Also by Sibel Hodge
Fourteen Days Later
My Perfect Wedding
The Baby Trap
How to Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men’s Room (and other short stories)
Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave
About the author
Sibel Hodge has dual British/Turkish Cypriot nationality and divides her time between Hertfordshire and North Cyprus. Her first romantic-comedy novel, Fourteen Days Later, was shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize 2008 and received a Highly Commended by the Yeovil Literary Prize 2009. My Perfect Wedding is the sequel to Fourteen Days Later, although it can be read as a standalone novel.
The Fashion Police is a chicklit comedy-mystery novel, the first in the series featuring feisty, larger-than-life, Amber Fox. It was runner-up in the Chapter One Promotions Novel Competition 2010 and nominated Best Novel with Romantic Elements 2010 by The Romance Reviews. Other Amber Fox mysteries include Be Careful What You Wish For and Voodoo Deadly.
Based on her own experiences with infertility and two attempts at IVF, The Baby Trap will have you laughing and crying at the ups and downs of modern baby-making.
Her novella Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave has been listed as one of the Top 40 Books About Human Rights by Accredited Online Colleges.
For more information, please visit http://www.sibelhodge.com/
The Fashion Police
Copyright © Sibel Hodge 2009
Be Careful What You Wish For
Copyright © Sibel Hodge 2011
Voodoo Deadly
Copyright © Sibel Hodge 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition, License notes
The ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Praise for The Amber Fox Mysteries
“I enjoyed the great mixture of action adventure and slapstick. I found myself chuckling out loud and on one occasion snorting water out my nose. The humor did not detract from the solid mystery, and I appreciated all the twists and turns and sub-plots that tied into the story nicely.”
Coffee Time Romance & More
“A witty well-paced romp, full of energy and with plenty of satisfying twists and turns.”
Romantic Novelists Association
“If you like Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum I think you will really like Amber Fox - I know I do.”
Martha's
Bookshelf
“Amber
Fox was hilarious with her tough as nails outer persona and her
hysterical one-liners that were frequently laugh out loud funny.
I
definately recommend picking this book up!!”
The
Caffeinated Diva reads...
“Amber
Fox is the kind of strong lead female character with a great
sarcastic wit that I love to read.”
To Read,
Perchance to Dream
“Ms.
Hodge has written a funny and suspenseful story much in the style of
Evanovich's Stephanie Plum books. The plot is fast moving and the
dialogue very witty.”
Coffee Time Romance & More
Table of Contents
THE FASHION POLICE
‘Three can keep a secret if two are dead.’
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
Chapter 1
If life is like a box of chocolates, then mine is the mother of all coffee creams. You know – the ones that always get left in the box because no one wants them? Today I felt like a coffee cream, too. On the outside I was sleek and hard, but on the inside, I was just a lump of mush.
I sat in Brad’s office, trying to ignore the queasy tingle that gurgled in the depths of my stomach. As he droned on about my assignment, I tuned him out and debated whether or not things could get any worse. I tried giving myself a pep talk, but I’m not sure it worked.
Come on, Amber, get a grip. It’s no use wishing you could get the hell out of here. You can do this new job with your eyes closed.
Suddenly, something Brad said caught my attention and I snapped back to the conversation. ‘Hang on a sec. Let me get this straight. You want me to plant some bugs?’ I asked, wondering if I’d misheard. ‘I take it we’re talking about bug bugs and not the creepy crawly variety.’ I shuddered at the thought. Spiders were a definite no-no.
Brad gave me a cool nod of agreement. The owner of Hi-Tec Insurance, Brad was a former Special Forces operative whom I’d know for years. He was also my former fiancé. I’d accepted a job as claims investigator at Hi-Tec after being let go from my position on the police force. Not the ideal situation, I know, but it paid the bills.
‘Exactly why does an insurance company want to plant bugs in its client’s offices?’ I asked as I sat back in the chair opposite Brad’s, my right leg jigging up and down like a pneumatic drill.
‘This is the twenty-first century. We’re in the proactive insurance age now,’ Brad replied.
‘So you’re trying to avoid an insurance claim before it happens?’
‘You’ve got it in one, Foxy. Claims are money, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s losing money.’ An amused smile played around the corners of Brad’s mouth as he looked at my knee aerobics. ‘Am I making you nervous?’
I stopped jigging and gave him the eye roll to beat all eye rolls. ‘I think we’re way past the stage of you making me nervous, Brad.’ He raised an eyebrow at that but continued, handing me a manila folder as he spoke.
‘I’ve had a tip from one of my informers that this particular client is into something a bit dodgy – actually, a lot dodgy. I need to get a handle on the truth before I find myself involved in a multi-million pound insurance payout.’
I took the folder. ‘And what informer would that be?’ I asked as I flicked through the file, watching out of the corner of my eye as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. The familiar action brought a reluctant smile to my face. A suit, dress shirt and trousers didn’t fit Brad. He was more at home in desert camouflage and chunky-soled boots. As I read the client’s name, I knew my jaw had fallen to the floor but I couldn’t help it. I barely heard Brad’s response to my question.
‘The usual – the seedy, underhanded kind.’
‘Umberto Fandango, the fashion designer? He’s one of your clients?’
‘Hi-Tec Insurance has a very diverse clientele, ranging from the scum-bag lowlifes to the rich and famous ones.’ Brad rested his feet on his huge, mahogany desk, looking pretty pleased with himself. He picked a piece of fluff from his trousers, examining it with distaste before depositing it in the trash bin.
‘His bags are to die for!’ Maybe being a claims investigator wouldn’t be so boring, after all. ‘Have you seen the ones with–?’
‘Here.’ Ignoring my amazement, he tossed me a packet of black ballpoint pens.
Distracted, I examined the packet with interest. ‘What are these?’
‘The bugs are cunningly disguised as pens. I just need you to go to Umberto’s office, plant a few of these around the place, and leave the rest to me. To activate them, you just have to click the top of the pen. Do you think you can handle that?’
‘No problemo. I’m Amber Fox, Miss Hot-Shit Investigator. I can do anything.’
Brad glanced over at my leg, which was now bouncing up and down, Space-Hopper style. ‘I’d definitely agree with the “hot” part.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Janice Skipper might agree with the “shit” part.’
I cringed. Janice Skipper was the reason I’d been let go from the force. She had carried a vendetta for me around for a long time, and had taken pleasure in making my life hell. To say Janice was a sore point for me was an understatement.
‘Urgh! Don’t mention that woman. If it weren’t for her–’
‘I know, Foxy – you wouldn’t be here now.’ Brad stood up and moved around the desk. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you to Hacker. If you want anything technical done, he’s your guy.’ He strode toward me, six feet of solid muscle that backed my five-and-a-half-foot frame into the wall. He stopped mere inches away from my face.
I caught a musky waft of his aftershave and sucked in a breath. A tingling sensation erupted in my stomach.
Calm down, Amber. Nothing to worry about. You’ve just got a case of gas, that’s all. What else could that peculiar sensation be?
‘It’s good to have you back, Foxy,’ he whispered, staring down at me with haunting grey eyes. They’re the kind that are lined at the corners, giving you just a hint that he’s seen more in his forty years than most people would see in ten lifetimes.
I matched his stare pound for pound, and swallowed hard, feeling goose bumps springing to attention on my skin. My throat felt constricted and dusty. ‘Don’t call me Foxy,’ I finally managed to croak out.
‘It’s either Foxy or Sexy. You choose,’ he said. His words caused his breath to tickle my cheek.
‘And Brad? You haven’t got me back,’ I told him, hoping he couldn’t see the pulse that was booming away at the base of my throat. Just when I thought I was going to have to do something to make him back off, he slowly leaned past me and opened his office door.
‘We’ll see about that,’ he drawled as he pushed away from me and went out the door, beckoning for me to follow him to meet Hacker.
A few minutes later, I rushed to the restroom. Cold water by the bucket load was in order. I leaned on the sink, staring into the mirror at my flushed face. My heart was still banging out a tribal drum beat. I hoped Brad hadn’t seen it through my T-shirt.
OK, so this probably wasn’t a good idea, working for my ex, but then I hadn’t exactly had many job offers in the last six months. No, scratch that. I’d had zilch, and I still had to pay my mortgage, so I didn’t have a choice, really. The sensible part of me thought it was a positive and productive sign that Brad Beckett didn’t affect me in the slightest anymore. By ‘affect’ I mean I’d managed to get through a whole half-hour conversation with Brad without crying, fainting, or molesting him. Then again, maybe it was the crazy part of me who thought this was progress. It was definitely one of the two. I just hadn’t worked out which was which yet.
OK, Amber, this could work. I’d be professional about my job and just solve this one case for him before I found a new job. I wouldn’t be here long enough to fall in love with him again. Anyway, my curiosity had been piqued so I couldn’t quit straight away. I just hoped that curiosity didn’t kill the Fox.
I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. Right, here we go then. Onward and upward, and all that rubbish.
I turned on the cold water to splash onto my face, expecting a trickle. I shrieked with surprise as the water gushed out, tsunami style, splashing up and soaking the front of my T-shirt.
‘Great!’ I looked for some paper towels, but the restroom only had dryers. Before I could move to it, the door opened and closed behind me and I glanced up in the mirror. Brad was standing behind me, examining the reflection of my wet chest with great interest. I could feel my nipples straining through the tight fabric. And even worse, judging from Brad’s smile, I knew he could see it happening.
‘Nice look,’ he said, a husky note entering his voice.
I rushed to the dryer, frantically flapping my top underneath it. ‘What are you doing in the women’s bathroom?’ I hissed.
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? This building has unisex toilets.’ He shot me an overly innocent grin.
A searing hot tingle rippled through me. How the hell was a girl supposed to have any secrets around here, if even the bathrooms weren’t safe havens from his presence?
Brad winked at me. ‘There aren’t any secrets around here.’
It wasn’t until I’d barged out of the restroom that I realized I hadn’t actually said it out loud. So how did Brad know exactly what I was thinking?
****
The home of the Fandango Empire was a converted flour mill in Ware, Hertfordshire. According to the file, Umberto had a pretty impressive set of offices that took up the whole of the building, which included a runway for the models to practice on.
I cruised down Ware High Street in my blend-in-with-the-rest-of-the-world silver Toyota, silently rehearsing my fake spiel about how I needed to check and make certain his insurance coverage was meeting his needs, which was a laugh. What I knew about insurance could fit on the head of one of the pens Brad wanted me to leave. Still, I could BS with the best of them, and I promised myself that if I pulled this off, I’d be having a super-duper celebratory lunch afterwards – ooh, maybe I’d even throw in a monster chocolate muffin, too. My stomach gurgled loudly, although I couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or hunger.
Squaring my shoulders, I pushed open the front door and stopped cold in the reception area. I looked around, soaking in the crazy decor. The theme seemed to be ‘If it didn’t move, leopard skin it.’ Don’t get me wrong, I love leopard skin. I’m a real leopard skin kind of girl – as long as it’s fake, of course – but a leopard skin reception desk, sofa, chairs, rug, curtains, and phone were a tad overkill.
Trying to act casual, I wandered over to the receptionist. ‘Hi, I’m here to see Umberto Fandango. I’m from Hi-Tec Insurance.’ With my hand in my pocket, I tried to look calm as I felt for the pens. Grabbing one, I covertly clicked the top to activate it and waited for my moment.
The receptionist looked around her computer screen at me, forehead pinched in a harassed frown. She appeared to be in her early twenties, and was attractive in a subtle way that probably went unnoticed in this kind of industry where obvious beauty takes center stage. ‘Do you have an appointment? I didn’t see one for you in the book.’ She ran a finger down the page of a leather bound diary in front of her.
‘No, unfortunately not.’
She glanced up at me again, the frown looking more harassed. ‘London Fashion Week is next week, and we’re all very busy. Mr Fandango is rushed off his feet.’
‘Look, I’m sorry to just turn up like this, but I really need to talk to him about his insurance. We wouldn’t want to find out he didn’t have the coverage he needed for something, would we? It’ll just take a few minutes.’ I flashed her a conspiratorial smile and placed my hand face down on the desk, willing her to turn her head for a second.
She sighed, seeing I wasn’t going to give up. ‘Let me just buzz him, then. Hang on a sec.’
Her momentary glance at the leopard phone was all it took for me to deposit the pen under the bottom of her monitor.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
While she spoke to someone on the other end of the line, I gazed toward the glass doors off the reception area, where an echoing male voice shouted out instructions. I followed the sound and moved to peer through the door to get a better look. Some female models with scary wigs stalked up and down the runway, covered in very spangly, glittery creations, as a tall woman stood yelling at them. On second thought, maybe the male voice I’d heard wasn’t really male. Maybe it was just a giant woman wearing size-thirteen stilettos with a gruff voice. It was hard to tell. In the background, a woman who looked to be about five times over the required model weight limit of three stone sat at a desk, hot-fixing rhinestones to a white swimsuit.
A tall, blonde woman, so thin she looked like she’d been photocopied, clicked her spiky heels in my direction. She eyed me from head to toe with disdain, studying my usual uniform of khaki combats, black T-shirt, and very comfy sneakers. ‘You’re obviously not one of the models,’ she said as she tilted her head back. Her cheek bones were so sharp, they looked like they could put out an eye, and I had to stop myself from leaning backward, just in case.
‘Hi, I’m Amber, from Hi-Tec Insurance.’ I held out my hand to shake hers.
She ignored it and crossed her arms in front of her. Was it me, or was the atmosphere getting noticeably colder? I glanced over at the receptionist who was chewing on the end of her pencil, a sympathetic look on her face.
‘And?’ the blonde woman said through lips painted a shade that Dracula would have been proud of.
‘That’s it, just Hi-Tec Insurance. There’s no “and” after it,’ I said.
The woman rolled her eyes. ‘What do you want?’ Her voice sharpened, and she frowned at me; the really wicked, twitchy-eye, wrinkly forehead kind, except her forehead didn’t wrinkle when she did it.
‘Hey, you’re fun! Isn’t Botox amazing?’ I asked, fascinated by her un-wrinkly forehead.
This earned me something eerily close to a snarl. ‘What do you want? We’re very busy.’
Properly chastised, I answered. ‘I just need a few moments with Umberto Fandango. It’s about his insurance.’
‘What about it?’
Good question. Here comes the BS.
I cleared my throat. ‘I’m just checking out the business premises for security reasons. Obviously, you have some very expensive and high-profile merchandise here, so I need to have a look around the entire area, as well as inspect your alarm system to make sure there’s no possible breach of security. Don’t worry, it’s just routine information for our files.’ I gave her my most sincere smile, pulling out my camera to make my claim look authentic.
She weighed my words with an icy stare. ‘Hmm.’ A pause. Then: ‘Follow me.’ And off she clicked toward a corridor at the far end of the reception area.
I made use of my trigger finger, snapping off a few pictures as I followed behind her. We stopped when she paused outside a door at the end and punched in a sequence of numbers on a keypad.
The door clicked. ‘Wait here,’ she said. She slipped inside the room, returning a few seconds later. ‘Mr. Fandango will see you now.’
I followed her into the ultra-modern office, which was decked out with a chrome and glass desk, chrome and leather chairs, a chrome lamp, chrome pen tidy, and a silver leather sofa. Wow, when this guy liked something, he really went to town. I quickly sneaked a peek at the pen tidy, crammed full of biros, as a man dressed in a purple smoking jacket stood behind his desk and pumped my hand. I didn’t think smoking jackets existed in real life, I thought it was just a myth, but no, they were alive and well and living in Hertfordshire. And this guy had to be in his fifties, far too young for a smoking jacket, in my opinion.
‘I’m Umberto. What can I do for you, honey?’ he asked in a weird, Lloyd Grossman mix of an American and English accent. He was on the short side, with thick, dark brown hair that was swept back with a touch of gel, dark brown eyes, and a spray-on tan that bordered on the Tango variety. Although he was clean shaven, he had a hint of five o’clock shadow, and I suspected he would have to shave more than once a day to keep his beard in check.
I went through my spiel again and gave him a dazzling smile for good luck, all the while casually gripping one of the bug pens in my pocket.
‘Knock yourself out. Just make sure you don’t get in the models’ way, or I’ll have one hell of a cat fight on my hands. Actually, I’ve got a few spare minutes, so why don’t I show you around?’ He flashed me a bleached-tooth grin and led the way out of his office.
In a split second, pen number two was secretly stashed in his pen tidy, and I was following behind him. The Ice Queen bared her teeth in an imitation of a smile, examining me like I was a piece of road kill stuck to her thousand pound shoes as she sat down at the desk opposite Fandango’s.
I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out.
As Umberto led me through the offices and the huge storage area upstairs which housed his fashion collection, I took notes and photos galore.
‘So, waddaya think?’ he asked as we entered the runway area, where the stiletto-heeled He-She was busy screeching at one of the models.
‘I think I need to see the bags before I make my mind up,’ I told him. Maybe he’d give me a freebie while I was here.
‘Beg pardon?’
‘You know – those gorgeous handbags you make. Can I have a little peek at them? They’re so cool. I love the ones with–’
‘Sorry, honey, we don’t make the bags here, they’re all sent in from the States.’
‘Oh,’ I muttered with disappointment. Well, it had been worth a try.
‘Waddaya think of the security then?’ he asked.
‘It looks pretty secure to me.’
‘Aw, shit!’ Fandango looked across the sea of prancing female models toward a dark-haired man in a crisp blue shirt and an expensive-looking suit. He was pretty hot, too. In fact, if I had to rate him out of ten, he’d be a nine and three-quarters. The man wore an air of expectation, and I watched as Fandango’s demeanor changed abruptly. ‘OK, that’s your lot, honey. You need to leave now.’ As he made his way over to Mr. Hottie, I took the opportunity to drop a pen to the floor, casually kicking it under the runway. Based on the way Fandango had reacted, I assumed the man in the suit was a model.
A Kodak moment of a yummy model and a famous fashion designer seemed too good to miss, so I snapped a few pictures while I studied them through the viewfinder. They seemed to be involved in a heated argument about something. Maybe someone had forgotten to put all-white lilies in Mr. Hottie’s dressing room, or the blue M&M’s had been left in his chocolate selection by mistake. Oh, well, I thought, it’s not my problem. Operation Bug was complete, which was all that mattered to me. I smiled as I headed out of the building. Way to go, Amber. Bring on the chocolate muffins. My first assignment had been a success. Nothing could possibly go wrong now.
Could it?
Chapter 2
I stumbled through the doors of Hi-Tec’s plush Hertford office with my rucksack threatening to slide off my shoulder. I juggled two mochacinos and four chocolate muffins with extra chocolate sprinkles in one hand, and two mozzarella paninis and a bottle of sparkling water in the other hand. I’ll admit that the sparkling water was going a bit overboard, but this was a celebration after all.
After I made my way through the empty reception area, which was decked out in soft creams and browns with matching sofas, I swung a left down the corridor that ran past the busy underwriter’s office. Hacker called out a ‘Yo’ as I weaved past him and deposited my feast on my desk – if you could call it a desk; it was more like a slightly oversized coffee table. He sat surrounded by various monitors and computer equipment, arranged in an arc in front of him. It looked like something from the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.
Hacker had to be the least techy-looking guy I’d ever seen. He was black, over six and a half feet tall, with two plaits sticking straight out from the top of his head and a goatee beard. He wore a hoodie three sizes too big, jeans that were so baggy they defied the laws of gravity, and he looked more like a gangster rapper than a computer expert. I’d heard that Brad met him when they were in the SAS together, and he was from somewhere like Haiti or Tahiti – I always got those two mixed up. Rumor had it that even though Brad had started Hi-Tec, he was still involved in his Secret Army Stuff from time to time. I didn’t believe it was just a rumor, though. I knew first-hand about Brad disappearing for months on end.
‘Yo back. Want a mochacino?’ I wiggled a cup in his direction.
Hacker stopped tapping on his keyboard and glanced over at my desk. ‘Don’t you know that stuff will kill you? Your body is a temple.’ He circled his arms in the air and pressed his palms together, slowly bringing his hands to the center of his body, doing some kind of yoga deep breathing.
More for me then, yay. ‘Sparkling water?’
‘That’s more like it.’ He grinned, and a gold tooth shined back at me. ‘How do you stay so thin, eating like that?’
‘I guess I’m just lucky that I’ve got skinny genes,’ I said as I tossed him the water, which he caught with a swift flick of the wrist. ‘Is Brad here?’ I glanced across the corridor to Brad’s empty office.
‘No, he’s at a secret meeting,’ Hacker said as he fiddled around with a weird-looking electronic contraption in front of him, which looked a lot like a mixing deck one might expect to find in a recording studio. ‘He left those files on your desk.’
I picked up the two folders. One was for a Callum Bates, and the other was for a guy named Paul Clark. I’d never heard of Clark, but Callum Bates was a very familiar name. I’d come across him in my days as a young police officer, way back before I’d joined the special operations team. If anything was going down in the area that involved car crime – jacking, theft, cloning, you name it – Callum was involved. I studied the file and chuckled. He’d recently put in an insurance claim for a stolen van. No wonder Brad wanted me to check it out to make sure it was genuine. Callum had probably nicked it himself.
Setting aside the Bates file for now, I perused my way through the Clark information. Apparently, Mr. Clark had put in a claim for a disability insurance payout, asserting that he’d hurt his back in a warehouse accident and couldn’t work again. Brad wanted me to do some observations on him to make sure Clark wasn’t faking it. OK, so the work wasn’t exactly exciting special police operations, but at least I could afford my apartment now.
Standing up, I stuffed the files in my rucksack. I couldn’t eat a celebratory lunch on my own, so I gathered everything together once again and struggled back out the door.
‘Yo,’ Hacker said as I left.
I popped my head back around the door. ‘Does that mean hello or goodbye?’
‘Anything you want it to mean. It’s pretty universal.’
You learned something new everyday. ‘Cool. By the way, why isn’t there a receptionist here?’
‘Brad fired her. She kept making mistakes. He’s looking for another one.’
‘Oh, OK. Yo, then.’
****
After a slight accident of spilled mochacino on my passenger seat, I arrived at my parents’ house. Mum’s sporty Mini wasn’t in the driveway – no change there, really. She was always gallivanting off with her mates. Not that I blamed her, really. I mean, Dad had lived and breathed for his job as a police officer, and she had to find something to occupy her time all these years when he wasn’t there. Just because he was now retired, she saw no reason to change her routine.
On the other hand, Dad’s reliable old Land Rover was in the same position it’d been in since he’d retired from the force. He hadn’t left the house for months, and it was getting just a little too weird now. An uneasy feeling crept up my spine and I remembered having read some survey once that said as soon as workaholic police officers retired, they tended to keel over and go to that big police station in the sky. OK, maybe not exactly the day after, but it was pretty clear that the ones who were obsessed with work started to unravel as soon as they went back to a normal civilian life.
I let myself in with the key I’d had since I was a kid and dumped my rucksack on the floor, wandering into the living room.
‘Dad?’
Once an energetic, confident man, Dad now spent his days slumped in his favorite armchair. He stared out at the neglected garden with blank eyes, a barely touched cup of tea held loosely in his hand. He looked disheveled and old, and he wore tatty old slippers on his feet. I drew closer and grimaced at the sight of the stained cardigan he was wearing. God, what were those stains? Fried egg, I thought. At least, I hoped it was fried egg.
‘DAD!’ I repeated loudly as I unwrapped his hand from around the mug.
He turned toward me, as if noticing my arrival for the first time.
‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Walking the dog,’ he said.
‘What, in the car?’
He gave a helpless shrug.
‘Right, first you’re going to eat something, and then we’re going to have a little chat.’ I waltzed into the kitchen, dropped off the mug, and grabbed a couple of plates. Back in the living room, I handed him a panini. ‘Here.’
‘I’m not hungry, love.’
‘Sorry, not taking no for an answer.’ I glared at him until he started nibbling around the edges, and soon he was devouring the sandwich.
‘You need to get a hobby, Dad,’ I told him when we finished eating. ‘You can’t just sit around the house all day moping. I know it’s tough, giving up the job. No one knows that better than me, and I didn’t even give it up voluntarily. But if I can get over it, then you can, too.’
‘And what sort of hobby am I going to do? I don’t know anything else except policing.’
I racked my brains, trying to think. ‘What about origami?’
‘Boring.’
‘Tiddlywinks? They have tiddlywinks in the Olympics now.’
He yawned.
‘Cookery?’ I said.
‘Have you tasted my cooking?’
Hmm, probably not a good idea. Dad’s cooking was so bad, he had even managed to burn the toaster somehow. No, not the toast – the actual toaster. My parents had been through about twenty toasters in my lifetime. ‘How about train spotting? That’s a bit safer.’
‘That would just remind me of the job.’
‘How would train spotting remind you of the police?’
‘When I was about thirteen, I used to go train spotting with my old friend, Jeremy. I have such fond memories of us noting down all the train numbers. We would bet each other on whether the trains would be on time or not, wagering cookies, candies and the like. Unfortunately, Jeremy had suicidal tendencies, and decided to impale himself on the front of the three-thirty to Paddington. Anyway, that was what made me want to join up, and why train spotting reminds me of the job.’ He let out a heavy sigh.
I blinked. ‘OK, well what about…’ I paused, looking around the room for inspiration. Flower arranging? No, too girly. Crocheting? No, too grannified. ‘Aha! What about this?’ I grabbed a neighborhood watch leaflet. The group was advertising for volunteers. I waved it in front of his face.
He snatched it from my hand to prevent having his eye poked out with it.
‘That’s just what you need.’
He read the leaflet slowly, a spark igniting in his sleepy eyes. ‘Yes!’ He leapt out of the chair. ‘I can teach them proper surveillance techniques instead of the usual old twaddle they try and do. We used to make fun out of them down at the station, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?’
‘See, there you go. You just need something to keep you active.’
‘Yes, I can see it now. This is going to be the best neighborhood watch program in…’
‘The neighborhood?’ I volunteered.
‘Yes! Why don’t we celebrate? I’ve got a nice bottle of bubbly in the fridge.’
I kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’d love to, Dad, but I’ve got work to do.’
‘Right. Well, I’d better sort out my surveillance kit then.’ He rushed off upstairs.
I let myself out to the sound of Dad banging around in the cupboards with excitement.
****
I parked my car outside Paul Clark’s house, where I had a good view into his 1920s semi-detached house, and studied the photo in his file. Unless you looked closely, it was hard to tell the difference between Clark and the Honey Monster. The only distinguishing feature I could see was that his bushy beard and mop of hair wasn’t quite as yellow as the Honey Monster’s. He was huge – well over six feet tall – with bug-eyes and a wide, gaping mouth. Apparently, he had five children – five, ouch! – and he’d worked at a warehouse for ten years before his accident. He had fallen off the forklift while unloading a palette of baked beans, which caused damage to his lumbar vertebrae. A doctor’s report said he wasn’t able to work again, but for some reason, Brad had doubts. Was Clark telling the truth or not? That’s what I was here to find out. I sat back in my seat and waited.
After an hour, and with no sign of life in the house, I decided to speak to the neighbors. Grabbing a clipboard and a cap with British Gas written on it, I made my way up to the other half of the semi and knocked on the door.
A young woman answered, a cigarette hung precariously between her lips. She was carrying a screaming baby on her hip.
‘Aaaagh!’ the baby wailed, loud enough to crack a dent in my eardrum.
‘Shut up!’ the woman snapped at the baby. ‘Bloody kids.’
‘Hi, I’m from British Gas.’ I smiled, even though the overwhelming smell of baby poop forced my throat to constrict. I eyed the full-to-bursting nappy on the baby’s bottom. This was going to put me off peanut butter for life. ‘I’m looking for your neighbor, Paul Clark. Do you know where he is?’
She snorted. ‘What’s he done this time? He’s always up to something. Sneaky little buggers, those Clarks. Five kids they’ve got, and they can’t look after any of them. If you ask me, his wife’s a few pork pies short of a picnic, if you know what I mean.’ As she wiggled her lips, a lump of ash fell off the end of her cigarette and landed on her stained top.
‘There’s just a small problem with his gas bill payments, probably because he’s not working at the moment. I just need to verify a few things with him.’
‘He is working. I’ve seen him going off to work every day.’
‘Oh, really? Do you know where?’ I asked.
‘Of course. He works at that big Asda supermarket in town. You’ll find him stocking shelves somewhere.’
‘Great, thanks, you’ve been a big help.’ I nodded at her and hurried my way back to the car, where the air was clear of deadly toxins.
****
This was going to be a piece of cake. I would just sneak around, posing as an inconspicuous shopper, and snap a few pictures of Clark stacking shelves. Why had I been so worried about this job? It was ridiculously easy.
I heaved through the horde of shoppers, scanning the crowd for signs of any shelf-stocking activity. There was nothing going on in the fruit and veggie aisle, so I picked up a bag of bananas and wandered off in search of Clark. The bakery section was quiet and boring, except for the yummy smell of freshly baked bread. Ditto for the condiments aisle, the dairy aisle, and the cereal aisle. Maybe there was a special time of day when all the shelf-stockers were let out in a frenzy, and I’d missed it.
I stood in front of the toiletries with the idea that if I stood there long enough, Clark would come to me. I could wait until closing time if need be, no problem.
As it turned out, I lasted about ten minutes. I was reading the directions on a box of teeth-whitening strips when I heard a rustling sound coming from my bag of bananas. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bananas begin to move.
Wait a sec, bananas don’t move.
I stared at the bag as my hands shook. Nope, the bananas weren’t moving at all. It was the ginormous tarantula inside the bag that was moving, tapping on the plastic with its hairy foot. I froze, hardly daring to breathe.
Omigod! Spider!
In my mental world, I was screaming my head off, but in the real world, I think my mouth was just wide open with no sound coming out.
I threw the bag on the floor and rocketed out to the parking lot faster than the speed of light, probably warp factor ten at least.
I did some deep breathing as I jumped in the car and locked the doors, just to be on the safe side. There was no way, absolutely no sodding way that I was going back in there again while that spider was on the loose. Paul Clark and Brad would just have to wait.
****
I sped all the way home, cursing my life, my new job, and humongous, ugly spiders that shouldn’t even be let in the country. As soon as I pulled up outside my apartment, the heavens opened, sending cascades of water down the back of my T-shirt as I dashed into the building. I cursed that, too, running up the stairs to my apartment, which the estate agent had described as cozy, but which really translated into poky rabbit hutch.
The smell of fried garlic chicken greeted me as soon as I shoved the door open. That could only mean two things. One, Marmalade Fox, my ginger cat, was cooking his own dinner tonight, or two, Romeo Lopez, my boyfriend, was whipping up one of his culinary creations in the kitchen. I was hoping it was the latter.
As well as being an amazing cook, Romeo had other sterling attributes, as well. He had hazel eyes, cinnamon skin, and thick black hair, all courtesy of his Spanish father. He looked sexy as hell in just about anything, he knew which buttons to press on the washing machine, and he was pretty good at pushing my buttons, too. Additionally, he was also one of the best cops I had ever worked with. All things considered, this put him firmly in the minority – people who are beautiful on the inside and the outside.
I kicked off my shoes, one of them nearly knocking over a giant, terracotta plant pot by the front door that I’d never found a home for, and flung my rucksack down next to them. Dripping rainwater on the wooden floor boards, I walked the few steps from the hall to the lounge and ignored the wilted yucca plant on the way, promising myself I’d water it later.
Romeo stood in the galley-style kitchen, naked except for an apron. As I watched with appreciation, he poured two glasses of red wine and turned to me. ‘How was your first day?’
My temperature shot up a few degrees. ‘All the better for finding a naked chef in my kitchen.’ I smiled, took the glass, and stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips.
He grinned, nuzzling into my neck. ‘I aim to please.’
‘You wouldn’t be doing this to persuade me to move in with you by any chance, would you?’
‘Don’t know what you mean, but now that you mention it…have you thought any more about my proposal?’
I flushed and glanced down at the floor, gnawing on my bottom lip.
‘Well?’ Romeo prompted me.
I gulped down my wine. ‘Wow! Look at that rain.’ I pointed out of the window behind him.
‘Amber, you’re avoiding this conversation.’
‘I am not!’ I tried my best shocked voice. ‘I’ve never seen rain like it. It’s so…droplettyish.’
Romeo’s steady gaze drilled into me. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that even a word?’
I feigned a sudden interest in my fingernails.
‘You can’t avoid it forever, darling.’
‘You practically live here anyway, when you’re not working on special operations. Why do we need to make it so…official?’
‘I like official.’ Romeo turned the nuzzling into feathery, light kisses that were designed to make me cave in. Just when it was starting to get interesting, my mobile rang. I groaned, slipping out of Romeo’s grasp to answer.
‘Foxy, why haven’t you put those bugs in yet?’ Brad’s Australian twang sounded over the phone.
‘What are you talking about? I did put them in,’ I replied, taking a swig of wine and holding my glass out for more.
‘Did you activate them? I’m trying to listen to them, but I’m not getting any audio at all.’
‘Of course I did.’
‘Well, they’re not working. You’ll have to go back tomorrow and put some more in.’
‘Crapety crap!’ I said, eyeing up Romeo’s full moon as he tossed the salad.
‘Let me know when they’re in – oh, and Foxy…I need it done bright and early.’
‘Yes, boss.’ I hung up and frowned.
‘Problem?’ Romeo asked.
I didn’t want to get onto the subject of Brad, so I deflected the conversation sharpish. ‘Nope, nothing to worry about. Hey, have you tidied up in here?’ I glanced around the room. My haphazard magazine stack had been arranged in a neat pile on the coffee table. The fluffy cushions on my black leather sofa had been perfectly plumped. My DVDs had been re-stacked in my reclaimed wooden rack – in alphabetical order, no less – and my photos all stood to attention, marching in a perfect, ninety-degree-angled row across the book shelf. ‘You’ll make someone an excellent wife.’
‘Well, it’s no use leaving the cleaning up to you. It would never get done. I even tidied up your tool box.’ He nodded his head toward the small case that now closed perfectly, instead of having miscellaneous handles and tools poking out willy-nilly. ‘So, how was your day really?’ Romeo gathered me back into his arms.
‘Somewhere in between rubbish and very rubbish.’ Where did I begin? My boss had come on to me on my first day, I had a suspicious-looking mochaccino stain on my passenger seat, I’d just bugged the offices of one of the most famous fashion designers in the world, and a tarantula had tried to eat me. And that didn’t even include the toilet arrangements. God, my life was so doomed.
‘That good, huh?’ he asked, his voice full of sympathy.
‘Insurance investigation is about as interesting as an Anorak convention.’
‘Want me to make it better?’
‘Only if you insist.’ I giggled.
Romeo’s mouth widened into a lazy smile. ‘Hmm, let’s start with your clothes, then. You’re wet.’ With expert precision, he slipped my T-shirt over my head.
‘No kidding.’
Chapter 3
The following morning I was ripped from my slumber by Romeo licking my foot. I could think of worse ways to wake up, but I’d never really been into toe-licking in a big way.
‘Get off!’ I groaned, moving my foot out of reach and sinking back into la-la land.
A few minutes later he did it again. I sat up and saw Marmalade eyeing me with a naughty expression. Romeo was nowhere to be seen.
‘You are gross,’ I said. Marmalade, who seemed quite pleased with that pronouncement, let out an ecstatic purr.
Getting up, I picked up my ginger fur-ball, carried him into the kitchen, and poured some very stinky kitty biscuits in his bowl. I heaped a teaspoon of coffee into a mug and then added another for luck. I had a weird feeling that today was going to be a very long day.
After soaking in the shower for ten minutes, I dried my hair and went a bit overboard with some brown eyeliner and mascara. Even though my life seemed to be a bit crappy these days, it didn’t mean I had to look it, right?
****
On my way back to the Fandango building, I realized that I was near Callum Bates’s house so I took a detour, hoping to cross him off my list of files.
When I pulled up at the address, I shook my head. You couldn’t mistake his house if you tried. It was the only one on the dreary looking street whose front garden looked like a car breaker’s yard. At least the other residents had tried to spruce up their gardens with the odd gnome and hanging basket. I dodged past the dissected car parts and empty vehicle shells that sat abandoned on the drive, arriving at Callum’s lime-green front door with only one drop of oil on my shoe. I thought that was pretty good going, all things considered, as I reached up and banged on the door a couple of times. A few slivers of peeling paint dropped off onto my shoes. I pulled a disgusted face and wiped them off.
After waiting a few minutes and not getting an answer, I peered through one of the windows, but I couldn’t see anything other than some threadbare, yucky–looking brown curtains. I glanced around the outside of the house. There was a garage attached to the side, with doors painted the same lime color. Luckily, the garage doors had windows in the top section, which would hopefully make it easy for a quick peek inside. I’d just stepped over an old steering wheel when I heard someone calling out.
‘Yoo-hoo,’ a voice said.
I looked around and spotted an elderly woman next door, standing on her front step. She beckoned me forward with the stack of mail she held in her hand.
‘Are you looking for Callum?’ Granny whispered.
‘Yes, I’m from his insurance company. I need to ask him a few questions about the van he reported stolen.’ I smiled at her.
She looked up and down the street, scanning for any curtain-twitchers, although something led me to believe that Granny here was probably the only curtain-twitcher on the street. ‘Come in.’ She led the way into her house.
The unmistakable smell of ganja nearly blew my nose off as soon as I entered the front door. I coughed, looking around and taking in the sight of cannabis plants as far as the eye could see. Ashtrays sat on every surface, overflowing with joint butts. It looked like she was running a dope factory and smoking the proceeds at the same time.
Ignoring the illegal plants, I turned to face her. ‘So, did you see anything?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I did.’
I waited, expecting her to elaborate, but she stayed silent.
‘Callum reported that his van was stolen three nights ago, when it was parked outside his house. Did you see anyone take it?’ I prompted her, wanting to get answers before I ended up hallucinating on the fumes.
‘First of all, I saw Callum outside with a man.’
‘OK, and what happened with this man?’
‘They talked for a while, and then the man got in Callim’s van and drove it away.’ She winked at me. ‘Fancy a smoke? It’s good for arthritis.’ She waved a gnarled hand in front of my face. ‘It’s legal for medicinal purposes, you know.’
‘Er…no thanks. My arthritis is tickety-boo this week. You’re sure this was three nights ago?’
‘Oh, yes. In fact, I wrote it down. Hang on a sec, love.’ She rummaged around in a stack of papers on the kitchen table. ‘Yes, here it is.’ She read from her notes. ‘Callum was talking to a good-looking man in his thirties. Actually, he was very good-looking. A bit of a dish really. My, if I was five years younger, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed. Do you know, I haven’t had a fella since nineteen-ninety–’
‘The van?’ I cut in before I got to hear a complete rendition of her life story.
‘Oh, yes. The dish and Callum had a conversation – looked quite cozy, too – then they shook hands, and the man drove off in Callum’s van.’
‘So, what color was the man who had this conversation with Callum?’
‘Purple.’
‘Purple?’ I raised an eyebrow. One word flitted through my mind: Whacko!
‘Yes,’ she responded.
I didn’t really know what to say to that, but I thought I’d keep her talking just in case. Sometimes the most valuable witnesses are the ones you least expect. ‘OK. Was he light purple, dark purple, lilac?’
She tilted her head and pondered my question for a few seconds. ‘Light purple, almost violet. That’s good, you know. A violet aura is pretty good.’
‘Hang on a minute, let me get this right. The man that drove off in the van had a purple aura?’
She nodded. ‘I see auras. You’re dark green. That’s not good. It means danger. You should be careful.’
Granny’s brain cells must’ve taken quite a beating over the years, probably from the pot. I suspected she also saw little green men and pink fairies. Maybe a few flying pigs as well.
‘Well, I have to be going now.’ I hastened toward the door. ‘Thanks for…the information.’
I breathed a sigh of relief when I got back outside and made my way back to Callum’s garage. Standing on my tiptoes, I gazed through the murky windows, looking for anything that would give me a clue. Finding his van inside would be a big one. Unfortunately, it was too dark to see a thing. So much for wishful thinking.
Maybe I could get inside and have a little look-see. I glanced up and down the street. No one was about. I tried the door handle, and it turned, but the door only popped open an inch. I pushed on the panel, but it wouldn’t budge. Well, I certainly wasn’t about to be beaten by a stupid garage door. I glanced around again, making sure the curtain twitching brigade wasn’t about, and heaved the door forward with my shoulder. It groaned and suddenly gave way, my torso crashing through the door with momentum.
Big mistake! The door slammed into a tall metal shelf that sat behind it, and a tin of lime green paint toppled off, splattering its gooey contents straight onto my head.
No, that didn’t just happen, I chided myself. Tell me, Amber, that what I thought didn’t just happen. I stood there for a moment, stunned, with my hair and shoulders dripping lime green rivulets of paint. ‘Bloody bugger fuck,’ I shrieked as it dawned on me that no, I hadn’t imagined it, and yes, it had actually happened.
I touched my hair. Saturated. Clothes? T-shirt now looked like a hippie, lime green tie-dye explosion. Fan-bloody-tastic. And after all that, the van wasn’t even in there.
I winced, dripping a bright green trail all the way down the drive to my car. The only spot of good news was that I happened to have an old blanket in the boot. Wrapping it around my head and shoulders, I drove home, wondering what the hell I was going to do if the paint didn’t wash out of my hair.
****
I stood in the shower for the second time that day, washing my hair for the tenth time, trying to work up enough enthusiasm to go back to work. I found that I quite liked the idea of staying in the shower all day, but then the hot water ran out, and it didn’t seem as appealing.
Toweling off, I surveyed the damage in the mirror that hung over the sink. Wow. That was a lucky escape. I was almost back to my normal chestnut locks. And I was probably the only one who would notice that my hair had a slightly green, crusty appearance.
Who was I kidding? Everyone would notice. I flopped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
‘Why can’t something good happen?’ I asked Marmalade, then did a mental head slap. Of course he couldn’t answer an open question. I’d have to put it in simpler terms. ‘Is my life destined to be boring from now on? Meow once for yes and twice for no.’
Marmalade, somewhat confused by the instructions, just yawned.
‘You’re no help.’ I closed my eyes and sighed.
I stared at the clock an hour later in disbelief. An hour! Where had all the time gone? Trying to make up for the lost time spent procrastinating, I got dressed and raced to my car. I had just slid behind the wheel when my mobile rang.
‘Hey Foxy, have you put those bugs in yet?’ Brad asked.
‘I’m just on my way. You won’t believe what happened…’ It was then I noticed that someone had broken into my car. ‘I’ll call you back.’ I disconnected and stared at the glove compartment, which hung open like a gaping mouth. It had been ransacked, and the contents flung to the footwell. I picked up the pens, maps, mini voice recorder, a chocolate Easter bunny that had melted and now looked like it had one giant eye – not sure how I’d overlooked eating that – and a moldy packet of chewing gum. The only thing that seemed to be missing was my heavy-duty flashlight. I flung everything back in the glove compartment, slamming it shut.
Could today get any worse?
‘Speak,’ Brad said when I called him back.
‘Why can’t you answer the phone like a normal person?’ I snapped, dropping my head back against the seat.
‘What’s going on, Foxy?’
‘Not only have I been attacked by a tin of paint today, but my car’s been broken into, as well.’ I sighed, fighting the urge to scream my head off. Good job I’d had two teaspoons of coffee. Otherwise I’d be doing an extremely good impression of a wailing banshee right about now.
‘Is there much damage?’
‘No. Looks like a professional job. No sign of forced entry, but the strange thing is they didn’t take the CD player. The only thing missing is my flashlight.’ I rested my elbow on the window and rubbed at the tension worming its way into my forehead. All right, so it wasn’t the best thing to happen to me in a while, but at least they hadn’t taken the whole car. And they’d left the Cyclops bunny, which was quite considerate.
‘OK, well get your ass over to Fandango’s, then. I’m hearing some rumors from my informant that he’s gone missing. And that’s the last thing I need.’
‘Missing? Missing how?’ I asked, surprised.
‘As in I’ve heard that Fandango is nowhere to be found, and there was blood all over his office this morning.’
Yep, that would definitely constitute missing. ‘On my way.’
****
The rear parking lot at the Fandango building was eerily quiet as I pulled up. Crime scene tape, which had been placed across the front doors, flapped loose in the wind. I wandered up to the building and looked through the windows. An empty, dark reception area glared back at me. I didn’t have a clue what had happened, but I knew how to find out.
‘Hey, darling,’ Romeo answered his mobile on the second ring, his husky voice sending a chill across my skin. ‘How is the interesting world of insurance?’
‘It may be about to get more interesting. What do you know about Umberto Fandango?’
‘The mega-rich fashion designer?’
‘That’s the one. Apparently, he may have gone missing. I’m at his place now. The building looks empty, and there’s crime scene tape everywhere.’
‘Let me see what I can find out.’
‘Thanks – oh, and if the police found any bugs in there, they’re Brad’s.’
He paused for a while. ‘How come you don’t know what happened if Brad was listening to him?’
‘Well, the bugs didn’t work. It wasn’t my fault, honestly. He must’ve given me some duds to plant.’
He chuckled. ‘So, if I do this, what are you going to do for me in return?’
I smiled to myself. ‘How about I order some take-out when you get home, and we have a repeat performance of last night?’ I flushed, thinking about our sex-a-thon session. ‘As long as you don’t snore like a hippo again afterwards. I swear I’m going to put duct tape over your mouth when you’re asleep.’
‘As long as I can put duct tape over your mouth when you’re awake.’ He chuckled at my gasp of indignation. ‘Sorry, but I can’t make it tonight.’
I hesitated. ‘Is this because I won’t move in with you?’
‘No, I’ve just been assigned to a special operation, and I’m going to be out of communication for a while.’
‘Oh,’ I pouted, knowing I sounded like a spoiled brat but not caring. I really liked the sex-a-thon idea.
‘Are you jealous?’ He couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice.
‘Me? No way!’ I said, doing a damned good impression of not sounding utterly pissed off.
‘You are so bad at lying.’
‘That’s not true. Sometimes I can tell really good lies,’ I said.
‘Like when?’
‘Like the time you bought me that really horrible hookerish top.’
There was silence for a while. ‘You said that top was nice.’
‘It is. If you’re a hooker.’
‘I see. What about the terracotta plant pot I bought for your birthday, which you’ve just left by the front door for months, untouched? I distinctly remember you saying that was nice.’