Tag Archives: Enquiry Agents

Books Are Us

Phew, a busy weekend! Sins of the Father was published this weekend and the book has broken my personal record for sales on a publication day. Along with that I have the proof copy of the print version to assess, for publication in August, and I’m working with Suzan Lynn Lorraine on the audio book version of Ripper. Suzan has excelled herself with the narration and I think Ripper will be our most impressive audio book to date. I must also mention Lucy Llewellyn at Head and Heart Publishing Services and thank her for her considerable creative contribution to the audio book cover. In addition, I’ve also completed a 125 page outline for the next book, Smoke and Mirrors. Wonderful to be writing and collaborating with such talented people.

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Sins of the Father

Published today, Sins of the Father, the latest Sam Smith mystery!

For the first thirty-three years of my life I had no knowledge of my father, no idea what he looked like, his name, whether he was dead or alive. Then fate brought us together. Then, a year later, he decided to hire me.

Although we had talked for a year, my father was still Gawain Morgan to me, a stranger, not my dad. Would the task of locating Frankie Quinn bring us closer together, or drive us further apart?

Frankie Quinn was a con-man, a life-long villain, a member of my father’s old gang. That’s right, my father was a villain too, with dodgy contacts, a shady past and sins he preferred to forget. The police wanted Frankie and, if arrested, he faced the prospect of spending his final years in prison. However, he had a trump card, evidence of my father’s indiscretions. Frankie was looking to cut a deal with the police, my father was looking for Frankie. They knew that one of them would spend the winter of their days in prison; but who would it be?

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking towards my wedding day. Would I enjoy the happiest day of my life, or be left crying into my champagne?

Sins of the Father, ten days that defined my relationship with my dad.

Available from all major Internet outlets for the special price of £0.99/$0.99

Amazon Link

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Print Version of Love and Bullets

The proof copy for the print version of Love and Bullets has arrived from the printer. It is always exciting to see a print copy of your book for the first time. Reaction to the Kindle version of the book has been very good and I’m hoping readers will enjoy the print version also. The print version of Love and Bullets will be available from all good bookstores and Internet outlets from 1st April 2015.

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Sam’s Song – Chapter Six of Thirty

An extract from Sam’s Song, chosen because I think it gives a good insight into Sam’s character.

SAM'S SONG BOOK COVER GLOSSY

Chapter Six of Thirty

That afternoon I drove west to Cyncoed in the heart of Cardiff. At 4 p.m., I arrived at Dr Storey’s office. Dr Storey ran his practice from a Victorian villa overlooking Roath Park. The villa was a splendid example of Victorian architecture, reflecting an age of pride and confidence.

I climbed a short flight of steps and entered the building. A tall, lean receptionist with a mass of greying hair, piled high on her head, asked me to wait. As I stood in the reception room, I could hear her heels clip across a parquet floor and then the creak of a hundred and fifty year old woodwork as she climbed the stairs to the first floor. A few minutes later, she was back in the reception room and I was climbing the creaky staircase; permission had been granted and I was on my way to see Dr Storey.

I knocked on his office door and a confident voice said, “Enter.” I opened the door, entered the office and stood dead in my tracks. For some reason I expected Dr Storey to be in his early sixties, maybe a little fat, definitely bald. I envisaged someone wearing rimless glasses and a stern, censorious expression. But Dr Storey was in his early-forties with dark brown, wavy hair, dark brown eyes and handsome, even features. At a guess, he was over six foot tall and his body was built in proportion – athletic, muscular, trim. His skin had a light tan and combined with his build it suggested plenty of outdoor activity – maybe walking, climbing, that sort of thing. He was wearing a smart, dark, three-piece suit with a fine pinstripe. His shirt was white and crisp while his tie was neat and matched his suit. He looked up from his desk and offered me an engaging smile. I guess I smiled back but, in all honesty, I don’t remember. Dr Storey struck me as a double for James Garner, circa The Rockford Files, albeit a James Garner with a neatly trimmed goatee beard.

Dr Storey placed his gold fountain pen on a blotter. He inclined his head slightly to the left and asked, “Can I help you?”

“Sam Smith,” I muttered. I fished in my shoulder bag for a business card and placed it on his desk. My business card was plain with my name and business details upon it. In idle and light-hearted moments, I’d thought about adding an emblem, maybe crossed revolvers at the top and crossed lipsticks at the bottom, but rejected the idea as being too crass. “I’ve got an appointment,” I explained, “Milton Vaughan-Urquhart phoned your office…”

“Oh, yes.” Dr Storey studied my card then glanced down to his notes. He smiled at me when he looked up. “I was expecting someone else.”

“It’s the shortened version of my name,” I apologised, “it can cause confusion.”

Dr Storey stood. I was right – he was just over six foot tall. He offered his hand and I shook it. His handshake was firm, assured. Ever the nosy enquiry agent, I glanced at his desk and noted a picture of a smiling, attractive woman and a nine-year-old girl. The woman and girl had similar looks. Probably mother and daughter. Probably Dr Storey’s wife and daughter. Another picture was more recent. It showed Dr Storey with his daughter. She was around sixteen now, very pretty with large eyes and dark, curly hair. There was no picture of Dr Storey and his wife together. Why was that, I wondered. Maybe they’d divorced and he’d kept her picture because he still loved her. Or maybe he loved that photograph of his daughter. Or maybe…my mind was racing now, seeking possibilities and answers. Cool it, Sam, I heard the little voice in the back of my head say, Dr Storey’s pictures have nothing to do with you. I know that, I replied, but there’s a gap there that needs an explanation, there’s a detail missing and I need to find an answer. It was the kind of obsessive thinking that wore me out, the kind of detailed thinking that made me good at my job.

“Your coat is wet,” Dr Storey noted. “Here, let me take it for you.” I unbuttoned my coat and he placed it next to his, on a coat stand. Then he waved a hand towards his client’s chair. “Take a seat.”

I smoothed my skirt and sat. I crossed my legs. Little Miss Prim. From his chair, Dr Storey peered over the edge of his desk and looked at my legs, but not in a salacious or lecherous manner, more like someone admiring a work of art. Let him admire them, loosen up, after all, he’s not Jack the Ripper. Indeed, he had a kind, gentle face, a face you could trust. And his office – tastefully decorated in pale green with a range of indoor plants – had an air of calm and serenity, a quality that emanated from the man himself.

I delved into my shoulder bag for a pen and my notepad. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

He shrugged a broad shoulder. “Go ahead.”

I sat poised, my pen hovering over my notepad. “Milton explained why I want to talk with you?”

Dr Storey nodded. “Something to do with Derwena and a stalker.” He pursed his lips while his fingers toyed with his pen. “I’ll help you, if I can, but you appreciate that I am bound by client confidentiality; I can only say so much.”

“Same in my business,” I smiled. “Admittedly, I’ve only been with Derwena for a day, but I’ve seen no sign of a stalker and my instincts tell me that she might be making him up.”

“Are your instincts normally sound?”

I paused, searching for an honest answer. With my head bowed, I replied, “I’m learning to trust them.”

Dr Storey appeared satisfied with my answer. He leaned forward and spoke in a confident, assured manner. “Obviously I can’t say ye or nay in regards to the stalker, but I can offer you my personal insight. Derwena’s had many problems in the past and they have been published in the press, so I don’t mind discussing them with you. When she’s under stress, she does have a tendency to dramatize. These dramatics are a way of reaching out for love and support and given her situation who could blame her for that. I wouldn’t dismiss her stalker story out of hand because she’s had problems with such people in the past. But she’s also going through a very stressful time at the moment in terms of relationships and her career, and other issues which I am not at liberty to discuss.”

“So the stalker could be real or he could be a figment of her imagination.”

Dr Storey shrugged. He gave me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“Thanks anyway.” I scribbled in my notebook – none the wiser, then I placed my notebook and pen in my shoulder bag and threw the latter over my shoulder.

“Before you go…,” Dr Storey hesitated, “tell me, how did you get into this line of work?”

I gave him a thin smile and glanced down to his thick, shag pile carpet. I shook my head. “You don’t want to hear my story.”

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “I do,” he insisted. With an earnest look on his face, he brought his hands together and made a bridge with his fingers. Then he placed his chin on that bridge and gazed at me with his soft, brown eyes.

I fell under his spell, that’s the only explanation I can think of, because I allowed my shoulder bag to sink into his carpet, opened my mouth and started to ramble: I told him things that I’d never told anyone before. “Well…I was having problems with my ex.” I started to well up. Get a grip, you fool, he’s used to hearing sob stories – don’t embarrass yourself. “He used to hit me, you know.”

Maybe I imagined it, but I swear I saw pain in Dr Storey’s eyes. He nodded, slowly, “I understand.”

I swallowed. Hard. “Black eyes were a weekly occurrence. One time he broke my jaw, another time he fractured my skull.” I paused, then hurried on, “But don’t get me wrong, Dan is not a monster. In fact, if you met him you’d regard him as charming, charismatic, good-looking.”

“What’s his line of work?” Dr Storey asked.

“Journalist. Freelance. The job had many pressures and when Dan felt under pressure, he’d drink. Sometimes the alcohol would solve the problem, sometimes the tension would stay with him and then he’d erupt…”

“And hit you.”

“Yeah.” My throat felt tight, my voice sounded as if it were coming from somewhere else, from another room. I noticed a carafe of water with an upturned glass on the desk. Dr Storey reached for the carafe and poured me a glass of water. I accepted it with thanks.

“And how long did this go on for?” Dr Storey asked.

“Throughout our marriage. Four years.”

“Why didn’t you leave him?”

“I thought about it, many times. But he was always very apologetic, mortified when he’d seen what he’d done to me. He promised he’d change, and for a short time, he did. Then the pressures would build, he’d drink, he’d hit me. In the end I thought, it’s all my fault, I deserve this, so I stuck around. Also, I had my pride – I didn’t want to show the outside world what was happening. And Dan’s a nice guy, to the eyes of the outside world.”

“But you left him.”

“Yeah. But not because of the beatings. I suspected him of having an affair. So I went to a private detective. He was very busy at the time and asked me to do a bit of background work on the case, take some pictures, establish places, dates, times. To cut a long story short, I did the whole case and I used the evidence I’d gathered to get a divorce. Angus, the private eye, was very impressed and he offered me a job, a sort of secretary-assistant. It all went well for the best part of a year. Then, one day, Angus walks in with a bunch of flowers and tells me that he loves me. He’s a decent guy, good-looking, dedicated to his work, but he’s married with three kids and I’m thinking, I can’t be doing with any of this, so I quit. I went back to typing, agency work – I’d done a secretarial course at night school, but that’s another story – and gathered together some funds. But, to be honest, I missed the buzz of the detective agency work, I missed the sense of satisfaction I got from helping people straighten out their lives. So I set up as an enquiry agent. It was hard going for twelve months. I used up all my savings, I got into debt, but gradually I built a reputation for reliability and competence and I managed to make enough to survive.”

Hell, I thought, what am I doing talking to this man; I haven’t discussed this with anyone, no one at all. It was a taboo subject, something I kept to myself. Of course, at work people in the office would notice that I had bumps and bruises. It became a running joke, ‘clumsy Sam has walked into the door again’. The broken jaw and fractured skull took some explaining, but with the fractured skull I said that I’d taken a very hot bath, got out too quick, hyper-ventilated, stumbled and fell down the stairs. People seemed to believe me. Or maybe they wanted to believe me, to avoid any embarrassment and discussion of the truth. My past was a secret I kept to myself. I told no one about Dan and the violence. Yet, here I was, pouring my heart out to this man, a stranger I’d met barely a few minutes previously. I felt agitated, confused. I picked up my shoulder bag and stood. “You didn’t want to hear all that,” I mumbled, “I’ve got to go.” I reached for my coat and struggled into it.

“Thank you.” Dr Storey stood. He walked over to me and helped me with my coat.

 I frowned. “What for?”

 “For coming to see me today. For talking with me. For being so frank and open with me.”

I felt my face start to flush. My chest was tight and I was beginning to hyperventilate. I took a step towards the door. “I’ve got to go.”

Dr Storey opened the door. He stood calmly at my side. He was looking at me, maybe assessing me, I don’t know because I was looking the other way, avoiding eye contact.

“Stay in touch, I’d like to know if the stalker is for real, or not. And if I can be of any further assistance…” His voice trailed off. I glanced up and noticed a look of admiration – surely not – on his face. “You’re a remarkable lady. I admire your courage, I admire your determination. It can’t have been easy; I admire you for what you’ve done.”

His voice was sincere, genuine. This man was sincere, genuine, and that’s why I ran from his office. I ran out of the building and jumped into my car. In my car, I slumped on to the driver’s seat, exhausted. I felt drained, like I hadn’t slept for a week. I wound the car window down and placed my elbow on the ledge, my head resting against my open palm. The rain splashed on to my face. It cooled me – it was welcome. I looked up to Dr Storey’s office. He was standing in the window, his handsome features creased with concern. Maybe he was worried about the rain ruining his golf day. Did he play golf? Hell, how should I know? I was confused, agitated. I’ve already said that, I was repeating myself, that’s how upset I was. Calm down, I told myself, for once in your damned life be truthful and honest with yourself. Okay, I’d just told a stranger the most intimate aspects of my life, but I’d lived with them for five years, since the divorce. Those personal aspects were over-familiar to me and it was cathartic to share them with someone else. That was a truth. Another truth – it wasn’t the confession that really bothered me, the unburdening of my soul – after all, he must hear similar stories half-a-dozen times a day. No, what bothered me was that he was still looking at me through his office window; he didn’t want to break the connection. Moreover, I was looking at him and what bothered me was a part of me had no desire to put my car into gear and pull away. What really bothered me was – I felt an attraction. Love hurts, I told myself – put your foot on the pedal and get out of there. Fast. And with a sigh, I did put my car into gear and I did pull away. But I glanced over my shoulder, up to Dr Storey’s office window, before I did so.

Extract Copyright © 2014 Hannah Howe. All rights reserved.

 

Sam’s Song

Exciting news! The pre-production and printing of Sam’s Song has been completed earlier than expected and the book will now be published a month earlier, on 1.12.2014. Along with the print version of the book a Kindle version will be published simultaneously. You can pre-order either version of Sam’s Song now by clicking on the book cover to the right of this page.

SAM'S SONG BOOK COVER GLOSSY

Love Hurts. For Derwena de Caro, songstress, female icon, teenage dream, success brought drugs, alcohol and a philandering boyfriend. It also brought wealth, fame and a stalker, or so she claimed. And that is where I came in, to investigate the identity of the stalker, little realising that the trail would lead to murder and a scandal that would make the newspaper headlines for months on end.

Love Hurts. For me, Samantha Smith, Enquiry Agent, love arrived at the end of a fist. First, I had to contend with an alcoholic mother, who took her frustrations out on me throughout my childhood, then my husband, Dan, who regarded domestic violence as an integral part of marriage. But I survived. I obtained a divorce, kept my sense of humour and retained an air of optimism. I established my business and gained the respect of my peers. However, I was not prepared for Dan when he re-entered my life, or for the affection showered on me by Dr Alan Storey, a compassionate and rather handsome psychologist.

Sam’s Song. This is the story of a week that changed my life forever.

Over the Edge

Over the Edge

I feared for my client’s chair whenever Manny Fry walked into my office. As usual, Manny was sweating profusely, as usual his corpulent face glowed like a beacon and as usual the buttons on his tweed waistcoat threatened to pop as they strained against his plump belly. Manny was a solicitor, the principal partner in Fry, Gouldman and Fletcher, and although he threatened to demolish my client’s chair every time he entered my office, Manny made me smile because his presence usually meant business.

“Ah, Samantha, my dear, I do believe that these chairs of yours are becoming smaller with my every visit.”

Carefully, with his arms outstretched to maintain his balance, Manny eased himself on to the chair. Warily, while pushing myself forward on to my toes, I peered over my desk at the slender legs of the chair. They creaked and they groaned, but they held, sound and secure. Manny had landed and we could begin.

“Ah, my dear, you are looking lovelier than ever…long, auburn hair that shimmers like the finest gossamer, dark brown eyes that hint at a private melancholy, yet dance with life and vitality when amused, a rash of freckles that speak of mischief and a figure that would compel a monk to renounce his vows. Ah, if only I was twenty years younger and, I will say it before you do, twenty stone lighter!”

I smiled and tried not to blush, no easy task when you have an aversion to receiving compliments, a character flaw that went back to my childhood and my upbringing with my alcoholic mother.

“I think I have something for you.” Manny wrestled with his briefcase, eventually removing a manila folder. “Amanda Forbes, aged forty-two, separated from her husband, Anthony Forbes. The couple have a daughter, Emma, nineteen. Amanda is now living with her paramour, Gethin, an ex-commando who, by all accounts is as tough as nails in masculine company, but is as soft as a marshmallow when with the ladies. It is alleged that one week ago Amanda sought a permanent separation from her estranged husband, Anthony, and murdered him.”

“How?”

“She pushed him into a lagoon at Marston Quarry; you know the disused limestone quarry just north of the city.”

“Witnesses?”

“None. It was dark, around midnight. Anthony was meandering home from the golf club, drunk, when the alleged crime took place.”

I picked up a pen and a notebook and scribbled some notes. “Maybe he fell into the lagoon, under the influence,” I suggested while tapping my pen against my bottom lip.

“That might serve as our defence, although evidence at the scene of the alleged crime – fibres, a broken button, soil disturbance – hint at violence and a struggle.”

“And the finger points at Anthony’s ex, Amanda?”

Manny nodded, flapping his flabby jowls. “The couple are well known to the police and have often been overheard, arguing.”

“And that’s enough to arrest her?”

“Their arguments usually ended in violence.” Manny dropped the manila folder on to my desk, scattering papers from my current case, an investigation into the theft of fur coats from an upmarket department store. As I tidied the papers, Manny arched a questioning eyebrow. “Will you take the case?”

The mystery of the disappearing fur coats had been solved – the deputy-manager did it – so I was available. “Usual rate,” I smiled, “plus a bonus if I uncover the truth?”

“My dear Samantha,” Manny groaned, “you will have me impoverished and out on the street.” He chuckled, his hands supporting his sides, as though fearful that his belly would land at his feet. Through his mirth, he added, “But I’m sure we could release a few pennies from the tea trolley fund, should you uncover the truth.”

* * *

I read Manny’s file, detailing the case against Amanda Forbes, then I made tracks to the local prison, to interview the lady herself.

I found Amanda sitting in an austere room beside an austere Formica table. A female warder accompanied us. Needless to say, her expression bordered on the austere.

The room was drab and plain, but Amanda was smart and attractive. Her dark hair was cut short and neatly brushed, her hazel eyes hinted at intelligence while her calm demeanour spoke of someone possessing an even temperament. Instantly, I liked her, though I was mindful of the fact that in nine out of ten cases while working for Manny Fry the accused had done the dirty deed.

“I’m Sam.” I smiled as I smoothed my skirt and sat opposite Amanda at the Formica table. “I’m a private detective, working for Manny Fry.”

Amanda glanced up at me. She nodded, acknowledging my presence, then she cast her eyes down to her hands, which were resting together on the scarred surface of the table.

I continued, “The charge sheet says you murdered your husband.”

“Tony, my ex-husband,” Amanda corrected. “We separated.”

“You were overheard, arguing.”

“Tony and I always argued.” Her tone was flat, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Why did you argue?”

“Because Tony was violent; he used to beat me. He used to look at me, black and blue, and say ‘what happened to you?’ And I’d say, ‘you beat me again’ and he’d deny it. Then he’d fly into a rage and accuse me of trying to blacken his name, of having affairs and then he’d beat me again and the whole cycle would continue.” Amanda closed her eyes and a silent tear trickled down her right cheek. “Of course, this usually happened when he was drunk.”

“How long did this go on for?”

“Nearly twenty years. Then I left him.”

“Why did you stay so long?”

“Pride; I didn’t want to show my friends and family that I was a failure. And I guess I reckoned that I deserved the beatings, that the bad feeling in our marriage was all my fault. And when he wasn’t being a bastard Tony could be so charming…”

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Amanda opened her tearful eyes and stared at me. I was in the room, but my mind had wandered to Dan, my ex, and four years of relentless beatings. Like Amanda, I’d suffered at the hands of a violent husband, though fortunately I managed to get out of the marriage after those four painful years.

Despite a censorious frown from the female warder, I reached across the table and placed a hand over Amanda’s fingers. “Don’t worry,” I smiled encouragingly, “I’ll get to the truth. I’ll get you out of here.”

* * *

Manny’s file revealed that Anthony Forbes had a mistress, Julia Lyall. Her address was supplied so I called on Julia and found her sitting in her garden, under a parasol, drinking from a tall, iced glass. Like Amanda, Julia was a smart, attractive woman, though with blue eyes and dyed blonde hair. Anthony obviously liked women of a certain type because Amanda and Julia were of a similar build; slim, yet curvaceous.

I introduced myself to Julia and asked forgiveness for the intrusion, then I stated my business. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Anthony Forbes’ murder. I believe the two of you were close?”

Julia gave me a frosty stare from behind her iced glass of orange juice. If looks could kill, I’d be pushing up the daisies. “I’ve already talked to the police.”

I nodded and smiled patiently. As much as I liked Amanda, I disliked Julia. I’d being doing this job for five years and when I interviewed people they tended to give off a certain vibe. Quite often, it wasn’t what they said, but what they didn’t say, or their body language, or the evasive looks that invited you to read between the lines.

I asked, “Do you have an alibi for last Saturday night?”

Julia scowled. She placed her glass on a low garden table. Then she adjusted her parasol, casting her face in shadow. “Why would I need an alibi, I didn’t kill Anthony, that bitch of an ex-wife murdered him.”

“You don’t like Amanda,” I concluded.

Julia picked up a straw sunhat from the garden table. She placed the hat on her head, shielding her eyes. “I’m not saying anything. Now get out of my garden; leave my house.”

I stood my ground. I took no pleasure from annoying people, but over the years I’d learned how to gauge their hostility and level of threat. I wasn’t going to make it on to Julia’s Christmas card list; equally I judged that she wouldn’t chase me off her premises with her garden rake, just yet. Before that happened, I reckoned that I had time for at least three more questions. I asked question one, “Did you love Tony?”

“Anthony, you mean. Sort of.” Julia shrugged, a gesture of feigned indifference. “We got on well, most of the time.”

“And at other times?”

Julia’s scowl intensified. She narrowed her eyes, then leaned forward and glanced towards her garden rake. “You’re a right snoop, aren’t you?”

“I’m only looking for the truth,” I replied defensively.

Julia stared at the rake. At first, her features were hard and ugly, but then they softened as she eased herself back into her garden chair. Her straw sunhat shielded her face and eyes, so it was difficult to judge what she was thinking. However, when she spoke a few moments later, her tone was more reflective. “Anthony used me. He said he loved me, then I discovered that he had another woman in Grangetown. He was two-timing me, and I resented that.”

“You were jealous?”

She nodded slowly, her gaze lost among the flowerbeds. “I guess so.”

“And in a fit of jealousy you killed him?”

Julia turned to face me. She reached for a pair of sunglasses, but not even the sunglasses, her straw hat or the parasol could hide the tears as they trickled down her cheeks. “I loved Anthony. I didn’t kill him. Even though I admitted to the police that I haven’t got an alibi, you won’t pin the blame on me.”

* * *

I read through Manny’s notes again and discovered that Anthony Forbes was a non-swimmer, that he had enough alcohol in him to intoxicate an elephant and that he was dragged from the lagoon amidst a tangle of flotsam and jetsam. With those facts in mind, I decided that it was time to visit the scene of the crime.

When I arrived at the disused quarry I discovered that the murder scene had been secured and cordoned off with police tape. I wandered around the perimeter of the scene, to no great effect. The sun was hot, the ground was hard and my feet ached. I sat on a large limestone bolder and removed my trainers. As I shook fragments of stone from my trainers a man approached. He was in the autumn of his years, white-whiskered, dishevelled and dirty. Despite the heat, he wore a dusty raincoat, which clashed somewhat with the flip-flops on his feet.

“Hello,” I smiled pleasantly, “I’m Sam.”

“Mr Caruthers, at your service, ma’am,” the old man replied, bowing and removing an imaginary hat. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“You got a first name, Mr Caruthers?”

“Charles.” He offered me a toothless grin. “But you can call me Charlie.”

I eased my feet into my trainers then followed Charlie as he wandered between the limestone boulders, his rheumy eyes fixed on the ground. “Do you come here often, Charlie?”

He stooped, picked a stone from the ground, studied it, decided it was of no value, then tossed it carelessly over his shoulder. “I nose around, looking for bits of scrap.”

“Do you find much scrap?”

He nodded. “People are always throwing things into the lagoon.”

“Including other people?”

Charlie gave me a toothless, mischievous grin. “Like I told the police, I wouldn’t know about that.”

I followed Charlie through the quarry and discovered that he had an interest in fossils, which he found embedded in the limestone. He offered to show me his collection, so I kept pace with him, until we arrived at a tin shack, a foreman’s office that had once served the quarry, and now acted as Charlie’s humble abode.

“Would ma’am like a cup of tea?” Charlie asked as we entered the shack.

I smiled and shook my head, “Sorry, Charlie, I drink coffee.”

“Oh, shame.” He frowned, clearly mortified, and I felt as though I’d stepped on a child’s favourite toy. “Still,” he brightened, reaching for a kettle, “more for Charles.”

Charlie brewed himself a cup of tea on a fire made from kindling. He poured the hot water on to an emancipated teabag that had obviously done yeomen service over many infusions. He supped from his metal cup and sighed with contentment.

“Did you see a man fall into the lagoon on Saturday night?” I asked while studying Charlie’s fossil collection. The collection was varied and impressive with an impression of a dinosaur tooth from a Zanclodon Cambrensis being the outstanding example.

Charlie hid his face behind his metal mug. He shook his head and scowled. “Charles doesn’t want to get involved.”

I thought on my feet. Despite the grime and the fact that I didn’t like tea, I would have to ingratiate myself to him. I smiled, “Maybe I would like a cup of tea after all.”

Charlie danced around like a child on Christmas morning. From a wooden shelf, he found a second metal mug, washed it with boiled water then made a weak, insipid brew. He handed the mug to me and I sipped cautiously, as though anticipating hemlock. “What happened on Saturday night?” I asked, my lips hovering over the steaming mug.

“She pushed him into the lagoon, didn’t she.”

“Who? Describe her.”

Charlie offered a description of a smart, attractive woman, a description specific in some details, yet vague enough to match Amanda and Julia.

“Did you see her face?” I asked.

“Nah.” He shook his head. “It was too dark.”

“What happened before she pushed him into the lagoon?”

“There was a bit of a kerfuffle, pushing and shoving, an argument.”

“Did the man or woman say anything specific?”

“Yeah.” Charlie’s hirsute face brightened, his skin shining red, contrasting with the thorny white of his whiskers. “She said, ‘goodbye, Tony’.”

I frowned while my stomach did a backward flip, a reaction that had nothing to do with Charlie’s tea. “Those were her exact words?”

“Exact words.” Charlie placed three fingers to his forehead then gave me a sharp salute. “Scouts honour.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Nah, that’s all. Just ‘goodbye, Tony’.”

I stared down to the ground, my thoughts lost in the dust that covered the floorboards.

Inching forward, Charlie sensed my distress. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t you like my tea?”

“Nothing wrong with your tea, Charlie.” I glanced up and gave him a wan smile. “It’s your words I’m finding hard to swallow.”

* * *

After chatting with Charlie, I knew who had pushed Anthony Forbes into the lagoon. That knowledge did little to lighten my mood and the motive still troubled me. I knew from my own experience that victims of domestic violence are just that, victims, they are not aggressors, though of course some women reach the edge and do fight back. I sensed that Amanda had reached the edge a long time ago and she had decided not to fight back. Instead, she had removed herself from the abusive relationship and created a new life with a loving partner. She had no reason to resort to violence, no motive to push Anthony into the lagoon. Then I read through Manny’s notes again, before calling on Emma, Amanda’s daughter, and with Emma, I found the answer.

Back at the austere interview room with the austere female warder and a pensive Amanda Forbes, I asked, “Why did you do it?”

Amanda stared at the Formica table, the stark, bare, overhead light bulb creating a halo on her gleaming dark hair. “I told you,” she mumbled, “he used to beat me.”

“Why didn’t you report him to the police?”

“I did, but nothing happened. The police, social services, Uncle Tom Cobley and all, no one wanted to get involved. After all, it was ‘only’ domestic violence, something we had to sort out between us. It was just me and him, me and his fists.”

“What happened, the night you pushed him into the lagoon?”

Amanda stared at the table. Gently, her shoulders started to shake and, silently, she began to cry.

“He phoned from the golf club, drunk and abusive. He wanted to see me alone, but I’m with Gethin now, so I told him that that would not be possible. Then he said he’d go and visit Emma instead…”

Amanda glanced over to me. Her eyes shone with recognition and understanding; instinctively, she knew that I’d been to visit her daughter; she knew that I’d seen the bruises on her face.

“Because he couldn’t get at me, he’d taken to beating my daughter. I guess I just snapped; I couldn’t bear the thought of my daughter enduring what I’d endured. I knew he’d take the short-cut through the quarry, so I relented and said that I would meet him after all. I didn’t go there with murder in my mind; I went there to confront him, to tell him to leave Emma alone. We argued, of course, I said ‘goodbye, Tony’, there was some pushing and shoving and in he went.” Amanda sniffed in a vain attempt to hold back her tears. Then she continued, “I’m sorry if I disappoint you. I’m sorry I’m not the saint you thought I was. But what can you do when someone starts beating your daughter? What can you do when no one will listen, when no one cares? I’m not proud of myself, in fact I feel downright guilty, but I was desperate. Surely you can understand that.”

I’d been there myself, so I was not a disinterested party. In fact, I was biased, firmly on Amanda’s side. Was she guilty or innocent, a villain or a victim? I guess that’s for you to decide.

Story Copyright © 2014 Hannah Howe. All rights reserved.

 

Anne Summer – An Inspirational Woman

Below is a photograph of Anne Summer taken from her autobiography, ‘But I Couldn’t Do That!’ Anne was a private detective in the 1960s and she is one of the real-life inspirations behind my fictional detective, Sam Smith.

Anne Summer

A convent-educated girl (an education she loathed) Anne married a London lawyer, only to separate in 1964. She was twenty-seven at the time and the pressures of the separation, along with her husband gaining custody of her son, led to serious physical and emotional health problems for Anne. She sought professional help and embarked upon the road to recovery.

In an attempt to aid Anne’s recovery, her solicitor asked her for a favour – a client wanted to know if his estranged wife was living with another man and, unable to find anyone else to carry out the investigation, the solicitor suggested that Anne should take the case. Desperate to find a meaning and a purpose in life, Anne decided to ‘have a go’.

Anne borrowed a car from the solicitor, studied a photograph of the estranged wife and with the help of the A – Z she found her address. Posing as a market researcher, a job she was familiar with from past experience, Anne was invited into the estranged wife’s home. Anne’s market research questions quickly revealed that the woman was washing and cooking for a man and so the fact of her living with a new partner was established.

Anne’s solicitor was impressed with her work and he introduced her to an ex-army officer who was running a detective agency in London. After working for him, and another well-established agency, Anne felt confident enough to start her own business, which became a great success. Soon she was employing agents of her own – including housewives, out-of-work actresses and journalists – and tackling a variety of cases, at home and on the Continent, usually centred on Cupid and his carelessly slung arrows.

As Anne states in her autobiography, she started out with her heart in her mouth, terrified of spiders, the dark, large dogs, heights and rapacious males. However, she challenged those fears and overcame them. Her cases were always different, ‘sometimes funny, sometimes sad’, but with one thing in common, ‘always the greatest difficulty was at the end – helping the client towards accepting the truth’.