Stormy Weather

By Hannah Howe

Pregnant in a pandemic. My life is never dull. While Alan and I set about the pleasant task of selecting a name for our baby, Faye interviewed candidates for the role of maternity leave assistant.

Our plans were going well until a friend was murdered. The evidence pointed to a hitman, a professional killing. A further murder underlined the fact that the stakes were high, that someone had a secret to hide.

Who was behind the murders? And what was the secret they were desperate to hide?

Stormy Weather, an investigation that threatened my life, and my baby’s, a case that revealed that greedy men are prepared to kill anyone and anything, including our planet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goylake Publishing
• Release date: May 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781838354817

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

Pregnant in a pandemic. My life is never dull.

I’d been carrying Baby for five months and the scans and medical checks revealed that she was doing well. Furthermore, apart from occasional back pain and an insatiable craving for rice pudding, I was doing well.

As for the pandemic, we as a society had started by following the government’s guidelines – washing our hands on a regular basis, social distancing, wearing facemasks whenever we ventured outdoors.

However, as the government’s guidelines became more obtuse and chaotic, we decided to abandon them and fend for ourselves; it was clear that the politicians were more interested in the economy than people’s health. Therefore, at home and work we created our own rules in the interests of keeping ourselves safe.

Our business, our little segment of the economy, was important, but we decided that nothing trumped good health. My pregnancy and looking after Baby certainly justified that approach. And to underline our strategy we realised that a healthy business, a healthy economy, depended on good personal health.

To protect his clients my husband, Dr Alan Storey, worked from home where he conducted his counselling through video calls.

At work, Faye and I decided to conduct our business over the phone whenever possible, preferring long-distance client communication to face-to-face meetings. This system wasn’t perfect and not always possible, but at least it reduced the risk.

Faye also placed hand sanitizers in our office. It was interesting to observe as she washed her hands. She had a definite routine – right hand over left, rubbing her palms, then in-between her fingers before completing the ritual with the backs of her hands and palms again. She offered twenty-five hand movements every time; I knew this because I counted them on several occasions. Maybe I was becoming as obsessive as Faye.

We were sitting at our desks in our attic office, which overlooked Cardiff Bay. A photographer occupied the ground floor while video game makers rented the space on the first floor. Our immediate neighbour was a friendly Rastafarian. He composed library music. By that, I didn’t mean music that would disturb the hushed atmosphere of a library, but music that film, radio and television producers could select to enhance their programmes. He composed his music as a sideline – for a living, he worked as a financial analyst in the city – so potential noise interference and disturbance was kept to a minimum.

Our composer friend told Faye that he’d love to write music full-time. However, apart from the lucky one percent, it was difficult for anyone to make a living from a creative endeavour.

We’d just completed our third interview in our search for a new assistant. Our initial intention was to hire an assistant to help with our workload. However, because of the pandemic our workload had eased slightly. For example, a leading hotel chain had postponed our mystery guest work. Therefore, the new assistant would cover the final months of my pregnancy and my maternity leave, nine months in total.

What do you think about the candidates so far? I asked Faye.

My friend and colleague sat back, flicked her golden ringlets from her perfectly sculptured cheekbones and examined her notes.

Number one was good, Faye said, but a bit officious. I don’t think she’d blend in with our relaxed atmosphere.

And candidate number two? I asked.

He was far too cocky and over-confident. He held a high opinion of himself based on limited investigative skills. He’s the sort who’d attract problems, not solve them.

And candidate number three? I asked.

She’s the pick of the bunch so far. However, I reckon her wage demands might prove prohibitive; she’s asking for twenty percent above our advertised rate.

What about candidate number four? I asked.

Faye rolled her eyes. He arrived wearing plus fours and orange socks. Plus, he carried a golf club over his shoulder; do I need to elaborate?

In that case, I said, it’s candidate number five or bust. Please invite her into our office.

We’d created a small annex, a waiting room outside our office. It was a bit impersonal far from ideal but, with limited space, it served as our best option.

Faye opened the main door and invited candidate number five into our office. This candidate was a small woman who required the use of a wheelchair. Aged thirty, she possessed short hair dyed a light shade of pink, and a small face, mainly hidden behind huge spectacles. Her forearms were strong, I noted, which suggested that she enjoyed athletic pursuits.

As with all our candidates, Faye invited her to wash her hands. Without hesitation, she rolled her wheelchair towards the sink and used the sanitizer. Then she positioned herself a respectful distance away from our desks. Her health and safety actions created a good impression. Her clothing too was smart – a black and white jacquard suit along with a simple black crewneck sweater.

Ms Tamara Lys Creighton-Stewart, I said.

I know, she cringed, it’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? I get by as Tami or Tamara.

Are you related to Lord Creighton-Stewart? Faye frowned.

He’s my father, Tamara said. He sits as a crossbencher in the House of Lords. He’s a great advocate for disabled rights and the environment.

According to your CV, I said, after college you worked as a legal assistant.

That’s right, Tamara nodded. As she moved her head, her spectacles slid down her thin nose and she had to pause to adjust them. I worked for Spencer and Blanchflower for the best part of seven years.

Why did you leave? I asked.

Two reasons, Tamara said. One, I’m thirty and feel it’s time for a career change; legal work can be dry on occasion; I’m looking for something more stimulating, more challenging. Two, legal offices can attract bullies. I’m no soft touch. Indeed, I reckon that I have a thick skin, but after seven years of bulling I decided enough was enough.

Your colleagues bullied you over your wheelchair use? Faye frowned.

Tamara sighed. They saw a wheelchair user as a legitimate target for verbal abuse.

Can we ask you about your wheelchair use? I said.

Of course, Tamara smiled. Discussing my wheelchair and my health doesn’t trouble me. I was born with spina bifida. I’ve used a wheelchair since childhood. I can still remember my first wheelchair. I was so excited to receive it. It offered me freedom, enabled me to whizz around.

You whizz around on racetracks now, Faye said, consulting Tamara’s CV.

That’s right. I’m an athlete. I train and participate in Paralympic events, from sprints to marathons.

What are your other interests? I asked.

Training and competing takes up most of my free time. However, I enjoy painting, reading of course, nature, and the movies.

Before we go any further, Faye said, maybe we should discuss the nature of our business.

However, before Faye could describe our agency in any detail, my mobile phone rang. I used a standard, old-fashioned ringtone. Before that, I tried a number of ringtones, but tended to ignore them because they blended into the background noise. My ears were attuned to a phone sounding like an old-fashioned telephone.

My first instinct was to ignore my phone and proceed with the interview. However, when I recognised that the caller was an old friend and fellow private detective, Frank Brooker, I decided to accept the call.

Excuse me, I said to Tamara. I’ll be with you in a minute.

It’s Frank, he said, his voice characteristically low, his tones hushed.

Hi, Frank, I said. Can I call you back? I’m tied up at the moment.

I’ve uncovered something, Sam. It’s huge, too big for me; I need your help.

What have you uncovered? I asked.

I’m in St Brides, he said, near the Pwll y Mêr. Meet me there.

Before I could reply a soft, yet distinctive noise disturbed the silence. I glanced at Faye and with my eyes wide, my senses alerted, I said, That sounded like a gunshot; a silencer.

Automatically, I switched my gaze to Tamara and noted that she appeared calm, unfazed by the unfolding drama.

Frank? I said into my phone. Frank, are you still there?

The silence was deafening, the pulse in my ear disturbing as I pictured the scene in St Brides.

I’m afraid we must curtail this interview, I said to Tamara. I need to call the police.

Chapter Two

I reported Frank’s phone call, and a possible shooting, to the police, then travelled twenty-two miles west to St Brides to the Pwll y Mêr, the source of his phone call.

As I travelled along the A48, which was lightly populated because of the pandemic, I reflected on Tamara’s reaction to the shooting incident. She’d appeared unfazed, in total control. Indeed, she’d handled the moment well and remained completely unflustered.

In 1811, Nicholas Carlisle wrote of St Brides: ‘This parish contains 3,000 acres of enclosed and cultivated land, and about 1,500 acres of open downs. Here is an immense spring, which issues out of a rock at the extremity of the parish, and which is esteemed equal to the Water of the Hot Wells.’ By that, I think Carlisle was referring to the Georgian spa at Bristol.

Little had changed since Carlisle’s report. St Brides remained notable for its coastal geology and scenery, its limestone downs and fossilised primitive mammals, its sea cliffs and beaches. The western limit of the Vale of Glamorgan Heritage Coast, the region also boasted three medieval castles, two Iron Age hillforts, two stepping stone river crossings and a clapper bridge.

I arrived at the Pwll y Mêr to find the police dominating the scene. They’d cordoned off the large pond, which sat within a conservation area, its overflow trickling through a crevice in the limestone to join the Afon Dawel, the Silent River, an underground stream.

Onlookers were also out in force, but because of the pandemic and subsequent restrictions, their numbers were limited. Indeed, the police were busy moving the bystanders on, encouraging them to return to their homes.

What happened? I asked, addressing a plump female constable. She was standing beside the boundary tape waving her hands in agitated fashion, in movements that said, ‘move along; nothing to see here’.

Sorry, the female constable said, please leave the area.

My name’s Samantha Smith, I said. I reported the incident.

I produced my identity card, issued by the Institute of Private Investigators. We belonged to a number of trade organisations. Membership boosted our credibility and kept us in touch with fellow private detectives, like Frank Brooker.

A senior police officer overheard my words and turned to face me. In his early forties, he possessed dark hair, combed back from a high forehead, a chubby face, a barrel chest and sloping shoulders. He wore a cream raincoat over a well-tailored, bespoke suit, a gold signet ring and an expensive-looking wristwatch. His cologne was distinctive, expensive. Either a detective inspector’s wages had increased substantially in recent times, or this officer had a finger in another pie.

Allow her through, the senior detective said. He raised the boundary tape for my benefit. Step this way. I’d like a word.

We strolled towards a grassy knoll that overlooked the pond. An impressive stone farmhouse stood in the distance, partially shielded by a line of oak trees. A gentle breeze disturbed the reeds that circled the pond while bluebells peeped through the lush green grass.

Detective Inspector Kendrick, the police officer said. He flashed his ID card then frowned at me. You’re a private detective.

For more years than I care to remember, I sighed.

You reported the crime?

I nodded. Frank phoned me. The line went dead. I thought I heard a gunshot.

You did hear a gunshot, Detective Inspector Kendrick said. He glanced over his shoulder to a white incident tent that the police had erected beside the pond. "Someone placed a bullet in the back of