Secrets and Lies

By Hannah Howe

Book Six in the Sam Smith Mystery Series.

Secrets and Lies - Suicide or Murder?

Most of the people I encounter are hiding a secret and many of them are adept at telling lies. However, how do you learn the truth about someone who's no longer with us?

Author, Barclay Quinton wrote Fabringjay, the story of a man leading a secret life during the Second World War, which was well received by the critics, but was ignored by readers, and Illicit Lust, a book he hated and wrote purely to satisfy his agent and publisher. Illicit Lust became a bestseller, a fact that annoyed Barclay. However, its success did open doors and he set about researching his next novel, the story of an ageing mobster. Barclay's research brought him into contact with many unsavoury types, including villains, shady private eyes and managers of strip clubs. The official report into Barclay's death stated that he committed suicide. However, a close friend insisted that Barclay was murdered and I was hired to investigate.

Meanwhile, closer to home, I discovered a secret, and the truth, about my long-term partner. Was he the man of my dreams or was our relationship about to end?

Secrets and Lies - a story of love, of deceit, of the many faces we all possess - the public face, the private face and the deeply personal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goylake Publishing
• Release date: Feb 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310120961

Hannah Howe

Hannah Howe is the bestselling author of the Sam Smith Mystery Series (Sam's Song, book one in the series, has reached number one on the amazon.com private detective chart on seven separate occasions and the number one position in Australia). Hannah lives in the picturesque county of Glamorgan with her partner and their two children. She has a university degree and a background in psychology, which she uses as a basis for her novels.Hannah began her writing career at school when her teacher asked her to write the school play. She has been writing ever since. When not writing or researching Hannah enjoys reading, genealogy, music, chess and classic black and white movies. She has a deep knowledge of nineteenth and twentieth century popular culture and is a keen student of the private detective novel and its history.Hannah's books are available in print, as audio books and eBooks from all major retailers: Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Google Play, Kobo, iBooks, etc. For more details please visit https://hannah-howe.comThe Sam Smith Mystery Series in book order:Sam's SongLove and BulletsThe Big ChillRipperThe Hermit of HisaryaSecrets and LiesFamily HonourSins of the FatherSmoke and MirrorsStardustMind GamesDigging in the DirtA Parcel of RoguesBostonThe Devil and Ms DevlinSnow in AugustLooking for Rosanna MeeStormy WeatherDamagedEve’s War: Heroines of SOEOperation ZigzagOperation LocksmithOperation BroadswordOperation TreasureOperation SherlockOperation CameoOperation RoseOperation WatchmakerOperation OverlordOperation Jedburgh (to follow)Operation Butterfly (to follow)Operation Liberty (to follow)The Golden Age of HollywoodTula: A 1920s Novel (to follow)The Olive Tree: A Spanish Civil War SagaRootsBranchesLeavesFruitFlowersThe Ann's War Mystery Series in book order:BetrayalInvasionBlackmailEscapeVictoryStandalone NovelsSaving Grace: A Victorian MysteryColette: A Schoolteacher’s War (to follow)What readers have been saying about the Sam Smith Mystery Series and Hannah Howe..."Hannah Howe is a very talented writer.""A gem of a read.""Sam Smith is the most interesting female sleuth in detective fiction. She leaves all the others standing.""Hannah Howe's writing style reminds you of the Grandmasters of private detective fiction - Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Robert B. Parker.""Sam is an endearing character. Her assessments of some of the people she encounters will make you laugh at her wicked mind. At other times, you'll cry at the pain she's suffered.""Sam is the kind of non-assuming heroine that I couldn't help but love.""Sam's Song was a wonderful find and a thoroughly engaging read. The first book in the Sam Smith mystery series, this book starts off as a winner!""Sam is an interesting and very believable character.""Gripping and believable at the same time, very well written.""Sam is a great heroine who challenges stereotypes.""Hannah Howe is a fabulous writer.""I can't wait to read the next in the series!""The Big Chill is light reading, but packs powerful messages.""This series just gets better and better.""What makes this book stand well above the rest of detective thrillers is the attention to the little details that makes everything so real.""Sam is a rounded and very real character.""Howe is an author to watch, able to change the tone from light hearted to more thoughtful, making this an easy and yet very rewarding read. Cracking!""Fabulous book by a fabulous author-I highly recommended this series!""Howe writes her characters with depth and makes them very engaging.""I loved the easy conversational style the author used throughout. Some of the colourful ways that the main character expressed herself actually made me laugh!""I loved Hannah Howe's writing style -- poignant one moment, terrifying the next, funny the next moment. I would be on the edge of my seat praying Sam wouldn't get hurt, and then she'd say a one-liner or think something funny, and I'd chuckle and catch my breath. Love it!""Sam's Song is no lightweight suspense book. Howe deals with drugs, spousal abuse, child abuse, and more. While the topics she writes about are heavy, Howe does a fantastic job of giving the reader the brutal truth while showing us there is still good in life and hope for better days to come."

Book preview

Chapter One

I was dreaming about a beach. A snowman was walking across the beach, tossing pebbles into the sea, juxtaposing images and situations, as you do in dreams. The snowman was searching for a phone, and the phone was ringing. Then I realised that the phone was beside my bed and buzzing in my ear.

With a groan, I rolled over and reached for the phone. I dropped it. It stopped ringing. Then the ringing started again. Sweeping my hair from my eyes – it’s too long, I must get it cut – I picked up the phone, placed it to my ear and muttered a husky, Hello.

Sam, a male voice said.

Uh-huh? I frowned then pulled the duvet up to my chin, to cover my embarrassment – not that anyone was in the room, or bed, with me.

Are you awake?

Yes, I mumbled. No, I groaned. Sort of, I confessed. The digital display on my bedside clock blinked at me: 8.43 a.m. Normally, I’d be up and at ‘em by this time. However, I’d spent the early hours on the trail of an errant husband before handing over that task to my flatmate and colleague, Faye Collister. Faye hadn’t returned home, or phoned in, so presumably she was still on his trail. The errant husband was Faye’s first experience of fieldwork; until now, she’d been my office dogsbody. I wondered idly how she was getting on.

I’m sorry about last night, the man said.

I flopped back on to the pillow and relaxed, allowing the duvet to slide off me; the male voice belonged to Alan, my fiancé.

Uh-huh.

A client called; an emergency.

Uh-huh. Then, with my mind slowly slipping into gear, I added, But you don’t normally visit clients, after hours.

I know, but like I said, this was an emergency, a threat of suicide.

Alan was a psychologist, a leading member of his profession. His reputation ensured that his services were in great demand. However, he always found time for me, except for dinner last night when, for the first time, he’d stood me up. There had to be a logical explanation for his action, and although it was late in coming, I accepted that explanation without a second thought.

Leaning forward, drawing my knees up to my chin, I frowned and asked, Is she all right?

He, Alan corrected me. Yes, all calm now, crisis over.

A strand of hair had fallen across my face, so I pursed my lips and blew it away from my chin. Are you free tonight? I asked a hint of eagerness creeping into my voice.

Alis wants me to meet a friend of hers.

Alis was Alan’s teenage daughter, his only child, the spitting image of his late wife, Elin. Elin had died in a climbing accident, eight years ago, and Alan still felt the pain of that tragedy.

Alis has a new boyfriend? I asked.

Uh-huh.

Is she serious about him?

You know Alis... A hint of humour graced Alan’s voice and I could sense his smile. The closer she gets to eighteen and the realisation that she’s looking at a partner for life, the choosier she gets.

Alis is gorgeous, I said truthfully, she can choose just about anyone she likes.

Maybe. A gruffer voice and, at a guess, the hint of a frown. But I feel for her fleeting boyfriends.

That’s because you’re a man; you should side with your daughter.

I do. But they come round here, looking so doe-eyed, so obviously in love with her, then she mulls them over and throws them out on their ear.

Good for her; like you said, she’s choosing a partner for life.

Well, Alan groaned, I wish she’d be more decisive.

I smiled at the phone. Like the song says, you can’t hurry love.

After planting my feet on my fluffy bedside rug, I climbed out of bed and went in search of a bathrobe. As I slipped into the bathrobe, I asked, What about tomorrow night?

We’ve our annual reunion, at the rugby club.

I made a face at the phone. Then, with humour in my voice, I complained, You’d rather talk with a bunch of sixteen stone men sporting cauliflower ears than with me, eh?

No reply. The silence was deafening. I frowned at the phone.

You still there? I asked while running a hand through my hair, sweeping my auburn tresses away from my eyes.

I’m full of cold; just clearing my sinuses. Alan coughed to underline the fact that he was suffering from the seasonal lurgy. Tell you what, he said when his coughing fit had subsided, I’ll call you when I’m free and we’ll arrange something.

That didn’t sound like Alan; normally, he couldn’t wait to see me.

Are you all right? I asked, my voice betraying my concern.

Just this cold, he coughed.

I love you, I said, my words sweetened with sincerity.

Speak soon. Take care. Then he put the phone down.

I glared at the phone and struggled to make sense of the conversation. I love you more, he should have said, but didn’t. Maybe I was being hypersensitive, a legacy of my emotional upbringing. When it came to matters of the heart, I could be touchy at times, too touchy for my own good. Alan wasn’t well; he was suffering from a heavy cold. Maybe I should look no further and leave it at that.

I turned the central heating up, confirmed that Faye wasn’t in her room, then enjoyed a warm soak in the shower. After dressing – a pair of grey slacks, a figure-hugging camisole and a white woollen top were the order of the day – I gazed through my living room window to the street below; to the children, riding their bicycles, presents from Father Christmas; to the elderly men and women holding on to each other for dear life as they tiptoed over the ice and snow; to the snow itself, melting now, fading into oblivion. I looked out on the wintry scene and reflected that January was a strange month to begin a new year. Everything and everyone seemed tired and jaded; the snow lingered, looking tired; people’s small talk carried nothing but complaints; even my lover seemed out of sorts.

I scoffed my breakfast – the standard fare of fruit juice and muesli, along with an essential shot of black coffee – then drove to my office, out of Grangetown into Butetown, crossing the River Taff via Clarence Bridge. A Victorian creation, the original bridge contained a central segment that, via a turntable, swung open to allow shipping to sail along the river. That bridge was dismantled in 1976, seven years before I was born, so I have old photographs to thank for my knowledge. The modern bridge, though functional, holds little of its predecessor’s charm. So much for progress.

At my office, I found Marlowe, my office cat, waiting on the windowsill. I opened the window, allowed the old bruiser to rub against my arm, then hastily secured the window latch, shutting out the wintry chill.

I located a can of cat food under my office sink, fed Marlowe then checked my messages. None. Not even a prank call or an invitation to buy new double-glazing. It had been a slow start to the new year; although we weren’t struggling exactly, business wasn’t booming either. Financially, I could cope, on my own. However, I’d agreed to take Faye on, as my assistant, for a trial period only, though she was nagging daily, hoping to secure a full-time post.

I was sitting at my desk, stroking a contented Marlowe, pondering about Faye, when the lady herself staggered into the office. She’d been out all night, and it showed. Her jeans were covered in mud while her leather jacket contained fresh scratches. Her high cheekbones were mud-stained too, as dirty as her dishevelled hair. Faye had natural blonde ringlets, though she’d dyed them a shocking shade of red for Christmas. I’d tried to explain that potential clients might not appreciate the gesture, but Faye was nothing if not bolshie and stubborn, qualities, I have to confess, that I shared.

What happened to you? I asked. You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge, backwards.

The hedge ain’t the half of it, Faye complained. She flopped on to her chair, beside her desk. We’d positioned Faye’s desk at right angles to mine, at ninety degrees to our only source of natural light, Marlowe’s window. I need a coffee. I need drugs. I need sugar. I’m knackered.

I grinned. Can’t stick the pace, eh?

When I was younger I could party all night. She opened her desk drawer and removed a can of cola along with a stick of barley sugar. Faye had an incredibly sweet tooth, though she maintained a stunning, sensual figure. She sipped the cola then sucked the barley sugar. Can’t stay awake past 2 a.m. anymore.

When you were younger...you’re in your mid-twenties, Faye; you’re not ancient.

She grinned, displaying her perfect, pearly-white teeth. The sugar seemed to have no effect on them either. Despite her beauty, and intelligence, Faye had led a troubled life. Physically, those troubles manifested themselves in cold sores, and today those sores were evident on her chin and upper lip, while psychologically she was prone to bouts of deep introspection and excessive neatness; she would fuss over a file on a desk, adjusting it until it was within a millimetre of being square.

Anyway, how did it go? I asked, referring to her first taste of private detective action, her night spent tracking the suspected Romeo.

Faye unwrapped a stick of chewing gum. She placed the gum in her mouth and chewed vigorously. Well, I followed him like you said. My car broke down on the way back – that’s why I’m so late.

You need to buy a new car; you need something reliable.

Give me the spondulicks, Faye said, and I’ll buy one this afternoon. Anyway, back to the Leckwith Lothario – he lives near Cock Hill, did you know that?

I nodded and smiled patiently.

He is having it away; with two women.

Two? I arched my left eyebrow.

Yeah. He spends a couple of hours with them, then drives them miles and miles into the woods, one at a time, mind. Faye sat back. With her right hand, she indicated the mud stains on her face and clothes. Miss Marple here crawls along after them, confirms they’re up to naughties, then crawls back and does it all again. She grinned, saucily. It was a frosty night, so you have to admire his get up and go, and his stamina, if nothing else.

Okay, I conceded, not wishing to be drawn into one of Faye’s ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink’ conversations; she wasn’t obsessed with sex, exactly, but she did have a wicked line in erotic banter. Go home, I instructed, catch up on some sleep, then write a full report. And nothing flowery; we don’t want Jane Austen, only the facts.

Yes, boss. Faye stood. She grinned then offered a mock salute. At the door, she paused to gaze at me through her red ringlets, looking for all the world like a scarlet sheep. Does that mean I get the gig full-time? she asked her eyes bright with expectation.

I don’t know, I replied with my head bowed. Literally, I was ducking the issue, trying to postpone the inevitable, the day when I’d have to make a decision, to realize or shatter Faye’s cherished dream. I have to study the books, scrutinise the figures. Honestly, Faye, I risked a quick glance up, to gauge her reaction, I don’t know; I hate stringing you along. I want to take you on, full-time, but a full-time position must be financially feasible.

Faye nodded. She offered a tight smile, her face grim. Then she jumped at the sound of a sudden commotion, of someone colliding with a skip, parked outside. After walking to the window, Faye peered down, to our icy Victorian street.

Oh, fracking hell, she groaned; it’s Mouse, on his bike. She removed her chewing gum and threw it into the refuse bin. I’m off. This is the third time he’s been around since Christmas. He’s becoming a pest, Sam; he’s a creep.

He’s harmless, I said my fingers gathering up a sheaf of legal papers and slipping them into a file.

He’s a creep, I tell ya.

I placed the legal papers in a small briefcase, then positioned the briefcase on my desk, adjacent to a sleeping Marlowe. Mouse helped us to find that missing teenager, didn’t he; the best Christmas present her parents will ever receive.

He’s a creep, Faye insisted, her tone adamant, beyond compromise. I’m off to have a bath and grab some kip.

I’d locked the briefcase and was searching in my shoulder bag for items of female necessity when Mouse walked into the office, his features swathed in an idiotic grin.

Hello, Mouse, I said tentatively.

Hi, Sam. He grinned once more, then offered a disgusting snort.

Dressed in faded jeans and a dirty raincoat, Mouse had greasy, mousey hair, hair styled by a barber wielding a knife and fork. Mouse’s eyes