The Sholes Key (An Evans & Blackwell Mystery #1) Page 2
“I need a lift back to my other car. I’ve put off Marcus long enough.” She sighed. “When is this going to be over, Liam? I’m not cut out for this. I haven’t received the training to deal with situations like this.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I’m worried. I’m so worried. Everything seems to be going horribly wrong.” Her mobile rang. “This is Marc now. I have to answer.”
Foxton waved her off, and she hiked up the bumpy road to escape the noise of the lorry lifting the Peugeot onto the flatbed.
“Marc, sorry I couldn’t answer before.” She didn’t want to sound out of breath but couldn’t control it.
“What’s wrong, Soph?”
Sophia paused. All the lies had to fit and be neat and tidy, so her best course was to keep close to the truth. However, not having to explain at all was better. “Would you be upset if I said I didn’t want to discuss my hellish morning? Let’s just say, stupidly boring meeting and flat tire.”
“Do you need help?”
“No, no worries. I called roadside assistance. Changing the tire as we speak.”
Silence.
“Marc? Darling?” What had she done wrong? Oh, God.
“It’s just that it’s almost three.”
What had she forgetten? Oh, bugger, what did she forget? “I’m so sorry, Marc.” Hopefully that appeased him. Please, let him be all right. She gritted her teeth. When she looked up, she saw Liam walking down the road toward her. She held a finger to her lips. “Marc?”
“Are you in London?”
Why would he ask that? “Why would you ask that?” She took a deep breath to prevent vomiting.
Finally, Marc replied, “I don’t know. You seem far away.”
What choice did she have? She had to tell him the truth now…sort of. “I had to meet an important client out of the city. I’m not used to driving on country roads, and I must’ve run something over.”
“Will you be able to get to my flat by five?”
“Yes.” She paused. “But I’m sorry, Marc, I can’t remember what we had planned.”
“We had nothing planned. However, I booked a table at the Italian place you keep talking about, but for half five.”
She laughed. “Lucci’s? I love Lucci’s.”
“I know. How long will it take you to get into London and get ready?”
Ready? Oh, blast. She was so far from ready after rolling around in the forest. Ninety minutes top gear to her car, thirty minutes cross town to her flat, twenty for a shower and to dress, and twenty to Marc’s.
“I can be there in two hours,” she lied.
Ready to ring off and start her race, she said, “I’ll see you soon.”
“Sophia?”
“Yes, Marc.” He sounded serious.
“I love you.”
Sophia looked up at Liam who was listening intently to her portion of the conversation. “I love you too, Marc.” She rang off and placed the mobile into her bag.
“You just told a terrorist you love him,” Liam said.
“A supposed terrorist. We haven’t found proof yet.” She walked toward his car, leaving him behind.
“Sophia.” Liam caught up, took her arm and swung her around. “What are you doing?” He glowered. “You can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re getting too emotionally attached to him.”
“Bugger off, Liam.” She yanked her arm from his grasp. “The assignment was to get close to him. It’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“He’s supposed to become attached to you; you’re supposed to remain objective.”
Sophia ignored him and kept walking.
“Have you slept with him?”
She turned to him and glared. “That’s none of your bloody business, Foxton.” When she reached his car, she opened the door and got in. “I’ve got to get to London, fast.”
Foxton reached his door and with a loud bang, smashed his fist onto the roof of his car. It made Sophia jump in her seat. Without another word, he got in and headed for London.
Unfortunately, they had ninety minutes together. The silence couldn’t last. “You can pout, Liam, but this is exactly what your superiors wanted me to do.” She couldn’t help herself; egging him on distracted her from all the tension she felt.
“I can just as easily take you off the case. You can be replaced.”
Liam kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road. She laughed. “And just how do you plan to do that? Normally, when you put someone inexperienced undercover, you actually put them undercover. New name, new address, new car, so that criminals can’t just go to your house and shoot your family. Marcus knows where I live and he knows my father. If you botch this up—”
“Don’t sleep with him.” He pointed his finger in her face. “This case isn’t permanent.”
“You’re absolutely right, it isn’t. It was supposed to be a three-day assignment. Three. Then I could do what I’m good at, not running around flirting with criminals. I’ve become nothing more than a cheap prostitute.” She sat back and crossed her arms.
He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “You’re not a prostitute.”
“Why? Because I work for the government?”
He shook his head.
“Five months, Liam, five. I can’t date someone for five months and keep coming up with reasons not to see him naked. You didn’t think this case through. None of you did.”
“Find the key and you can tell him it’s over.” He rubbed his hand over his day-old stubble.
“Find the bloody key? I’ve searched all over his flat for that key, torn it apart and put it back together looking for it. Nothing. Have you simpletons even considered maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree?”
“He’s involved.”
She thought so too when she started the case, but now she wasn’t convinced. Nothing made sense. Why couldn’t she find the key? There was a chance she was toying with the heartstrings of an innocent man. It made her sick.
She finally arrived fifteen minutes late at Marcus Masters’ house in Islington, only having to jump sixteen reddish lights—not that she counted. Finding a spot to park three doors down, she got out and dashed to his door in her stilettos and tight black skirt.
After she pressed the bell, she stood rocking on her toes. Please, let everything be kosher. Please, don’t let these past five months be a waste.
No answer.
She rapped the doorknocker against the black wood of the doorframe. Leaning her head closer to the door, she listened for footsteps.
Silence.
Trying the bronze door handle, she twisted it. It opened. Slowly, she pushed the door inward. “Marc?” she whispered. “Marc, it’s Sophia. Sorry I’m late.”
Sophia stepped into the entrance and stood in the dark. Was she supposed to meet him at the restaurant? Were signals crossed? Worse yet, did he know the truth? Was this a trap? Why did he leave his door open?
Stop. Just stop, Evans told herself forcefully, taking a deep breath. Why think the worst? Perhaps he’s upstairs dressing.
“Marc?” she squeaked as she climbed the stairs to the first floor. Tiptoeing down the hall, she felt along the wall for a light switch.
“What are you doing?” said a voice from behind.
Chapter 2
"Thios—Thios, my bed is wet. Thios, my bed is wet.” Theophilus Blackwell’s four-year-old nephew punched him in the shoulder.
Theo opened an eye and scanned his nephew’s wet, star-ship pajama bottoms. “Why are you telling me? Where’s your mother, Milos?” Slowly, he slid his aching thirty-eight-year-old body out of bed and put his slippers on.
“I think she’s dead. I think a cri-min-mal came and—”
“She’s not dead, silly. Your mum’s probably in the kitchen, or sleeping.” The boy stood immobilized. Theo yanked the thumb out of his nephew’s mouth and asked, “Would you like me to get your mum?”
Milos nodded and replied, “I’m cold.”
Dragging his feet down the hall, Theo stuck his head into the next bedroom. The bed lay empty and the layers of blankets covered the wood flooring beside it. He sighed and ran his fingers through his cropped, dark brown hair.
“Why does your wife sleep in here?” Milos asked. “Isn’t she supposed to sleep with you?”
He looked down at his nephew and rubbed his frizzy hair. “It’s a bit complicated, mate.”
“I’ll come sleep with you in your bed.”
“Not if you keep peeing yours, you won’t.”
At the next door, Theo knocked. A grunt came from within. He turned the handle and pushed it opened.
“Dalia, your son wet the bed again.”
“Bloody hell, Milos,” came the muffled replied from under the covers.
“It wasn’t my fault,” whined Milos. “There was this spaceship… ”
Theo left them and entered the warmth of the kitchen. The greasy clock that hung on the browned wallpaper read a quarter to seven. His mother was taking muffins out of the oven.
“What time did you get up?” Theo asked her.
“Five, same as every day,” she replied in her strong Greek accent. She placed the tin on the worktop. “Why are you up so early?” She pulled her hand from her oven gloves.
“Early?” Theo said as he looked out the kitchen patio doors into the garden. The sun peered over the garden walls, casting shadows over the masterfully manicured lawn and flowers. “Because Milos peed his bed again.”
“I keep telling Dalia stop giving juice before bed, but does she listen? No.”
“Who’s outside?”
“Agneta woke this morning convinced she could be a gardener.”
“Hmm.” He looked out to the woman on her knees cutting flowers from the flowerbed.
“I told her, Theo. I told her she killed all the plants she bought. But as usual she believes we’re all liars.” She threw her hands in the air.
It began to matter less and less what was said or done, none of his wife’s memories were coming back. He struggled with the fact that six happy years of his life had evaporated. A year had passed since the accident and every day became another wasted day. She would never remember him; she didn’t even remember that she hated gardening.
Agneta Blackwell pushed open the sliding glass door and walked in with a bunch of tulips.
“Good morning,” Theo said softly in English. She wouldn’t understand—six years of learned English gone in one day.
Instead, she replied with a quick glance before she ran to the sink.
Theo watched her. She radiated the same energy that she had when he fell in love with her. Her eyes still shone with passion, just not for him, but for life. His dearest friend, the friend he married, loved, and cared for, had no use for him anymore.
“Where do you keep your vases?” Agneta asked in Greek as she opened cupboard doors.
“There’s an empty one on the dining room table,” his mother replied, happy to speak Greek.
Off Agneta went, her wet pajama bottoms leaving a mud trail down the hall. In their seven years of marriage, Agneta never had let him buy her a plant. She always complained it made her feel guilty. “It’s a death sentence no plant deserves such treatment,” she would say. Of all her proposed passions, gardening wasn’t one of them.
“Eat a muffin,” the mother told her son, jolting him to the present.
“Not hungry. I’ll just take coffee,” he replied.
“You need to eat, Theo. The doctor says you can’t lose any more weight. Look at you, you’re wasting away.”
“Ah, Mum, stop it—” Theo stopped speaking when Agneta came into the room, carrying a simple olive green vase. He watched her place two pink tulips carefully inside. “I like your magnolias,” he said in Greek.
“Yeah, I like magnolias. Is that what they call them?”
“No, dear, they’re tulips.” Theo’s mother cast him a mean look. He shrugged. Agneta wasn’t any wiser.
“Mum,” he said, “I’ve got to head into work now.”
“Why so early, Theo?”
Theo didn’t want to discuss his reasons for the hundredth time, and instead replied, “Don’t worry, I’ll be home for dinner.”
* * *
Detective Inspector Theo Blackwell sat in his office, staring out the window as the sun peeked between the buildings. A year before he disliked being stuck at work, but since the accident the office became the lesser of two evils. At least here, everyone knew who he was, and it didn’t matter if someone said they hated him. He could live with that.
A knock at the door took him from his thoughts. “Come in,” he yelled.
“Boss, can I turn on the light?”
“Sure.” Theo’s partner, DS Dorland Jackson, stood in the doorway wearing an antiquated, shiny gray suit and fake white alligator shoes. “What time is it?”
“Half seven. How long have you been here?”
“Good question.” Rising from his chair slowly, Theo wiped the remaining muffin crumbs from his trousers, giving his stiff knee a good shake in the process.
“Well, Deveau wants to see us in his office. It sounds urgent. Perhaps another case?” Dorland opened the door forcefully, causing the handle to crash against the bookshelves, knocking a framed picture of Theo and his wife onto the floor and shattering the glass.
Theo said nothing and walked out of the room, crunching the glass beneath his shoe.
“Sorry about that,” Dorland said, following his partner down the hall.
“Forget it.”
“I’ll get you a new frame.”
“Forget it.”
“All right,” Dorland said quickly. “I want you to feel my arm.”
“What?”
“A month ago, I bought a bar and some chains, nothing kinky, for my health. Up and down, up and down, twenty, forty, sixty times a day. Now look at my arms, feel them.” He held his bicep to Theo’s face. Theo looked at the bulging muscle but continued walking.
“Strong as an ox,” Dorland said. “It’s a powerful weapon. No one will get in my way now. You really should get one.”
“An ox?”
“No, a bar. Also, I take this powdered shake every morning.”
“Look, no offense—”
“None taken.”
“—but you have to stop talking.” Having said that, Theo knocked on Deveau’s door and entered.
Deveau stood by the window looking onto the street below. Mobile to his ear, he motioned the detectives to sit.
“Listen,” Deveau said into the mobile, “I can’t emphasize enough how much I need him. He’s the one I want.”
Dorland raised his eyebrows at his senior officer, but Theo shook his head.
“I don’t care about the cost, I’ll pay.” With that, Deveau closed his mobile and sat down. “Toys. It can’t be ‘thank you for the gift’ for whatever gift you deem appropriate. It has to be the most popular, hard to find, expensive toy and when my sons finally receive it, they’ll spend thirty minutes with it then it will get lost under their beds.” Deveau sighed and handed a file to Theo.
“What is it?” Theo asked as he took it.
“The missing woman’s name is Lorna McCauley. The neighbor rang us when Lorna’s son came to his door looking for his mother.”
“Where’s the boy now?” Dorland asked.
“Last count, at the hospital. The boy had a fever so the neighbor called 999. The police rushed the boy to the hospital. He may still be there. You’ll have to check.”
Theo nodded and looked through the pages of the folder. It only contained a photo of the woman and a missing persons report. The woman, with cropped blond hair and green eyes, wore an older, grey turtleneck jumper and looked between thirty and forty. She sat on the edge of the Trafalgar Fountain and held tight to a boy who splashed his hand in the water. Lorna smiled, but not for the camera—for her son. Theo needed to find her.
Sophia jumped. “Oh bloody hell, Marc, you gave me a fright. Where were you? You didn’t answer the door. I thought—”
“You thought what?” he whispered and stepped closer to her. “Why are you prancing about in the dark?”
“I thought something was wrong and I couldn’t find the switch.”
He stood directly in front of her face now. “You were worried about me?”
“I was.”
Marcus laughed and kissed her nose. “Oh. Well, I bought these for you.” He stepped back and produced three red roses from behind his back.
“That’s thoughtful.”
“If there’s one thing I do well, it’s think.”
That wasn’t the only thing he did well.
An hour, a shag, and a shower later, they arrived at the restaurant. Sophia thought it easier to salvage their reservation if they turned up in her Mercedes Benz rather than the ancient Citroen Marc owned. To show her appreciation for the pleasure of his company, she even allowed him to drive.
Never in a million years would Sophia have dated Marc if not forced to. He was four years younger, a half-inch shorter, wore glasses, and although he claimed to make a decent salary crawling on his knees under desks as a network engineer, he still owned the clothes he wore in the seventies.
Not that she considered herself a snob, but her money usually found her men with more brawn than brains, who discussed her car more than her feelings; and if a footballer hadn’t endorsed it, they hadn’t heard of it.
Not Marc. Marc knew that conversation required two people, had actually read a book without pictures, and beat her time at Kakuro. Damn him.
“What?” Marc asked, jolting Sophia from her thoughts.
“What?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I was thinking how handsome you look.” She smiled and took his hand.
“I don’t know about the shirt,” Marc said, as he slipped the keys in his trouser pocket.
“I like pink. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have bought it for you, would I? Besides, it matches your tie.”
“It makes me look like a ponce.”
Sophia turned to him and put her hands on her hips. “It makes you look well dressed. Look, do you really want to discuss it here?”