A Trade In Tears

By Samantha Shiye

If you liked Steig Larsson's Millennium Trilogy, you may enjoy reading A Trade in Tears.

MORAG, "MO", HAS IT ALL.

A happy-go-lucky, free-spirited student and martial arts enthusiast, she's on top of the world until she finds Cindy beaten and bloodied in the graveyard - ultimately shin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samantha Shiye
• Release date: Jul 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781802275704

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a trade in tears

samantha shiye

Thank you for buying this book. The story is fictional and written for your entertainment. If you enjoy the novel, can I ask that you post a review on Amazon or Goodreads?

Should you not find the content of my offering to your taste, please feel free to contact me on my social media platforms.

I’m currently working on a sequel to A Trade in Tears.

Copyright © 2022 by SAMANTHA SHIYE

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

For more information, EMAIL [e-mail]

ISBN:

978-1-80227-569-8 (paperback)

978-1-80227-570-4 (eBook)

Dedication

This book is dedicated to every victim of crime.

Each crime committed requires a perpetrator and victims. It takes only a single perpetrator to commit a criminal act. Every crime usually leaves many victims; namely the immediate family and friends of the victim, but, occasionally, those of the perpetrator too. When the perpetrator commits murder, only family and friends remain to grieve the loss.

The perpetrator commits their criminal act by choice. They choose their victim, the crime, and the place. They choose to ignore the human rights of their victim The victim had no choice.

Why do many celebrities ignore the continuing plight of victims and choose to champion perpetrators?

Contents

Dedication

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

twenty-four

twenty-five

twenty-six

twenty-seven

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

thirty-one

thirty-two

thirty-three

thirty-four

thirty-five

thirty-six

thirty-seven

thirty-eight

thirty-nine

forty

forty-one

forty-two

forty-three

forty-four

forty-five

forty-six

forty-seven

forty-eight

forty-nine

fifty

fifty-one

fifty-two

fifty-three

fifty-four

fifty-five

fifty-six

fifty-seven

fifty-eight

fifty-nine

sixty

sixty-one

sixty-two

sixty-three

one

Cindy woke trembling in terror. Cold, clammy sweat clung to her skin. Overcome with despair, she struggled for breath, too frightened to open her eyes.

‘Be a good girl and do as you’re told or I’ll lock them up – forever…’

The woman’s voice that had haunted her for so long echoed inside her mind, paralyzing her with fear. That terrible nightmare, again? It always seemed so lifelike, but if it was real, why couldn’t she remember what the woman looked like?

Cindy shivered and reached for the duvet, but she couldn’t feel it. The duvet had gone.

Cindy panicked. Where am I?

She willed her eyes to open before remembering … I’m at Faye’s house.

Faye had invited her for a meal. Friday night when she’d finished work, Cindy had left the travel agency and taken the Compass bus to St Michael’s Park near her home. Sitting in a rear seat, Cindy remembered feeling curious about a white campervan that seemed to follow the bus and park at the entrance to her road.

After showering, she’d changed from her travel agency uniform into her new dress and red shoes. Cindy then walked the three-quarter-mile to Faye’s home in the more prestigious part of town. She remembered noticing the campervan, still parked at the end of her dead-end-road, blocked in by a car.

Massaging her neck with her fingers, she wondered, Odd, such a big camper parking so inconsiderately at the entrance to our little cul-de-sac. Just because they’re on holiday and can afford luxuries like that doesn’t give them the right to block a house entrance even if it isn’t well marked. No wonder someone parked in front of it.

Cindy’s eyes scanned the familiar room, seeing Faye asleep on the living-room sofa, illuminated by the soft light from the standard lamp. The calendar they’d used after dinner, to plan a Christmas holiday together in Las Vegas, lay open on the coffee table between them.

Cindy wanted to go but hadn’t decided. With no savings and a low salary, she simply couldn’t afford it. She knew she’d feel embarrassed if Faye paid, even though Faye had offered, suggesting a shared, twin room would cost no extra.

Cindy turned the calendar back from December to the current month, noticing Faye had marked Friday the twenty-third of September in red.

Only seven days to my eighteenth birthday. How sweet of her to remember.

She then noticed the two wine bottles and glasses near the calendar, all empty. No wonder we dozed off, ate and drank far too much. Cindy wiped the sleep from her eyes, watching wisps of Faye’s dark brown hair rise and fall in time with her breathing.

The other girls in the travel agency often teased her that Faye might be gay, which irritated Cindy. Course she’s not gay. Well … she’s never shown it, but perhaps it’s strange, she thought, I’m almost eighteen and my best friend’s thirty-two, divorced and a self-made millionaire. There’s nothing going on anyway. They’re only jealous because she’s rich and beautiful, so if it bothers them, that’s their problem.

Back in April, Faye had asked the agency to make arrangements for her trip to Paris. Cindy attended to the request, after which she’d booked Faye several more business trips to the USA.

Faye had returned in June from one of her American trips with a small present for Cindy, a silk scarf, in recognition of her efforts. During Cindy’s lunch break, they went for a coffee together.

Over coffee, Faye confided she’d only recently divorced and moved into the area. She hadn’t yet made any friends. There’d been boyfriends, but none recently.

Cindy envied Faye’s tall, willowy figure, her shoulder-length dark brown hair and brown eyes that sparkled when she smiled. Later, Cindy saw Faye’s friend request on Facebook, accepting immediately.

As the friendship grew, Cindy learned Faye owned a substantial, detached house set in an acre of garden, financed from the sale of her internet start-up. Faye had developed her fashion website, where customers bought clothes directly from designers, and sold it for more than four million pounds.

Cindy looked through the large patio windows, remembering the beautiful, manicured lawns and scented, late summer flowers. Now she could see nothing but dark beyond the glass.

It’s later than I realized, she thought, now wide-awake. Wonder what the time is?

She glanced at the mantel-clock over the fireplace.

Oh my God, it can’t be … almost six in the morning.

‘Faye, wake up,’ she called.

Cindy watched Faye prop herself on one elbow, asking sleepily, ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve got to go. Thanks for a lovely meal; pasta sauce was to die for.’

‘Go? Already?’

‘It’s quarter-to-six in the morning. I have to open the agency at eight-thirty and my clean work outfit’s at home.’

‘I’ll call a cab,’ Faye offered.

‘No, honestly, it’s not far. I know the shortcut. If I leave now I’ll have enough time.’

Cindy didn’t like Faye spending money on her. She knew Faye was rich but a cab wasn’t essential. She’d walked before and knew the lighting was good, other than near the railway.

‘It’s not raining, I’ll be fine,’ Cindy assured, pulling on her coat.

Stopping at the gate, Cindy turned to see Faye in the doorway, outlined by the hall light.

‘Text me when you’re home, Cinders.’

‘I will. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

Cindy set off at a brisk pace, anxious to reach home quickly. Leaving Faye’s avenue, she turned left along the road to the railway, her footsteps echoing from the garden walls, eerily loud in the silence.

Some music would be good, Cindy thought, fumbling in her coat’s deep pockets for her I-phone and earpiece. She turned the sound up, thinking. Everything’s better with music, as long as they don’t play any sad songs – or worse, spooky ones.

A few minutes later the radio played Johnny Cash’s, ‘The Long black Veil’.

Oh no – why did I tempt fate – my dad’s favourite. The radio’s never played that before. Why now? Why did you have to leave us, Dad?

Tears filled her eyes; Life hasn’t been the same since you died. Mum and I miss you so much.

She recalled the car accident of three years ago, which had killed her father and crippled her mother, who had since moved to Cindy’s aunt’s house in London, near the specialist spinal treatment she needed.

A white camper van drove past, slowly. She watched the right indicator flash and saw the young man in the passenger seat look at her, a little too long, too intense. Cindy felt apprehensive.

Music’s too loud, better turn it off, she thought. I didn’t hear that van.

She removed her earpiece. Thinking of the man in the van’s leering stare sent chilling shivers down her spine.

Sometimes I like the attention men show me. It makes me feel nice, especially if they’re good looking, but when they leer – it just makes me uncomfortable. Cindy shivered again before thinking – that van looked just like the camper parked at the end of my road.

Cindy continued hurriedly. Reaching the shortcut past the station, she paused. There were fewer lights here than in the street.

She heard another vehicle behind her. Cindy turned to watch its slow approach.

That’s the same camper but … where’s the passenger?

two

Morag stretched lazily on her bed, thinking of how much she’d enjoyed the long summer holiday. Studying was not as easy as some people believed and she felt the break necessary to prepare her for the term ahead.

After her shower, she weighed herself before looking in the mirror. Horrified by the result, she decided to run every morning for the next five days. The morning had almost gone but she’d start today. She needed to lose five pounds before the twenty-sixth of September to be fit and ready for her return to study for her chemistry degree at Brighton University.

Halfway through her jog, Morag couldn’t decide which hurt most, the stitch in her side or the cramp in her calf. She changed her breathing rhythm, hoping they’d go. They didn’t.

I’ll stop at the old church, she thought. If they’re still painful I’ll do stretching exercises.

Morag reached the church’s rusty, wrought iron railing that surrounded the graveyard. She bounced on one leg before stretching out her leg muscles to relieve the cramp. The cramp subsided. She began bending to ease the stitch.

Morag looked up, into the tree canopy, captivated by the colours of the leaves changing to autumn red and gold. Autumn was her favourite season.

Something in the graveyard caught her eye. A robin flew down to the ground, its red breast matching a bright red shoe near an old, moss-covered gravestone.

Stark white against the green grass, a blue-tinged foot protruded from between two shrubs. The foot twitched and Morag heard a subdued moan. She inhaled deeply. Curiosity turned to fear.

Gripping the iron fence, she tested its strength before vaulting over. The fence shook but held firm. She ran into the bushes to find the frail form of a young female lying face up on the ground.

‘Oh, my God,’ she exhaled loudly. Fear became concern.

The girl’s lips, swollen to three times normal size, were split in one place. Violent red welts, vivid against pale flesh where her bra had been savagely ripped away, were visible through her torn blouse. Nothing hid her nakedness from the waist down except for the remnants of her tights, clinging to one leg. Bite impressions left inflamed outlines, red, bruising marks on her breasts, lower stomach and thighs. Angry, purple bruising around her ankles and wrists made a stark contrast to the blue-tinged skin.

Morag fought to control her panic. What should she do? She heard the girl groan again. Calming herself, she knelt to ease the victim’s bruised and bloodied head onto her lap. The girl lifted a defensive hand.

‘You’re safe now. I’m here to help you.’ Morag wished she could think of something more reassuring to say.

The girl grasped Morag’s hand in both hers before falling unconscious again.

‘Her hands feel cold, too cold,’ Morag thought, her feelings overcome with compassion and concern.

‘Don’t die on me, please. You’re too young. Can you hear me?’ Morag pleaded gently, horrified by the victim’s condition.

Morag, released the young girl’s grasp and slipped her jacket off. The victim groaned, shaking her head from side to side.

‘You’re OK now.’ Morag tried to sound reassuring, despite her own feeling of helplessness. Regretting how light her flimsy jacket was, she removed her mobile and the half-empty water bottle from the pockets. Tucking it around the girl, Morag arranged the long sleeves to cover the girl’s naked thighs, belatedly protecting her modesty.

I’d appreciate that, if it were me, Morag thought, pressing three nines into her mobile.

The female voice that answered sounded confident, somehow reassuring. Gratefully taking strength from the contact, Morag inhaled deeply, determined to be calm and precise.

‘Emergency, which service please?’

‘Ambulance and police, the graveyard behind St Michael’s Church. Please hurry.’

‘The nature of the emergency, please?’ Morag heard the efficient, soothing, voice again and felt annoyed at herself for rushing and not supplying the relevant information. Pausing to compose her thoughts and concentrate, she continued.

‘My name is Morag Massey. I’ve found a young woman, badly beaten, almost naked, in the bushes by Saint Michael’s Church near the park. She’s freezing cold but alive, hurry.’

‘Ambulance and police are on their way. Can I have your address, please?’

‘Morag gave her the information, adding, ‘When they arrive ask them to call out – I’ll shout back. They won’t see us behind the bushes.’

‘I’ll tell them. Stay calm, they’ll be with you soon.’

A groan returned Morag’s attention to the victim who struggled to open her one good eye. Morag trickled water from her bottle into the girl’s mouth, watching her cough as she tried to swallow before falling unconscious again.

Gently, Morag cleared the matted strands of blond hair and dead leaves from the bloodied head. One eye, bruised yellow, red and black, had swollen closed; the other didn’t look as bad.

Blood from her swollen nose had dried, crusting over her face. Carefully, Morag began cleaning her up, worrying she might cause the victim further discomfort and stopping when she realized she might be destroying evidence.

She noticed the girl’s clothes, dumped in a heap beneath the statue of a cherub, gazing down from a memorial that poked above the foliage. Expressionless eyes, black as the stone they were sculpted from, offered no compassion.

Morag wondered, had the girl been assaulted elsewhere and discarded here or had the cherub witnessed the attack? ‘Couldn’t you have helped her?’ she asked aloud.

The girl stirred. Morag whispered, ‘Who did this? What’s your name?’ Morag heard the girl mumble and leaned closer, ‘Your mum’s not here. Give me her number, I’ll phone her.’ But the victim had fallen unconscious again.

Angry, frustrated impatience consumed Morag; anger at the merciless violence, frustration at her own helplessness and impatience at the emergency services for the delay.

‘Please don’t die. The ambulance is coming. I won’t let anyone hurt you.’

Morag looked up, listening intently. Had she heard a siren?

The sound grew louder. Now she could hear a vehicle engine, then silence, replaced by two distant voices, one male, one female. Morag noticed the reflection of a blue flashing light intermittently illuminate the face of the cherub above.

‘Anybody there?’ a male voice shouted. ‘Miss Massey, can you hear me?’

‘Over here. I can’t move; she’s lying on me. Can you see the cherub above the bushes?’

‘To our right, are you there?’

‘Directly beneath it. You’ll have to bring the ambulance through the church.’

‘We’re police, ambulance hasn’t arrived. My colleague’s climbing over the fence. I’ll drive round.’

‘I’m in the cemetery,’ a woman called. ‘Keep talking, I’ll follow your voice.’ Morag heard the car leave.

‘Over here,’ Morag called as the sounds of someone approaching grew louder. ‘I can hear …’

Morag saw the bushes part as a uniformed female Police Constable pushed through.

‘Hi, you must be Miss Massey. I’m Elsa, PC Elsa Jacks.’

She knelt next to Morag to examine the unconscious victim.

‘She’s freezing, hardly any pulse,’ Morag offered. ‘Where’s the ambulance?’

Elsa removed her yellow tunic, tucking it around the girl before replying.

‘It should be here soon. We were in the vicinity. Did you see anyone?’

‘Nobody. Did they have to hurt her like that?’ Morag felt her anger rise, ‘look at her wrists and ankles and they left her naked, in this freezing weather. She’s been raped hasn’t she?’

‘Restraining marks, certainly looks like a sex attack.’

Morag closed her eyes, thinking of the suffering the girl had endured. She heard someone else approach. Elsa called out, ‘Joe, over here, under the cherub.’

A male officer appeared noisily from the bushes as Morag heard the sound of a siren becoming louder as it neared.

‘Joe, could you direct the ambulance in? Make sure it doesn’t ruin those tyre impressions. I’ve got this under control – well, Miss Massey has. Can you advise dispatch?’

Morag heard Joe call control, ‘Dispatch. Yeah, I can hold.’ The radio went quiet briefly before crackling into life.

‘Dispatch, we’re on-site; need Scene of Crimes Officers. Can you patch me through to the ambulance?’ Morag heard the radio crackle before Joe continued; ‘Thought I recognized your voice, Sam. Got another one, round the back, through the church gates near the patrol car, I see you. Keep left, avoid those tyre tracks. SOCO will want them as evidence. Close as you can.’

Morag heard the engine tone change as the ambulance reversed to negotiate the gravestones. She gently stroked the unconscious girl’s forehead with one hand while the victim held her other tightly.

Morag’s tears fell onto the battered face beneath. Mixing with the drying blood, they ran down the swollen features, dripping onto the remnants of a once-white blouse.

Morag heard doors slam, followed by the sound of people crashing through the undergrowth. She saw two paramedics appear.

‘It’s OK, love.’ The paramedic’s tone sounded confident, perfected by years of practice. ‘You can let her go. I have her,’ he confirmed, gently attempting to prise the victim’s grip from Morag’s hand.

Morag felt the girl’s grip tighten before hearing her terrified plea, ‘Don’t leave me, please don’t go.’

‘Would you mind coming with her?’ the paramedic asked Morag. ‘She feels safe with you.’

Morag choked an ‘OK,’ through her tears.

Morag saw the paramedic look at the policewoman, who agreed, ‘That’s OK, Sam. I’ll interview Miss Massey in the ambulance if you’ve room.’

Sam nodded.

‘Joe, can you meet us at the hospital? I’m going in the ambulance,’ Elsa asked.

‘No probs,’ Joe answered.

The paramedics gently lifted the victim onto the stretcher before putting her into the ambulance, still desperately clutching Morag’s hand. The policewoman entered last, commenting to the paramedic, ‘She’s unconsciousness again. Will she be OK?’

‘Warming up and got a decent pulse now,’ he replied, fitting an oxygen mask to the girl.

Elsa turned to Morag, ‘Sorry, but what did you say your name was?’

‘Morag, Morag Massey.’

‘DCI Colin Massey’s daughter?’

‘Yes,’ Morag admitted. ‘We haven’t met have we?’

‘No’, Elsa smiled, ‘I’ve seen your photograph on his desk. I recognized you by your hair colour, thought your name was Copper.’

‘No, it’s Morag, only Dad calls me Copper.’

‘I didn’t place you at first, obvious now why he nicknamed you Copper.’

The ambulance sped to the hospital, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing. Through the rear windows, Morag watched the police car follow.

‘You did well.’ Elsa told Morag reassuringly. ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Shaky, and a little stunned, can’t seem to take it all in yet. Can we leave the interview a little longer? Just don’t feel up to it right now,’ Morag admitted.

‘Not a problem,’ Elsa smiled. ‘We can do it after we’ve dropped her off at Accident &Emergency.’

Morag left the ambulance with the victim still holding her hand. The girl became agitated at the A&E as the hospital staff took over. They prised her grip loose from Morag and transferred her to a hospital trolley before rapidly disappearing through swing doors. Morag, wondering what the girl’s name was, felt guilty leaving her. She turned to see Elsa talking on her mobile as a police car arrived. Joe got out and opened the car door. Morag followed PC Elsa Jacks in and Joe drove to the police station.

‘Sorry,’ Elsa looked embarrassed, ‘we need that statement now.’

‘That’s OK,’ Morag felt tired but managed a smile. ‘I think I know the procedure.’

‘With your father being my commanding officer, I’d expect nothing less, but that’s the problem. I never anticipated interviewing my CO’s daughter.’

‘Please don’t curtsey. I’m too exhausted to play celebrity.’ Morag hoped humour might lighten the moment and felt more relaxed when Elsa laughed.

Elsa smiled reassuringly, ‘If you hadn’t found her so quickly, she’d probably be dead. That was your Dad on the ‘phone. He’s justifiably proud of you. He’s waiting to take you home. You’d best speak to him about your jogging jacket, forensics aren’t always careful with crime scene clothing.’

‘Do you know her name?’Morag asked.

‘We believe so. A girl has been reported missing, but we’re waiting for confirmation. We’ll need to interview you now and again tomorrow if that’s OK?’

‘No problem, but I’m exhausted.’

‘Adrenalin kept you hyperactive,’ Elsa explained. ‘Now it’s gone, you’re drained.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Morag agreed.

Almost two hours later, Morag’s father, Colin, drove her home. She felt tired and grubby, desperate for a hot bath. Morag left her father to garage the car and went in. She couldn’t believe the entire day had gone, it seemed only hours ago she’d just set out for her jog.

Morag saw her elder brother, Tim, still in police uniform, turning the television sound down. Johnny Joyce stood over the far side, his back to the room, looking out of the window.

Morag looked at Johnny, remembering they were almost the same age. Her parents had virtually adopted Johnny years ago, before his mother, Una, died. Una and Morag’s mother had been best friends from school and Johnny stayed with them during the frequent and often prolonged periods Una was hospitalized. He even had his own room and, ever since she could remember, he’d called her father ‘Dad’ too.

Her mother, Helen, appeared from the kitchen, ‘Mo, I was so worried, Tim told us what happened. Who, and how, is she?’

‘Mum, I’m tired, can I sit down first?’

‘You must be exhausted, darling. I’ll make a pot of tea and you can tell us all about it.’

Morag sighed in exasperation. There was no point arguing.

Tim rolled his eyes upward in silent agreement, ‘Sorry Sis, Joe gave me a heads-up over the police radio and I told Mum, she’d only moan if I hadn’t.’

Johnny, still in gamekeeper camouflage, looked embarrassed. ‘I only came round to see Dad about something, but Aunty Helen insisted I stay for dinner. Tim said you saved a girl’s life.’

‘Not really, I only found her,’ Morag explained, thinking, I still find it odd, after all these years he calls my father Dad but still refers to Mum as Aunty Helen.

‘Mo,’ Helen called, but her father interrupted.

‘I gather someone from the station told you what happened – DI Frank Senior, no doubt. I don’t want to break up the welcome, we’re all proud of her, but Morag’s tired and grubby. Tim, upstairs and run her a bath.’

Helen entered the room bearing a large tray.

‘Would you prefer hot chocolate, darling?’ Helen asked, putting the tray down.

‘Yes please,’ Morag answered, hearing Johnny’s quiet agreement.

Helen transferred the empty mugs from the tray to the coffee table and began pouring. ‘Now you can tell us all about it,’ she suggested, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Hot chocolate, dear?’ Colin prompted gently. Helen muttered something under her breath before leaving.

‘Relax, Copper,’ Colin smiled. ‘Take it easy, one step at a time.’

Johnny half-smiled, following Helen into the kitchen, confirming he knew exactly how she felt. Morag felt grateful for her father’s understanding and Johnny’s sensitivity.

The next morning, Morag overslept. She needed a shower to wake up properly. Helen must have heard her, as Morag came downstairs to find a huge breakfast waiting.

‘God, Mum, I couldn’t possibly eat all that.’

‘Eat what you can, darling, leave the rest.’

‘Johnny still here?’ Morag asked. ‘He seemed preoccupied last night, something bothering him?’

‘He left early, before Dad. He’s worried about Annie so he came round to ask our advice. She’s supposed to move in with him this weekend but she hasn’t phoned.’

‘Johnny phoned me a few days ago moaning Annie called him so often he couldn’t get any work done. Seems odd,’ Morag answered, leaving a clean plate, never realizing she’d been so hungry.

Helen smiled. ‘Very odd, but probably nothing to worry about. What are you doing today?’

‘Thought I’d ride Dad’s motorbike to the hospital, find out that girl’s name and how she is.’

‘You know I hate that motorcycle. I’m not using my car today, take that instead. They forecast rain so you’ll stay dry, and you won’t have to wear black leather like one of those Hells Angels. You can’t go into a hospital dressed like that.’

It made sense. Morag took the car.

three

Johnny woke early. Watching the first, dim, dawn light creep through the curtained window, he relaxed in his warm bed, remembering Morag last night.

He’d enjoyed seeing her again, she’d been at university when he’d last visited, and now she’d rescued a damsel in distress.

Like her Dad helped me, he thought, smiling. Rescuing people must run in the family.

His thoughts returned to Annie. They’d only grown close recently, now he couldn’t imagine life without her. She’d become as much a part of him as he had of the Massey family, so what had gone wrong?

Why, after phoning him almost every hour, had Annie stopped calling? Didn’t she want him anymore?

Johnny dismissed the idea. She’d suggested moving in with him and became so excited when he’d agreed, she began bringing her stuff around. So why wouldn’t she answer his calls?

He checked his mobile. Annie last called thirty hours ago. He’d called her nineteen times yesterday, the last at midnight. He’d even called her parents but they’d thought she was with him. On hearing their concern, he’d made light of the matter, but that wasn’t how he felt. Annie was never up this early, but he pressed redial anyway. Her message box answered.

He rose and dressed, tiptoeing past Morag’s bedroom door, wondering what she’d think of his problem. Mo was still something of a tomboy, but she’d know how Annie’s mind worked better than he did.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stopped in surprise. Colin appeared from the kitchen, a finger to his lips.

‘Coffee and toast,’ Colin whispered.

Johnny grinned. Colin was the only person who could creep up on him. Old Grouchy, the head gamekeeper who’d trained Johnny, took great delight in surprising him at first. Grouchy later became irritated when Johnny repeatedly caught him out.

Johnny finished the boiled eggs, toast and coffee Colin put before him, pouring himself a second coffee while Colin ate.

‘Something’s bothering you, lad. Want to get it off your chest? Annie?’

‘Dunno, Dad,’ he answered. ‘She’s not called for days and isn’t returning my calls either. It’s not like her. She’s moving in next weekend.’

‘Maybe her parents talked her out of it,’ Colin suggested.

‘Unlikely, they helped bring her gear over and they haven’t heard from her either. I don’t know what’s going on. The last time she phoned she sounded upset. Kept saying she loved me, then she’d cry and hang up.’

‘Sounds strange,’ Colin admitted. ‘I wouldn’t worry, but keep me posted. We’re here if you need us.’

‘Thanks, Dad. Got to go, she has a key to my place, maybe she’s there, or left a message on my landline. Say thanks to Aunty Helen for me?’

Johnny watched Colin nod, wondering why he’d always called Colin Dad but couldn’t call Helen Mum, only Aunty Helen. Because nobody will ever take the place of my real mum? he wondered.

Johnny drove to his old house, the place his mother had raised him, where he’d fallen in love with Annie only months ago.

His promotion to head gamekeeper entitled him to the gamekeeper’s cottage. Lord Hagin, the estate owner, told Johnny the cottage came with the job, to treat the place as his own. He’d no objection to Johnny’s girlfriend moving in too, even though he’d never met her.

Johnny entered the front door, stepping over Annie’s boxes. Nothing new. Quickly tapping in the security code, he canceled the agitated burglar alarm. The landline phone, hidden in the cupboard, showed no messages.

He called Annie again. Nothing. Where was she?

The house smelt musty. It would improve once Annie moved in, if she ever did. He clicked the heating on and opened some windows

Why hasn’t she called? She used to ring constantly and visit every evening, now she doesn’t even answer my messages.

Johnny picked up a cuddly elephant from one of Annie’s boxes. Surely she wouldn’t leave all her stuff if she wasn’t moving in? He punched redial. Only the message service answered.

What’s going on? Why hasn’t she called? Johnny’s imagination went into overdrive. He couldn’t think about what might have happened. He needed to know.