Sins of the Father

By Hannah Howe

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; 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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goylake Publishing
• Release date: Jul 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370058303

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

We were walking along the riverbank, Alan and yours truly, at the rear of Alan’s house. Soon, Alan would become my husband; soon, I would become Mrs Storey; soon, I would own a share of this splendid sixteenth century manor house; soon, I would wake up from this dream, for dream it surely was, like one of the fairy stories I’d habitually read as a child.

The August sun warmed our necks and arms, topped up three months of steadily accumulated suntan. As ever, Alan looked casual and smart, handsome and dignified. Through his looks and personality, he was a magnet for the majority of women; through his standing as a leading psychologist, he could fund a comfortable lifestyle; he had everything he could wish for and, incredibly, he wanted me.

Are you sure you want to marry me? I asked, pausing in mid-stride, leaning my head against his shoulder.

I’m sure, Alan said, smiling down at me, slipping an arm around my waist, kissing my hair.

The air was still, the breeze non-existent, so for once I didn’t have to battle with my long, auburn hair, didn’t have to tangle with my wayward tresses.

You’ve come to terms with your past? I asked, referring to Alan’s first wife, Elin, to the tragic accident that claimed her life.

I have, Alan said, releasing a poignant sigh. He turned to gaze at the river, which meandered by in lazy, somnolent fashion, its energy sapped by the long, hot summer, by the unusually dry weather; we hadn’t seen anything like it since 1976, so the locals said; I wouldn’t know, for in 1976 I wasn’t even a twinkle in my father’s eye. While staring at the sluggish brown water, Alan asked, Are you sure you want to marry me?

Yes, I nodded decisively. I’m sure.

You’ve come to terms with your past?

Again, I nodded, though with less confidence this time. I have. My mother and Dan are nothing more than memories, painful memories, true. But you are my present and future. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

So, Alan said, in ten day’s time we’ll get married.

A helicopter hovered overhead, diverted my attention to the sky, reminded me that within hours Alan would be travelling through that cloudless sky, on his way to a psychology conference.

With a heavy heart, I said, But business comes before pleasure.

It’s the psychologists’ conference season, he shrugged.

In Australia, I sighed.

Again, he shrugged, adding a playful smile. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.

Very funny, I said, the scowl on my face disguising my amusement. Most men have a stag night or stag weekend, I reasoned; you have a stag week on the other side of the world.

Alan laughed, a sound as harmonious as the sweetest melody. He slipped his hand into mine then led me into the shade, into a welcome shadow provided by a line of oak trees. There, he said, Listening to Otto Stine drone on and on about his outdated Freudian theories hardly constitutes a stag week.

Will Pavlina be there? I asked, referring to our Bulgarian friend.

Yes.

Give her my love.

Alan nodded, I will.

Shame she can’t make it to the wedding, I said.

We’ll catch up with her, Alan said, on honeymoon.

After the wedding, we would honeymoon in Bulgaria. A recent trip to Hisarya had whetted my appetite for the country; on that occasion, I’d become embroiled in a local mystery, allowed my inquisitive nature to get the better of me. However, on honeymoon there would be no sleuthing. I’d resolved to put my deerstalker and magnifying glass away, to lock them firmly in a drawer.

First, I had to negotiate ten long days without Alan. I stood on tiptoe, gave him a passionate kiss then said, I’ll miss you.

I’ll miss you too, he said, his chin resting on the crown of my head, his gaze, at a guess, fixed on a point of no significance. We’ll link up via videophone, as soon as I arrive in Perth.

We kissed again then walked hand in hand, back to the house.

As we strolled through a field, bone-hard and parched like the rest of the landscape, I said, I bet you break an ankle, or your plane will be inexorably delayed on the way back.

I’m going to Australia to a psychology conference, Alan smiled; I’m not going to Austria to sample the skiing. He gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze. I’ll get to the church on time; nothing will stop me."

We’re not getting married in a church, I said.

A figure of speech, he said.

A simple wedding.

He nodded, It’s what we both want.

Definitely, I agreed.

The wedding would be a simple affair, with just a handful of family and friends in attendance. First, the thought of those ten long days without Alan. Don’t wish it away, Elton sang, adding, I guess that’s why they call it the blues...

I was singing that song quietly to myself when Alis, Alan’s teenage daughter, appeared at the garden gate. She waved to us and we waved back. Then Alan checked his wristwatch. Time was ticking; only minutes to departure.

Make sure Sam behaves while I’m away, Alan said as we joined Alis at the gate.

I will, she smiled.

After the wedding, Alis would prepare for university; she’d create a new life for herself, pursue her ambition to become a doctor.

And make sure Alis behaves, Alan said to me.

Dad, she scowled. I’m not a child.

No, you’re not, Alan said. Before replying, he’d gazed long and hard at his daughter, no doubt acknowledging the fact that his pretty little girl had grown into a beautiful young woman. There would be fun times ahead at the university and Alis would no doubt break a few hearts. Of course, we’d maintain her room at the house and she’d visit frequently. But the patterns of life were changing, the kaleidoscope was turning, forming new pictures; time was moving on.

With his suitcases safely loaded into his Jaguar XJ6, Alan turned and hugged his daughter. He kissed me then climbed into his car. Within a minute, he was away, to Heathrow, on the first leg of his journey to Australia.

As the Jaguar disappeared into the distance, Alis smiled and waved, shared in her father’s excitement. Meanwhile, I sighed, climbed into my Mini, engaged gear and drove to my office. Time goes faster when you’re busy and, thankfully, I had plenty of work to do.

Chapter Two

I drove the short distance from Alan’s house in St Fagans to my office in Butetown, heading east, along St Fagans Road. With every mile, the fresh air of the countryside gave way to the heat of the city, to the shimmering tarmac, the police and ambulance sirens, the blaring of car horns. Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty...The Lovin’ Spoonful nailed that one, all right.

In Butetown, I parked outside my office, in Marquess Terrace, then climbed the creaky Victorian staircase to my office door. Inside the office, I found Faye Collister, my assistant, sitting at her desk. Faye was one of nature’s organizers. In truth, she was obsessed with neatness, a problem born of childhood trauma.

Like its occupants, our office was neat and petite. The furniture was basic – two desks positioned at right angles, a large filing cabinet, a small bookcase, a coat stand and a sink. A vase of fresh flowers provided a splash of colour while three cacti, supplied and painstakingly arranged by Faye, added tasteful decoration. Furthermore, a double glazed window, situated behind my desk, offered a source of natural light. That window was open, to allow fresh air to circulate in the tiny room. Indeed, Marlowe, our office cat, was sunning himself on the window ledge, his bulk sprawled across the concrete sill, his whiskers twitching as he dreamed of nefarious delights.

Ooh, look, Faye said, offering me a saucy smile, it’s the blushing bride.

Knock it off, I complained, duly blushing for no apparent reason, if you’re going to start the wind-ups now, it’s going to be a long ten days.

I dropped my shoulder bag on to my desk, ran a casual eye over a mountain of bills and sighed.

Alan got off all right? Faye asked. She stood, walked over to my desk, picked up my shoulder bag and placed it on the coat stand. Then she gave me an apologetic shrug. Faye’s obsession with neatness and order could be trying at times, especially for her. But we’d found a way to cope; basically, I didn’t question or interfere with her actions while she studied self-help manuals and tried to reduce her stress levels; her obsession with neatness intensified when she felt under stress.

In reply to Faye’s question, I nodded and said, He’s on his way; next stop, Australia.

I suppose he’ll behave himself while he’s away, Faye said, her pretty face still swathed in a saucy smile. Before I could reply, she added, I’ve received confirmation from the venue and registrar. You pull out now, you’ve lost your deposit.

As well as organizing our office duties, Faye had the immediate task of organizing the wedding.

I’m not going to pull out, Faye; I love Alan; come hell or high water, I’m going to marry him. Anyway, I complained, why are you casting this pall of doom and gloom?

It’s a wedding tradition, Faye said simply.

Since when? I scowled.

Since Adam and Eve and the apple.

I placed the bills in the pending tray and thought about that. Did Adam seduce Eve, or did Eve seduce Adam? I asked. Or did the apple seduce both of them?

Faye shrugged. She picked up a pen and scratched the top of her head. You’re not big on religion, are you, Sam?

Only when I’m trapped in a tight corner, I said; then I pray like hell.

Faye examined her pen. She pursed her lips then placed the pen, neatly, on her desk. Anyway, she said, everything’s booked. I’ve sorted the guest list. From your side I have Sweets, Mrs MacArthur, Mac and his boyfriend, and me. She glanced at yours truly then frowned. Sure you don’t want to invite anyone else?

I just want a quiet wedding; I don’t want a fuss.

From Alan’s side, I have his parents; they’re travelling over from France, right?

I nodded; Alan’s mother was French; his parents had retired to Brittany.

I also have Bernie Samson, Alan’s best man; his psychology mates and his ex-rugby playing pals. And Alis, of course. Is Alis bringing a boyfriend?

She’s not romantically attached at the moment, I said.

Good for her, Faye said. Incongruously, given her good looks and sensual appearance, Faye managed to sound like a crusty maiden aunt. So that’s the guest list sorted then.

Do you want to invite anyone? I asked.

Faye scoffed. She swivelled in her chair then turned away, to gaze at the wall. An old client, perhaps; or my mother?

Faye had spent time on the street, as a prostitute. And she was estranged from her mother. Both actions were linked to her childhood trauma. Money represented no problem for Faye’s mother and, every month, she sent her daughter a ten-figure cheque, which Faye promptly shredded. Their estrangement was sad, but understandable. Maybe one day they would reach the point of reconciliation and forgiveness, but not yet.

I’m serious, I said. Invite someone if you like.

I’m on my own, Faye said, and I like it like that. She swivelled in her chair again, only to pause and face me. Shame you can’t invite your mother though.

I nodded. My late, alcoholic, mother would have enlivened proceedings, if nothing else. If she were alive, she’d probably talk Alan out of it, I said, "over a bottle of gin. ‘When she was a little girl, Samantha dropped a dozen eggs on to the floor to see if they would bounce, did you know that. When she was six, she used to play suicide with her dolls; she’d place them on the window ledge then talk, to stop them from jumping. When she was sixteen, I caught her reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover...’"

Faye laughed, Sounds like you had an interesting childhood.

I nodded. My childhood was interesting, to say the least. Is it any wonder I am who I am? I walked over to the window and gazed down to the street. Children were wandering around, though few were playing; games involved computers and gizmos these days, not sport or hide and seek. Still, I reflected, it would be nice if my mother were alive to see my happiest day.

I’m sure she’s looking on from somewhere, Faye said. Then, abruptly, she went off at a tangent,