A Parcel of Rogues

By Hannah Howe

A Parcel of Rogues is book thirteen in the Amazon #1 (private detective chart) Sam Smith Mystery Series. Each book in the series contains a complete story and can be read as a stand-alone. Print length, 236 pages. Also contains two bonus chapters, Ann's War: Betrayal, book one in the Ann's War Mystery Series.

A Parcel of Rogues

John Ball was a middle-aged businessman with problems, and those problems compelled him to run away from Nicola, his devoted wife of twenty years. The last thing John needed was to become embroiled in a murder inquiry, but with a gunman on the loose in the city parks, John's temporary home, the heat was on in more ways than one.

John required a safe house, a place where he could cool his heels and wrestle with his personal demons. He also required a bodyguard. Fortunately, my friend Mac was available to supply the safe house and the hired muscle.

Meanwhile, I went on the murderer's trail. Along the way, I encountered Cora Joseph, an ambitious detective sergeant with a point to prove. Together, we clashed with a parcel of rogues and unravelled a decades-old mystery.

A Parcel of Rogues, a tale of arrogance on the one hand and humility on the other, a tale of men who would murder on the roll of a dice, a tale that placed me at a personal crossroads. Which road should I choose? The road labelled 'head' or the road labelled 'heart'? When faced with such labels, do we really have a choice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goylake Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370827398

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

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Late October and the leaves were falling, covering the ground in a carpet of copper, russet and gold. I crunched my way through those leaves towards a steeply arched stone bridge in the valley town of Pontypridd, South Wales. There, I met my friend, Denise Harper.

Denise, a woman in her late thirties, ran a women’s refuge from an old Methodist chapel. A civil servant by trade, before the powers-that-be made her redundant, Denise was industrious, determined and a good organizer. Indeed, she’d harnessed those admirable qualities to develop the refuge into a food bank.

I’d known Denise for two years. Initially, we met during my search for a runaway. Since that auspicious meeting, I’d referred a number of my clients to her.

As usual, Denise was late – she always had a thousand and one things to do – so I absorbed the cool morning air and the beauty of my surroundings. That beauty included the River Taff, which flowed under the bridge. To be pedantic, I should say bridges, because this stretch of the River Taff boasted two.

William Edwards built the first bridge, the Old Bridge, in 1756 and, at that time, it was the longest single-span stone bridge in the world. Notable features included three holes of different diameters, drilled through each end of the bridge to reduce its weight. However, due to the steep nature of the Old Bridge, horses and carts found it difficult to cross. Therefore, in 1857, engineers constructed Victoria Bridge, the bridge I was standing on.

I watched as the leaves floated downriver. Then I turned to greet Denise. A large woman, ‘big-boned’ as my late mother used to say, Denise carried her weight well. She possessed short brown hair, large brown eyes and an open, honest face. She wore a smart autumnal blouse, a beige raincoat and a long, pleated skirt. Chunky jewellery, beaded and homemade, encircled her wrists and neck. She made the jewellery in her spare time, for relaxation, and it suited her well.

Hiya, I said, smiling at Denise. How are you?

Doing well. Denise paused on the bridge. She returned my smile.

And the food bank?

She rolled her eyes and sighed, As busy as ever; even more so since the austerity cuts.

I nodded, then asked, And your family?

Thankfully, Ricky’s business is still solvent; even in times of cutbacks people still need electricians. And the boys are doing well. All three have made the first fifteen of the junior rugby team, so we’re thrilled about that. We’re going to Bridgend, on the weekend, to watch them play.

As Denise spoke about her children, I sensed her pride. Her pride made me think of my own desires to have a child. I’d discussed those desires with my husband, Alan, but not to any great depth. It was time to sit down with him and explore the possibilities, then make a decision.

Denise and I walked along Victoria Bridge. As we walked, I asked, Is this a social meeting?

Partly, Denise said; it’s always good to catch up with you. Also, I’d like to hire you, on behalf of a friend.

A mutual friend?

No, she said. I don’t think you know her. Her name is Nicola, Nicola Ball. She’s a nurse with the NHS. She hasn’t received a pay rise in seven years and she’s struggling to make ends meet. I met her at the food bank.

So, I reasoned, she doesn’t have any spare money for my fee.

I’ll pay you, Denise said her words flowing as fast as the river.

No, I said. "I can’t take money from you. Besides, you’ve done many favours for me; it’s time I repaid you; I’ll do this pro bono."

Denise frowned. She arched her eyebrows. She possessed large eyebrows, which suited her strong, honest face. I don’t want to see you out of pocket, she said. After all, you have a business to run.

We’re doing okay, I said. "Recently, a client offered a generous bonus for work done, so we can manage this one, pro bono."

My words were true. A client, Tom Renwick, had kept his word and delivered a generous bonus.

Okay, Denise said, if you’re happy with that, then I agree.

We paused while a young man walked past us, carrying an acoustic guitar in his left hand. The music man reminded me that Pontypridd was a musical town. In 1856, father and son, Evan and James James, wrote ‘Land of My Fathers’, the Welsh national anthem, while the legendary Tom Jones also hailed from the town.

We walked on. Then Denise said, I’m concerned about Nicola’s husband, John. He left the family home a fortnight ago and hasn’t been seen since.

Are the police involved? I asked.

Denise nodded, They’ve been alerted, yes.

Why don’t you leave it with them?

They haven’t turned up anything yet. And as time moves on, our concerns grow. Also, we need to be realistic; the austerity cuts are affecting the police, their numbers and their efficiency; they’re feeling the pinch too. We need a fresh pair of eyes, someone experienced in tracking down missing persons.

These eyes never sleep, I said, which was partially true.

Well, Denise grinned, at least you look good on it.

Where does Nicola live? I asked.

Over there, Denise said, on a housing estate, in town. She added the address and I made a mental note.

I’ll have a word with her, I said.

Thanks, Sam. Denise reached across and touched my arm. She was a tactile person, warm and affectionate, and a riot at karaoke parties with power ballads her speciality. I knew I could rely on you.

I glanced to my right, to a line of buildings, which included a loan agency, a pizza takeaway service, a Chinese restaurant, a second-hand store, a sandwich store, a convenience store, a betting shop and a pound store. It was a long way from the Victorian era, from the days when the coal barons and the iron masters had ruled the town, although, on reflection, maybe it wasn’t. If you took away the pizza delivery service and the Chinese restaurant, the essence of the street remained the same. We advance, yet at the same time we stand still.

After five minutes of general chatter, Denise returned to the food bank while I went in search of Nicola Ball.

Chapter Two

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I walked along a street to Nicola Ball’s house. The street contained solid stone and brick houses with small front gardens, bay windows and lace curtains, while the roofs retained their original grey slate. The garden walls were thick and double-bricked; originally red, they’d discoloured with age. At a guess, these dwellings dated from the 1920s when they housed coalminers and their families.

I opened the metal gate and walked seven steps through the front garden up to the front door. There, I rang a plastic doorbell and waited for Nicola Ball to answer.

Within seconds, a woman opened the door; she tilted her head to her left and offered me a quizzical stare.

Nicola Ball? I asked.

Yes, she frowned.

I’m Sam, Sam Smith. I’ve just talked with Denise Harper...

Oh, yes. The light of recognition illuminated her eyes and brought a smile to her face. Denise mentioned you. Please, come in.

I followed Nicola into her living room. There, she scurried around, gathering clothes off chairs and radiators, placing them on an ironing board for future ironing. She’d positioned the ironing board in front of the television, which displayed a twenty-four hour news channel. A smarmy politician dominated the screen. With an air of arrogance and superiority, he offered platitudes to a less than incisive interviewer.

Bastard, Nicola swore at the television. She reached for the remote control and dimmed the screen. Then she blushed when she remembered that she had company. Sorry, Nicola said, but they get right under my skin.

Understandable, I said; no need to apologize.

Nicola nodded. She switched off her iron. Then she folded another pile of clothes, recently ironed, and placed them neatly on a small table in front of the radiator. Her clothes included several swimming costumes, which suggested that she enjoyed swimming. In regard to hobbies, I also spied a number of romance novels, arranged at random on a bookcase, along with books on baking and practical homemaking.

Sorry about the mess, Nicola said; I was just catching up on a few chores. Please, sit down, she added, waving her right hand towards a faux-leather sofa.

I sat on the sofa, in front of the blank television screen, while Nicola perched on an armchair, adjacent to her CD collection. In her early forties, she had short brown hair, dyed a shade darker, almond eyes and a pleasant, oval face. An easy smile beautified her face. Standing around five foot tall, she possessed large breasts, wide hips and a slender waist. She wore a wedding ring on her left hand, jeans and a hooded top. The top contained a breast pocket and the pocket contained her mobile phone.

You called about John, Nicola said. She glanced at a photograph of her husband, who was standing beside a cheerful teenage boy. The family resemblance suggested that the happy teenager was John and Nicola’s son.

That’s right, I said. Denise told me about John.

I can’t pay you, Nicola said. She bit her bottom lip and glanced down to the fawn carpet. The carpet was clean, but clearly of a certain age.

I nodded then said, Don’t worry; Denise explained.

I feel bad about that, Nicola said, about not paying you. I feel bad about asking for your help.

Don’t worry, I repeated. Over the years, I’ve been involved in a number of scrapes, incidents that required medical attention. In regard to the nursing profession, I’m deeply in your debt.

Nicola smiled, albeit briefly, then she resumed her nervous habit of biting her bottom lip. I wouldn’t ask, she said, but I’m worried about John.

Tell me about him, I said.

She glanced at her husband’s photograph, thought for a moment, then said, He walked out, a fortnight ago.

I nodded then said, I have to ask, but could another woman be involved?

No, Nicola said. Her voice was firm, assured, confident. We’re childhood sweethearts. We’ve been married for twenty-three years. Until a year ago, we did everything together; we lived for each other, and our son, of course.

Handsome, I said while smiling at the photograph.

Gethin, Nicola replied with pride. He’s at university now, studying physics.

Obviously, Gethin was an intelligent boy from a well-adjusted, well-balanced family; at least, that was my initial impression.

With my thoughts on John, I asked, What happened a year ago?

"John’s business failed. He ran a shop, ostensibly a hardware shop, but in reality it was an Aladdin’s cave; it stocked everything. The shop was popular with the locals. But John was too generous. He ran a credit scheme for his customers. They’d pay him for goods ordered, bit by bit, a small amount each week. That was fine to begin with. Then the government slashed the child benefits and tax credits. People couldn’t afford to make ends meet; they couldn’t afford the repayments. Initially, John’s customers paid what they could. Then, after more cuts, the payments stopped. The shop went into receivership. That destroyed John. He withdrew, into himself. For the past year, he’s been here, but not with me, if you know what I mean. Then, a fortnight ago, he walked out. He left a note. The note said, ‘I’m sorry, but it’s for the best, because I’m a burden.’ Nicola chewed on her bottom