having to make decisions, not suggestions. He knew it wasn’t important to Helen, but he wanted to be able to bring home more money, treat her to nicer things and pay for expensive holidays.
He looked up at John and smiled.
“Yeah. Go on then.”
John clapped his hands in celebration and pushed himself up off the chair, his belly wobbling gently. He extended his hand as he walked around the desk. Lucas stood, wiping his hand against his trouser leg with the faint hope of removing some of the oil. John obviously didn’t care, as he grasped it and shook it powerfully.
“Brilliant! I’m excited!” He beamed in Lucas’s direction. “Steve is dropping off five cars this Saturday that need a going over. I told him you were the best and he has personally asked for you. I’ll get Den to give you a hand.”
John then reached into his pocket and suddenly a look of panic took over his round, pale face. His hands quickly went to the other pocket, then in a blur to his back pocket. He marched back to his blazer, and let out a ‘thank god’ sigh as he fished a set of keys to the garage from the inside pocket. He tossed them across the desk and Lucas plucked them out of the air with one hand.
“Saturday. Eight o’clock.”
Lucas nodded and grinned, stuffing the keys into his overall pocket.
“No problem. Thank you, John. For everything.”
“Easiest decision I ever made.”
Lucas o
pened the door to be hit by a toxic wave of smells. The radio was playing a mindless dance song but was immediately drowned out by the loud echo of a tool dropping and Den once again turning the air blue. Lucas walked towards a frustrated looking Nick who was staring at his phone and with a spring in his step, went back to work.
Helen sat across from Kurt Chalmer, her legs crossed and her face attentive. Her pad lay on her lap, the pages open and covered in scribbled words. Her patient, lying on the comfy leather sofa, continued to talk.
“I just don't understand why it seems to always be my fault. I try and I try to do the right thing, but it never seems to happen.”
Helen scribbled a note before responding.
“Sometimes people look for something to blame to justify a situation. More often than not, the easiest solution is to turn that blame upon themselves.”
Kurt sat up, his chubby face turned to his therapist. His blue eyes were stained red from tears and his receding brown hair aged him beyond his current forty seven years. Despite his constant strain of self-hatred, Helen knew he was a decent man and had strived to help him over the past few years.
Kurt wiped his eye and took a breath.
“Do you blame yourself for things, Helen?”
She smiled, appreciating the use of her first name as it helped to create a friendlier environment and relaxed patients who looked at her profession with scepticism.
“Sometimes,” she said calmly. “But only when I am truly at fault.”
“I am always at fault.” Kurt's reply was crestfallen, his head falling sadly.
Helen sympathised with the man. He had caught his wife sleeping with another man and she had used his fragile state of mind to not only make him shoulder the blame, but also convinced him of other misdeeds. He agreed to them and she had laughed all the way to the bank with her divorce settlement.
“Kurt, we can only be at fault for the things we have control over.”
One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down. Page 4
