Bad Things Happen: Ashes To Ashes, #1

By Rowena Holloway

Will her big break become her biggest mistake?

Charlotte Ashe is desperate to get out of her light-relief gig as TVWE's 'weather babe'. When an elite footballer hands her a scoop that could make her career, she never expects it to lead into danger...

She wouldn't kill for her career, but she might just die for it.

Bad Things Happen is the first book in the new adrenaline-charged series by Ned Kelly Award nominated writer Rowena Holloway. This page-turning thriller can be read as a stand-alone.

Read Bad Things Happen today and get lost in a fast-paced tale where the truth has deadly consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fractured Press
• Release date: Oct 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780994168863

Rowena Holloway

Rowena and Joyce are sisters in Christ who have been friends for 20 years. Both are active in their church family. Rowena has the gift of preaching and Joyce has the gift of church hospitality. They recently published Pray it Forward: Spiritual Growth Meditation. They relocated to Hawaii through prayer.

Book preview

Bad Things Happen

Bad Things Happen

gripping psychological suspense

Rowena Holloway

Fractured Press, Adelaide

Contents

Bad Things Happen

Copyright

JOEY

PART 1: THE SCOOP

1. JOEY

2. CHARLOTTE

3. JOEY

4. JOEY

5. CHARLOTTE

6. JOEY

7. CHARLOTTE

8. JOEY

9. CHARLOTTE

10. CHARLOTTE

11. JOEY

12. CHARLOTTE

13. CHARLOTTE

14. CHARLOTTE

PART 2: THE UGLY TRUTH

JOEY

15. JOEY

16. CHARLOTTE

17. JOEY

18. CHARLOTTE

19. JOEY

20. CHARLOTTE

21. CHARLOTTE

22. JOEY

23. CHARLOTTE

24. JOEY

25. CHARLOTTE

26. JOEY

27. CHARLOTTE

28. JOEY

29. CHARLOTTE

PART 3: THE BEGINNING OF THE END

JOEY

30. CHARLOTTE

31. JOEY

32. CHARLOTTE

33. CHARLOTTE

34. JOEY

35. CHARLOTTE

36. JOEY

37. CHARLOTTE

JOEY

38. CHARLOTTE

39. CHARLOTTE

40. CHARLOTTE

Epilogue

LESS YOU KNOW

Allie

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Acknowledgments

OTHER BOOKS BY ROWENA HOLLOWAY

About the Author

Bad Things Happen

Ashes To Ashes Book # 1

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Fractured Press Pty Ltd and Rowena Holloway

---

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

This edition uses Australian spellings as defined by the Maquarie Dictionary (2016)

For Claire,

You may be gone from this world, dear friend, but you are still in my heart and my life is richer for having had you in it.

---

(As you can see, I didn’t give up.)

JOEY

THE END

Streets of London

Saturday, July 29th 2 am

---

Today is the worst day of my whole freaking life! And it’s all because of two simple words.

Loyalty and Truth. Our team motto. Got it on the clubroom walls and stitched onto our uniforms. The boss is always on about it. ‘If you ever doubt who we are lads, always fall back on the team motto. That’s what Laughton FC stand for. That’s how the Raider’s roll. Am I right lads?’  That’s part of every training session, every pre-game psyche-up. He even has it in gold lettering on the wall behind his desk. Well, here’s a truth for you: there is no loyalty. Doesn’t matter how many walls or uniforms you stick it on, how much lip service it gets, if you don’t support a bloke when he’s down then there’s no loyalty.

My wipers barely make a difference to the rain blurring my windscreen, but this isn’t the time for safe driving. Headlights are close behind. Too close. Right on my tail. If they catch me… I peer ahead and floor my Audi R8.

Ask anyone what happened and they’ll tell you I’m the one with no loyalty. Not to the team. Not to my best mate. Not to my girl. All about perspective, innit?

Red lights. An intersection. Shit. I can’t stop now. I gun it, see headlights on my right, the blur of colour as a car shoots past. I swerve. Someone clips my rear. The Audi slides sideways. I get it under control and keep going.

I tried to reason with the boss, to explain. His grim face was about as open to reason as the little Hitler at the DVLA. ‘Don’t lie to me, Joey, it’s all there in your blood work.’ Was a time when I believed Tyrone Garner was a god. After this morning—Jesus, was it only this morning?—when he brushed off my denials like bird shit off his sleeve, well, that was the end of my hero worship.

More lights. A sharpish turn coming up. Left. I have to get into the left lane. A dithering Fiat is in the way. I gun the engine. Speed past. A motorbike cuts me off. I touch the brake and swerve. The backend goes wide, clips a set of traffic lights. I overcorrect. Bounce across the traffic island. A horn blares. Headlights come straight for me. Shit. Shit. I’m going the wrong way on a one-way road. I swerve left, almost losing control on the slick tarmac. The rear bumper clips the footpath railing, but I push the car forward, around the turn, and finally slide into the correct lane of the A1210.

Yep, worse day of my entire life. All because I believed in that motto: loyalty and truth.

Loyalty is for losers.

And truth? Yeah, well, the truth is I got caught up in something bad. Something deadly. My pathetic efforts to get out made everything worse, put everyone in danger and threatened everything we’d worked hard to achieve.

It doesn’t matter that I’d been dragged into it. I’m in. With no way out. Nowhere to turn. And now I’m racing through the slick London streets with no freaking idea where I’m headed.

If only Garner had heard me out…

Light bounces off the wet road. A lorry speeds past, going the other way. I get a windscreen of muddy water. Oncoming headlights blur, merge with the street lights and the brake lights ahead.

Brake lights. Shit.

I use my gears, touch the brakes, peer through the rain-blurred windscreen for a gap in traffic and spot the Medieval castellations. Of course! I’m on the Tower Bridge approach. Just have to cross the bridge and find sanctuary. Maybe forgiveness. The R8 growls as I push her harder.

When the boss refused to believe me, I’d slammed out of his office and barged up to the Eye on London weather girl who was there doing a good-news story on the Raiders. Yeah, I know, a weather babe isn’t exactly who’d you go to with a story like mine, but she was there and I had a hot story and a temper to match.

I dodge a Ford Transit, speed past a BMW X5, and make it onto the bridge. In the heavy traffic, I can’t tell who’s on my tail. Friend or enemy? Friends? Not too many of them left. I keep my foot planted. The world whips past as I weave through sedans, SUVs, and delivery vans. The night is a blur of haloed lights and velvet black. Kind of like my life; all the beauty gone before I’ve had time to appreciate it.

All because I believed in loyalty and truth.

Because I’d thought a way out was to talk to the press.

Because I was convinced if I turned up the pressure I could save everyone.

Loyalty and truth? No freaking way. There is no loyalty. And in this life there is only one truth.

Everybody lies.

PART 1: THE SCOOP

One

JOEY

Office of Tyrone Garner

Debden Park Training Grounds

Friday, July 28th 

---

The plan had been simple. The major weakness was doing it on the sly. If anyone found out, it’d be over before it began.

I tapped on Garner’s door and when he didn’t answer went in. The place was deserted. That kind of surprised me. He was usually in by now. Today was a big promotional day for the club and the boss was pretty uptight about how things ran. Maybe he was off wrangling the youngsters or giving Declan last minute instructions. Maybe he’d just slept in.

Nah. One thing I knew for sure was that Tyrone Garner never did anything that mundane.

My hands shook as I closed the door. Most likely lack of sleep. Could’ve used a bit more shut-eye. Kayleigh complained that I kept her awake mumbling in my sleep and tossing and turning, but these days she complained about everything. According to her I couldn’t do a thing right. Well, I was about to prove her wrong. Prove them all wrong. The boss was going to admit he’d fucked up my tests, put me back on the team and help me regain my sponsors—no one wanted to back a player who wasn’t playing—but if the boss didn’t step up, well, then I’d have to follow through with the plan. First, I had to find leverage.

The carpet was so thick I didn’t make a sound as I moved toward the desk dominating the space in front of the window. The high-backed, ergonomic leather chair looked more comfortable than my twenty-thousand-pound couch. Then again, the way Garner had decked out the club, this chair could well be worth that. I couldn’t resist trying it out. Comfy. It smelled expensive. Embraced by that buttery leather behind that huge desk gave me a sense of what it was like to be Garner, to watch us all troop into his office with requests or explanations. The power of it surrounded by evidence of Garner’s past glory hanging on every stark white wall, well, I’ve got to admit it was pretty fucking sweet.

But I didn’t have time to dick around. If I was doing this, now was my best chance.

Everyone was in early for the public relations stunt with TVWE. The lads were well excited about the weather babe, Charlotte Ashe, turning up here in the flesh. It was a standing joke in the locker room how well informed the lads were about the weather. Everyone had it bad for the weather babe. I wasn’t worried about the lads missing me while she was around. As long as I turned up for the bits to camera no one was going to give a toss about where I was in between.

The clock above the door clicked over to 7.15. I was due back on the pitch for a group appearance at 7.30.

Weird that the boss wasn’t in already. Maybe he was down there with the little kids, who were due to give a bit of a show after Declan talked up the club. I glanced out the window, keeping back so no one would see me up here, as unlikely as that was in a second storey window. I watched everyone milling about, the little league getting last-minute instruction, all of the parents antsy and on a high because their kids would be on TV. Couldn’t see the boss or Lucinda, who followed him everywhere juggling two mobiles and an iPad.

If they weren’t on the field it meant either of them could burst in any minute. I got to work rifling the drawers and sifting through paperwork looking for the information Dimitri wanted so badly he was willing to lop off a few of my body parts if I failed.

On the desk was Garner’s laptop and a set of rolled up papers. I smoothed out the papers. Architect plans. Some new housing estate he was working on. Blaxon Estate. Looked like a lot of small townhouses with that fake Tudor cladding they all liked around here. Nice, I suppose. Never heard of this development though. There was a Blaxon Hall somewhere nearby. An old manor they had made into some kind of institution or clinic.

The laptop was worth checking. Might even find something to explain why Garner was so convinced I was using. Failing that, there might be something that would help me get back on the playing team. The boss had taught me two golden rules about negotiating. One: never go into a meeting without knowing what you want to get out of it. Two: make sure you’ve got leverage to make what you want happen. I opened the laptop and moved the mouse. The screen came to life with the email window open. It wasn’t like Garner not to password-protect his files, and it might mean that he wasn’t too far away. But, hey, gift horse, mouth. I wasn’t going to question why.

A quick scan of the folders yielded nothing, so I glanced through the email messages. Then one subject header caught my eye: Blaxon Estates. Tempting. Very tempting, but the clock now said 7.20 and I couldn’t waste any more time. Then the email pinged. I nearly fell off the chair. Re: Blaxon Estates.

I had to look. Couldn’t open the one that had just arrived. Garner would notice that. I clicked on the one below, which had already been opened.

---

RE: Blaxon Estates

Ty, I understand your concerns, but as your financial adviser, as your friend, I must reiterate that spreading yourself so thin has left you vulnerable. You need to reconsider our proposed strategy. With so much at stake it is your only workable solution.

Give me a call when you get this.

Cheers

Reg.

---

Spread himself thin, hey? Well, I could understand that. Never really thought about how he’d funded our rise from nobodies to our current status as the team to watch.

Debden Park was a massive improvement on the rented rooms we’d used when Laughton barely rated at division level. Garner had poured everything he had into us. He was owner and player manager—did I mention he likes to be in control?—with a PA and an assistant player manager, a physio, head of sports science, performance analyst as well as two dedicated trainers in the gym. Us lads, we all loved it at Debden Park: we had a pool, games room, lunch room that was better than some Soho food joints; we saved on gym fees, had 24/7 access to trainers and sports psychology. Most important of all, we had privacy. See, everyone wants a piece of you if you’re halfway famous. An ad campaign here, a charity guest appearance there, and suddenly you’re London’s most eligible. And our club, Laughton FC, The Raiders, was only Championship League. Imagine the fuss for the Premier blokes.

That’s where Garner saw us heading—to the Premier League.

We’d all wanted it. In a way, it’s how I ended up here, looking for leverage against the bloke who’d pretty much made my career.

Made it and just about destroyed it.

Garner deserved the trouble coming his way. He was a big man. He was good at handling trouble.

Time had ticked past. It was now 7.26.  I was due on the field for the stupid bit to camera, and as much as I wanted a look at those emails, I still hadn’t found what I needed.

A quick check of the drawers and I came up lucky. A list of account numbers. Just as Dimitri had said I’d find. But if I pocketed the paperwork Garner would get wise, and if he knew I’d taken it I had no chance of getting what I wanted, no matter what I thought I could expose.

I needed a copy. The photocopier was in Lucinda’s office just outside. Couldn’t risk that. Not without knowing where the boss was or when he’d be back. And Lucinda could be anywhere. That girl was like a ghost, always appearing when you least expected it.

My phone. Of course. I snatched it from my pocket and snapped a few pics. Voices. The office door opened wide.

‘Enjoying my chair, Joey?’

Two

CHARLOTTE

TVWE Offices

Southbank

Friday, July 28th

---

Charlotte opened her mouth to argue, and then shut it. So much for getting ‘good job’ from her boss. Despite the situation, she was impressed by his passion.

‘A nudie run! On morning television. Have you lost your mind?’ Piers Hightower, six feet of fury wrapped in a hand-tailored suit, pounded his fist so hard on the desk it sounded like a gunshot. ‘For God’s sake What the hell were you thinking, Ashe?’

‘You told me to put more Aussie flavour into my reports.’

‘I never told you to go that far.’

‘It was all in fun. You couldn’t see anything.’

‘That’s not the point. Eye on London is a morning show. What if the kids had still been present? And you— For God’s sake!’

‘I didn’t strip off.’

‘It looked like— If Tam hadn’t cut away—’ He brushed his fingers through his usually well-groomed hair. ‘Don’t you want to be taken seriously as a reporter?’

Well that was a stupid question. That was the whole reason she was sitting here putting up with the tirade, though she had to admit Piers looked gorgeous with his blood up. She could not let her thoughts wander there. Not today. Not when she had a story this good land in her lap. If she didn’t tell him now she’d burst, a piñata spewing treasures all over the office floor.

‘Piers, I’ve got a story. A big one.’

‘Are you even listening? You crossed a line today.’

‘Oh, come on. A few football hero bums? Viewers loved it. We’re trending on Twitter.’ She held up her phone with the open app and some of her elation escaped into laughter. ‘I’ve always wanted to say that.’

‘Is this funny to you?’

‘Well, yes. Hilarious. The boys thought so too. And the crowd.’

‘Haven’t you learned anything in three years? Perception is reality. People will start claiming they saw you running naked around the pristine training grounds of Laughton FC. As charming as that image is, before nightfall they’ll be saying it was an all-out orgy.’

‘That’s a bit melodramatic.’ But Piers was right. Perception was reality and there were plenty who’d want to spin this into something dirty and crude, to use it as evidence that the ring-in Aussie bimbo wasn’t even fit for reporting the weather. All she’d wanted was a bit of a laugh, a bit of shock value to keep the fans entertained. Crap. She’d just got what was possibly the biggest lead of her career and she’d already screwed up with that nudie run idea.

Still, it wasn’t a total loss. At least Piers had admitted he enjoyed seeing her naked.

‘I’ve got a real story, Piers. Joey Baptiste hinted at trouble at the club.’

‘Hinted? A benched footy player with more muscle than brains throws you a bit of gossip and you think it’s enough to overcome that… that spectacle?’

‘There’s something there. I know it. How many property developers can you name who have weathered the financial crisis better than Tyrone Garner? Aren’t you curious? Aren’t you intrigued to look at why he’s impervious?’

‘Do you expect me to take some half-baked theory—or whatever you have—to Sir Douglas after that fiasco? Careers have been ruined over less. How do you think that makes us look, Charlotte?’

‘Us?’ Was he finally admitting there was more between them than the casual hook-ups? The flash of panic in his eyes dashed those hopes. Of course ‘us’ didn’t mean a relationship. She didn’t want that anyway. Not really. Relationships were the fastest way to stunt her career. ‘You mean TVWE.’

‘Eye on London is a family show. It’s rating does not allow for a bunch of bare-arsed footballers streaking across a footy pitch. How am I going to explain this to Sir Doug?’

Sir Douglas. Of course that was all that concerned him. Sir Douglas, and Piers Hightower’s goddamn precious career. ‘There I was believing you were thinking about me.’

‘I am thinking about you.’ Piers glanced at the office door his bitchy secretary had oh-so-thoughtfully left ajar and lowered his voice. ‘I think about you too much, Charlotte.’

She saw the truth in his eyes and wanted to reach out and smooth away the deepening line between his brows. ‘What do you think about—besides me running around naked?’

Piers shook his head and once again brushed his hair off his forehead. God, she was a sucker for his thick, soft hair. Loved running her hands through it. Loved the way it looked all messed up in the morning light. Today the sunlight picked up the golden threads among the brown and burnished the stubble on his chin. Stubble. Huh. It wasn’t like him to come to work unshaven. What had he been doing so late last night that he hadn’t had time for a morning shave? Oh, hell no. She wasn’t letting her thoughts go down that road. If she wanted this assignment—a real story—she had to bring her A game.

‘With stunts like that no-one’s going to take you seriously as a journalist.’

‘No one ever takes me seriously. That’s the problem. I’ve been stuck in weather for three years. I want more. I can do more.’

Piers dropped his gaze and shuffled the papers on his desk. ‘When the right story comes along—’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. One has come along. Joey Baptiste. The Raiders. Garner Developments.’ She perched her hip on the edge of his desk. For someone in her position it was awfully familiar, but it got her close enough to smell his aftershave and it’d wind up Alice, the bitchy secretary, no end. ‘Aren’t you at least curious?’

He looked at her then, a deep, piercing look as if he could see right to her core. They’d been naked together many times, but this was the first time she felt truly exposed, as if every flaw were spot lit. ‘If you do have a lead, you need to take it to the meeting. Put it to the team.’

Piers tapped his pen against the paperwork and began to go through it as though he were already alone. Charlotte watched him signing his name to various documents, heard the scratch of the ballpoint as it flowed across the paper, saw the gentle movement of his perfectly-fitted jacket as he breathed. For the first time since that Christmas party where she’d fallen under his spell, she felt like a stranger. A slant of sunlight fell across his desk. The pen scratched. Beyond the door life went on as usual: Alice denying someone taxi vouchers; laughter as a couple of colleagues shared a sexist joke; the hum of a printer in the next room.

It had always amazed her how Piers could flip his passion on and off like a light switch, but this was different. This was more like disinterest, disappointment. Punishment. She’d always known her tiny dreams didn’t matter to anyone, but she had thought Piers at least respected her ambition.

She watched his hand moving down the page, noted the light grip of his elegant fingers on the gilded pen, thought of those same fingers, his hands, on her skin, and the way he always kissed her lips and then her neck, breathing her in as if he couldn’t get enough. But that was sex. When it came to the job, she didn’t rate. If she had any real pride, she’d end it. Whatever it was. Gather the dregs of her self-respect and leave this going-nowhere-job and matching love-life. Yet how could she walk away when the thought of those long nights without him, never seeing him at work, no more stolen kisses, sometimes more when they were alone in the office, was agony? She wondered what he’d do if she threw herself across his lap and promised to be a good girl if he’d just give her a chance.

Pathetic. That’s what she was. When had she become the type of woman who begged her man for forgiveness just because he threatened to withdraw his affection? She pictured the woman who’d given birth to her—because that was about the only connection they still had—sculptured, manicured, and so desperate for her husband’s approval that every inevitable infidelity sent her back to the plastic surgeon.

Seven years and half a world away and she’d still turned into her mother.

Like hell! She straightened her shoulders and rallied the strength that had got her through worse. ‘Put it to the team, Piers? That’s your advice? You know that Sadiq will never let me float an investigative story, let alone take the lead.’

‘It’s not my job to tell Sadiq what stories he should run.’

‘You’ve vetoed stories before. Why not champion one?’

‘I can’t show favours, Charlotte.’ He glanced at the partially open office door. ‘You understand.’

She knew his reasons. Up to a point, she accepted them. It didn’t mean she understood. After their Christmas hook-up Piers had made it quite clear both their careers would be jeopardized by public displays of affection. It was only much later she came to know of the strange relationship he had with Sir Douglas’s daughter and how entwined that woman was with his career. By then she was already in too deep. And what he’d offered suited her: a relationship that wasn’t a relationship, friends with an extra order of benefits.

Recently, she had come to realise their arrangement was very light on the friendship part of the deal.

‘I can do this with you or without you, Piers. I’d rather do it with your blessing.’

Piers put down his gold-plated pen and steepled his fingers. It was a posture he’d copied from Sir Douglas and Charlotte wanted to thump him, but a smile hovered on his lips. That smile gave her hope. ‘You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me.’

‘Sixty seconds; I’ve got two possible roads of inquiry.’

‘Forty-five.’

Forty-five seconds. Okay, she could do this. On the drive back from Laughton FC she’d done nothing but think of ways to present her case.

‘Forty seconds.’ Piers’s smile deepened.

Charlotte took a deep breath. ‘Option one: elite sportsman, failed two drugs tests, positive for banned substances, claims he’s clean.’

‘Unless he’s bigger than Lance Armstrong, nothing new there.’

‘Option two: ex-elite sportsman now a developer and limelight hog. Suspiciously able to avoid any fallout from the financial crisis, claims to put all profits back into his affordable housing scheme and yet over the last two years has built a state-of-the-art training ground, is in negotiations to build a new stadium, and paid through the nose for a European league player to up their chances of the Premier League.’

‘Fraud’s not new. Dodgy developers aren’t new. Might be possibilities in the footy angle. Something other than drugs and dodgy managers. There’s only one problem.’

‘Don’t you dare tell me it’s my lack of experience, because you know I exposed a white-collar crime in Manchester.’

‘Garner’s untouchable.’

‘No one’s untouchable.’

‘He has deep pockets and contacts in high places. Add in low morals and you get the trifecta.’

‘You think he has low morals?’

‘When it comes to a local hero like Ty Garner, I don’t think anything.’

‘That sneer would suggest otherwise.’ It was the first time in a long time that she and Piers had discussed the job. It felt great. ‘So, it’s conceivable he’s doing something like using his development company, maybe even the team, to launder money.’

‘That is a hell of a leap. Just what did your source tell you?’

Joey hadn’t actually told her anything. One of the players had said they’d seen him going to Garner’s office and later Joey had charged up to her, barely able to see past his rage, and offered to give her information that might endanger the club. Yeah, it was a leap, but if she took it she was pretty sure of sticking the landing. ‘But you think it’s conceivable—money laundering?’

‘He wouldn’t be the first, last or only developer to do so. You need to be careful throwing accusations like that around without irrefutable proof. Remember, everyone looks dirty if you look hard enough.’ He gave her another piercing look. ‘We’ve all got our secrets.’

Charlotte fought to hold his gaze. Telling him why she would never return to Australia had seemed a good idea at the time. A way to show him she trusted him. A way to deepen their connection. Had she been wrong to trust him?

‘You think my