I Don't Drink Decaf

By David Cousland

Can bringing the wrong coffee be a reason for murder? It can if it is the final straw. Augusta and Diana have had enough of their husbands, The very deadly but sexy and glamorous Rachel can offer a way out, for a price. Rachel has had more sexual experiences than most, she has the body for every occasion and makes use of it. Will the men be able to resist? Follow them from conspiracy to plans to action. Can it really work out?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Cousland
• Release date: Dec 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311525109

David Cousland

Born in the industrial Midlands in 1950, I was educated at Dudley Grammar School (to the best of their abilities)before going on to work in the banking industry. The latter years working on plastic card payment schemes. Married (twice) with two daughters and three grand-children, my hobbies outside of the family and writing include golf and travel, occasionally combining the two when searching for golf balls that have strayed way off line. Although I have no musical ability whatsoever, I do love listening to music be it live or recorded. Highlights- seeing Cher in Las Vegas; Stevie Wonder in Brisbane and meeting Rick Wakeman.

Book preview

I Don’t Drink Decaf

By David Cousland

Copyright © David Cousland 2014

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

The moral right of David Cousland has been asserted.

Dedicated to Emily Cousland-Penn for her cover artwork.

Chapter One – The Coffee Morning Conspiracy

Chapter Two – Andrew’s Abrupt End

Chapter Three – Planning with Diana

Chapter Four – Fiasco at Heathrow

Chapter Five – Mickey’s Last Big Win

Chapter Six – Time to Celebrate

Chapter One – The Coffee Morning Conspiracy

I don’t drink decaf. Just how many times do I need to tell him?

Augusta Houston was fuming, as she seemed to be most of the time these days, her coffee cup trembled in her hand as she licked a spot of froth from her top lip, almost snarling as she peered out through the maelstrom of traffic towards Leinster Square.

It really is so simple, I don't drink decaf in the morning, afternoon or any other time, I don’t like the stuff, I need regular espresso. Why can't my twerp of a husband ever get it right? And another thing, I’ve bloody well had enough, that is just the tip of the iceberg. We’ve been married for almost nine years for God's sake. I swear I'll kill the stupid man.

Her two coffee morning companions just looked across the table at each other, a knowing lift of the eyebrows, a dab to the lips with a starchy white cotton napkin, a delicate shake of the head, their thoughts were best left unspoken, for the time being at least.

Augusta looked as though she could have been a fairly typical housewife from the nineteen sixties, if this wasn’t fifty years later. Although she had never had to work in her life, she had most of the things she had ever wanted. It wasn’t a case that she had never been particularly fashion conscious just because she spent the bare minimum of both time and money on her hair, clothes and make-up, the reality was that she had never been encouraged. Despite her friends commenting on her lack of sparkle, at home her husband would never have noticed. In essence she looked old before her time, most definitely old fashioned. Yes, she was attractive or could be, if only someone would be brave enough to give her a big kick up the backside. Even then it would only happen if she gave herself a chance and made a little effort. She was as comfortable as an old shoe, not lazy as such but there was never much point in putting too much effort into things.

She considered that the only real things missing from her life were love and happiness, plus a little consideration from time to time, everything else was of minor importance, almost everything else. However, more than anything, there was no sex in her life any more, she thought of herself as being one of the only on Birthdays and Christmas brigade. In truth she would not have made that list in recent years, if sex had been a requirement to sustain the body as food or drink is, then she would have starved to death long ago. Attention from her not so attentive or caring husband was most definitely done and dusted, not since her short fling before lunchtime with her washing machine service engineer three years ago had her body had any kind of service.

Was she frustrated? – extremely, was she desperate? –certainly, was she rampant? Only Titch can answer that. The man was a flirt with the sexiest backside she had seen for some time and that wasn’t his only qualification. He may have been Titch by nickname but that was the only tiny thing about him. He very quickly pointed out, not only that she looked great in her white shorts but they were also a little on the tight side. In addition her black blouse was see-through and her bra had a tiny flower pattern, the blouse being about the most daring item in her wardrobe had been selected especially for the morning in the desperate hope that the engineer would at least be a man, in the wider sense of the word. A few more risqué comments, a couple of laughs, her hand on his arm, his hand touching her backside, one thing led to another and pretty soon she was the girl on top on the sofa in their newly redecorated lounge. His overalls of course, just had to be deposited in the laundry in case there was oil or grease on them. He swiftly turned the tables, or turned her at least, she was well and truly pounded on the cool leather cushions. She didn’t even try to remove the stain for a couple of weeks, almost