Smoke and Mirrors

By Hannah Howe

The man in my office held a dark secret, a secret to kill for. That man was Tony Ryland, husband of local madam, Maria de Costa. Unfortunately for me, truth and justice, Tony Ryland was dead.

What was Ryland doing in my office? Who had murdered him? What was the nature of his dark secret? The trail led to Ryland's wife, Maria de Costa, to her network of prostitutes and clients. Questions led to evasive answers and more deaths.

Someone was out to muddy the waters, to distort the truth, to bury the secret along with Tony Ryland. As I probed and prodded, I placed myself, family and friends in danger. Ultimately, Ryland's death left me with a question: what is of greater value, love or the truth?

Smoke and Mirrors, a tale of treachery, of duplicity and cover-ups, the story of a scandal that simmers within our society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goylake Publishing
• Release date: Nov 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370693566

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

The alarm on my mobile phone woke me at 7 a.m. I groaned, rolled over, fumbled for the phone and switched off the alarm. Then I rolled over again and pulled the duvet over my head.

Our marital bed was so warm, so cosy, so snug, it argued against getting up. However, my handsome husband was already in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, to judge from the scent of cooked bacon that wafted up the stairs. As a vegetarian, I had a very sensitive nose in regard to cooked meat. Indeed, Alan, my husband, reckoned that I was a sensitive person, a trait he found attractive, along with my angelic looks, petite frame and long auburn hair. He also regarded me as a sensual person, though I will leave further discussion on that subject there. We’d been married two months; two months of heaven; two of the happiest months of my life.

The alarm on my phone shrieked again, reminded me that I couldn’t shirk my duty; I had to face the new day, had to meet up with my assistant, Faye Collister, and drive her to our office. With a stretch and a yawn, I stumbled out of bed.

After the ritual of bathroom ablutions, I found Alan in the kitchen, cooking breakfast, singing to himself. He looked bright and cheerful as he loaded his plate with bacon, sausage, tomatoes, a potato waffle and a scrambled egg. How he could be so cheerful in the morning, I didn’t know. How he could face such a breakfast was beyond my comprehension as well. However, he paused to kiss me, to tap me playfully on the bottom, before sitting at the breakfast bar where he tucked in.

As I fumbled for my coffee cup, I reflected that Alan, a psychologist, a leading member of his profession, could snooze on a clothesline, could fall asleep in seconds, then wake energized and refreshed, while I required several cups of coffee or five thousands volts to get me going, sometimes both.

I opened a cupboard in search of a coffee jar then absent-mindedly gazed into the kitchen mirror. Suddenly, I was electrified, fully awake. My hair was a mess, tousled, dishevelled, but I didn’t require my ace detective’s certificate to know that I was staring at a strand of grey hair.

Look, I screeched at Alan.

What? He glanced up from his breakfast plate and frowned.

A grey hair.

Alan chewed then swallowed a mouthful of bacon. It’s only one, he said, his right hand reaching for his fruit juice, and it’s barely noticeable at that.

But it’s there, I moaned, leaning towards the mirror, staring at my startled reflection. I’ve been married two months and already I have a grey hair.

Alan smiled. He said, It makes you look more dignified, more intelligent.

How? I complained, turning away, flopping on to a chair beside the kitchen table. Honestly, I’m not vain but a grey hair. I placed my head in my hands and moaned, It makes me look old.

I’ve lots of grey hairs, Alan pointed out.

Yes, but you’re older than me. Ten years older. And grey hairs do make you look more dignified; they suit your profession.

You can hardly see it, he said while slicing a sausage into small pieces and popping them into his mouth.

"Hardly implies that you can see it, I complained. Turning to face Alan, I sighed, Maybe marriage was a bad idea. Maybe we should have lived in sin."

Maybe we should up the sin quotient, he grinned.

Would that be possible? I frowned.

Alan dabbed his lips with a napkin. Then he walked over and kissed my hair. We could try, he said, his lips seeking my lips.

I kissed him warmly then asked, Would more sex make a difference?

He shrugged, You don’t know until you try.

I met his leer with a censorious glare. Are all psychologists sex obsessed?

Alan laughed, Only those married to ultra sexy private eyes.

We washed the breakfast dishes then enjoyed a brief romantic interlude, during which Alan touched an innocent, yet sensitive place; somehow, he added goosebumps to my goosebumps; I don’t know how he did it; quite simply, the man had the touch.

While I adjusted my dressing gown and fought the urge to ravish him, he said, I thought I’d prepare a Waldorf Salad for dinner, with red cabbage and pears; my treat, okay.

Sounds yummy, I said.

Alan threw his raincoat over his left arm then kissed me again. Catch up with you later.

But what about this? I asked while tugging at the strand of grey hair.

Ask Faye, Alan said, I’m sure she’ll have a solution.

She’ll probably suggest divorce or hair dye.

Go with the latter, Alan smiled. It’s cheaper and less strain on the nerves.

Is that the sort of advice you give your clients?

He paused by the kitchen door, thought for a moment then replied, In a manner of speaking, yes.

What it is to be wise, I said while tugging at my grey hair, trying to remove it.

Remember what Aristotle said, ‘knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom’. Alan picked up his briefcase and winked, Enjoy your day, beautiful.

Despite my best efforts, the grey hair stayed in place. So I shrugged, sighed and said, Yeah.

Chapter Two

After a shower and breakfast, I slipped into a charcoal trouser suit complete with a waistcoat and light pinstripe then drove east along Cardiff Road, into the city, then south into Grangetown, to meet up with Faye.

Faye lived in my pre-marriage flat, a flat that we’d once shared. With golden ringlets, high, delicate cheekbones and enchanting blue-green eyes, Faye was gorgeous, stunningly beautiful, a magnet for most men. However, Faye had her problems and men were not on her radar. Her problems stemmed from a fraught relationship with her mother, a relationship that led Faye to doubt and question herself. Worse, she’d drifted into prostitution for a time, as a form of self-punishment, and she suffered from a chronic obsession centred on order and neatness. Nevertheless, she was loyal and diligent, and I liked her; she was a good colleague and friend.

Not the best of drivers, Faye had damaged her car, driving into a wall. That incident was symptomatic of her recent behaviour; she appeared distracted, preoccupied, in a world of her own. At the best of times, Faye hovered on the fringe of such behaviour, and lately she’d been more intense. I wondered if she was coping with the adjustment of living alone. Maybe the solitude offered her too much time for introspection and thought.

Faye wasn’t a morning person either, so we sat in silence during the short journey east, from Grangetown into Butetown and our office. While crossing Clarence Bridge, she stared at me and blinked herself awake.

I know, I said, I’ve got a grey hair.

Faye grinned revealing her immaculate milky-white teeth. She drank cola by the gallon and sucked barley sugar repeatedly, but nothing seemed to damage her teeth.

I noticed your grey hair yesterday, she said, but didn’t like to say anything.

Thanks, I sighed, a true friend.

Faye’s grin broadened. Are you going to colour it?

What do you reckon? I asked while glancing around at the traffic, at the pale blue October sky, at a carpet of leaves on the pavement.

Maybe you should, Faye advised. After all, you’re at a funny age.

I turned briefly and scowled. I’m thirty-four, Faye. Since when has thirty-four been a funny age?

Faye shrugged. She glanced through the side window at a young man. Covered in a multitude of tattoos, the man sported a tee-shirt and shorts; maybe he’d bought the clothes in a summer sale and was determined to wear them, even though the chill in the air called for an overcoat.

Sometimes women of your age go grey overnight, Faye said, warming to her task of Job’s comforter.

Where did you read that? I frowned.

The Internet.

You spend too much time on the Internet, I scowled.

Technophobe, Faye said, turning to face me, poking her tongue out. Mind you, she continued, "I also read on the Internet that Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson have set up a recording studio on the Moon. This Place Rocks, I think it’s called."

I smiled then sneezed as smoke tickled my nostrils. Maybe someone had lit a bonfire a couple of weeks early. Or a garden fire smouldered, though it was early in the day. Ten seconds later, I turned into Marquess Terrace and noticed with horror that our office was ablaze.

With a screech of tyres, I parked my Mini. Or rather, I stopped in the middle of the road. Then I paused for a second to assess the situation. I noticed that our first floor window was partially open, on the latch, to allow Marlowe, our office cat, access, a route into the building.

Marlowe!

I ran towards the building, oblivious of the onlookers who had gathered on the pavement, impervious to the dangers, to the heat and smoke.

Sam! Faye cried. She jumped out of the Mini, ran across the street, stretched out an arm, tried to grab me. Sam! You can’t go in there!

Marlowe! I yelled, pushing Faye aside.

Sam!

A neighbour, a muscular man in his early forties, tried to stop me, but I pushed him aside too. I had to rescue the cat. I ran into the building, coughing as I encountered the smoke.

With a siren wailing in the distance, I raised my hands, to protect my face. The building, a Victorian tenement, was structurally sound, though it did creak and groan as it succumbed to the flames.

The fire had yet to reach the staircase. Indeed, in all likelihood the flames were contained within the office space. So I ran up the staircase, coughing, pausing outside the office door.

You don’t feed the flames, so wisdom told me not to open the office door. However, what if Marlowe remained in there, trapped?

The door was unlocked – maybe the flames had damaged the locking mechanism? – so I kicked it open, only to recoil at the savage heat and roaring flames. The room was aglow, bright red and orange, while the acrid smoke took my breath away. I swooned, once, twice, then staggered on to the landing.

Marlowe! I yelled between coughs and pauses for breath.

The office was indeed ablaze; flames climbed the walls, shot across the ceiling. The fire had reduced the furniture to ashes, cracked the windowpane, burnt a hole in the floorboards.

Through the flames and billowing smoke, I looked for Marlowe. But I couldn’t see the cat anywhere. My cheeks were hot, sweat dripped from my forehead; my nostrils recoiled at the stench of singed hair – my hair. My long auburn tresses, my pride and joy, were a life-threatening hazard. The fire was intense, the heat overpowering, the smoke dense; I swooned again, ready to pass out.

Then I spied a figure lying on the floor. A human figure. Male. A dead body. Who was he? How did he get there? What was he doing, lying on the floor? These, and a dozen crazy questions, went circling through my mind.

The flames had found their way into the attic and under the floorboards; they surrounded me. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I staggered towards the staircase. Then, as the building offered an earth-shattering shudder, I stumbled and fell. I watched as the burning rafters tumbled around me, tried to fight the flames as they licked at my clothes. Somehow, I found the strength and breath to climb to my feet and hurdle the blazing rafters.

I made it on to the staircase. Then the staircase gave way. Then the roof caved in. Then a wall collapsed. With the inferno raging all around me, I crumpled on to the floor and disappeared into this burning hell.

Chapter Three

A fireman rescued me. Apparently, I made it to the front door before collapsing into his arms, though I have no memory of that. The fireman placed me in an ambulance where I gasped in oxygen, cleared the smoke from my lungs. A paramedic