Would I Lie To You

By Elizabeth Revill

Someone wants DCI Allison dead. The Chameleon is the hit man hired for the job and he is on the move.

DCI Allison and Sergeant Stringer are frustrated when they arrest the wrong man. The Chameleon is a master of disguise with numerous identities at his disposal. Only two people are able to identify him, Chrissy Stephens and Police Psychic, Holly. Chrissy is enrolled in a witness protection programme but will that save her? Holly has to take her chances.

DCI Allison is desperate to track down the elusive hit man who owns a white cat but is forced into hiding as other coppers are dying and taking the hit.

Young Ronnie Soper, who has turned his life around, is the newest member on the force and goes undercover at a Young Offenders’ Prison to root out the bullies and put a stop to the escalating suicides.

Meanwhile Sergeant Stringer uncovers the real power behind the ‘hostess club’ Kelly’s Wine Bar, when he seeks solace after the ruin of his marriage. The crime boss, Billy Boyle, appears to be the one responsible for the missing girls.

These threads begin to weave together forming another complex series of cases for DCI Allison and his team and the question remains will Allison die or will the Chameleon be caught?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirador Publishing
• Release date: Oct 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781910105283

Book preview

WOULD I LIE TO YOU

BY

ELIZABETH REVILL

First Published by Mirador Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 by Elizabeth Revill

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This 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 recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2014

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-1-910105-26-9

Other titles by Elizabeth Revill

DCI Allison Thrillers:

Killing me Softly

Prayer for the Dying

God Only Knows

Would I Lie To You

Llewellyn Family Saga:

Whispers on the Wind

Shadows on the Moon

Rainbows in the Clouds

Stand Alone Novels:

Against the Tide

The Electra Conspiracy

Sanjukta and the Box of Souls.

The Forsaken And The Damned

DEDICATION:

‘For Dad who was a profound and loving inspiration in my life. I miss you.’

Acknowledgements

My first thanks must go to my delightful Commissioning Editor, Sarah Luddington who is an inspiration to me and I am sure to all the other authors she has under her wing and her great team at Belvedere.

To the well-respected award winning NY producer Lee Levinson who has always encouraged me in all my writing endeavours and the amazing Stephanie Rogers who markets my screenplays.

To my long suffering husband Andrew Spear, my gorgeous son, Ben Fielder with whom it is a joy to discuss ideas.

My supportive extended family, and my dear friend, Hayley Raistrick-Episkopos with whom I share all my joys and tears.

To Hajni Blasko of Substance Books Online Publicity and for all her help in promoting my novels.

To Lynne Haylock Moore who posted a picture on Facebook of all my novels and demanded more!

Finally to all my readers, without you, there would be no reason to write. I hope you enjoy this offering and here’s to the next, which is the fourth in the Llewellyn series!

If you do like my work please visit my Facebook page and give me a like:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Elizabeth-Revill/221311591283258?fref=ts

Check out my website:

http://www.elizabethrevill.com

My publisher’s pages:

http://authorpage.co/elizabethrevill/

THE STORY SO FAR...

‘Would I lie to You?’ is the fourth in the DCI Allison crime series.

The first three novels are a trilogy centring on a serial killer’s rampage through the streets of Birmingham. In ‘Killing me Softly’ the police are hampered in their hunt for the elusive murderer by the emergence of a copycat killer, who is accidentally discovered and brought to justice by a roving reporter with a nose for trouble. The police are overloaded with work, lack resources and have too much to do, with troubles on the home front and at work.

A cunning but sadistic drug baron attempts to smuggle hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of cocaine into the country by using imported meat as a front for the illegal goods, and a sophisticated Antiques fraud gives the police the run-around.

The killer a handsome nightclub singer, and compulsive gambler is brutally and sexually controlled by his wicked and religious fanatic of a mother who is besotted with her own son. Safe in a relationship he resists the urge to kill but when his mother feels threatened by the love affair of her son and a young teacher, Amy, she decides to take matters into her own hands and eliminate her competition. With Amy’s death although incarcerated the disturbed killer becomes more unstable and dangerous. His mother uses Amy’s death to discredit the evidence against her son aiming to free him by reopening his case.

In ‘Prayer for the Dying’ DCI Allison and Sergeant Mark Stringer who have their own difficulties at home, still overloaded with work are once more led down a path, which twists and turns and brings to light a young psychic who ‘sees’ the continuing murders perpetrated by the killer’s sick mother. The psychic, Holly, has a physical and psychic connection with the killer and becomes a target herself of the evil mother, who intends to stop Holly discovering the truth.

A young woman, an amnesiac is discovered wandering the streets of the city. She has been badly beaten up and someone has gone to great lengths to prevent her identification. Is she an innocent victim or is this something more sinister? The emerging love affair between her and young David Taylor is a test to them both.

Teenager, Ronnie Soper, a truant and part time thief is captured by a brutal gang involved in the clever on-going multi-million pound antique fraud. The young lad with a sad home life is subjected to interrogation and torture before being left for dead in a flooded quarry.

The seemingly unrelated cases are however inextricably linked.

As the killer’s mother, Grace Clifton, battles for Tony’s release more women are murdered. The final crushing triumph in engineering her son’s release causes her own downfall. Her bloody rampage including a Janey Jones style kidnapping achieves her aim but in gaining her son’s freedom she loses her own.

Tony is freed and the streets of Birmingham are no longer safe.

The final and explosive conclusion to the trilogy is God Only Knows, which completes the story of serial killer, Tony Clifton and his abhorrent mother, Grace. In fact, Tony somewhat redeems himself once released from the terrible clutch of his wicked mother.

Allison and Stringer have an even heavier caseload, which varies from a hard working Asian family being targeted by murderous bullyboy yobs to the repercussions of an escaped insane killer and a young reporter being stalked by a lunatic.

Holly the newly appointed police advisor has to face some unpleasant truths about her origins. Loose ends are tied up but in a final dramatic twist, Allison himself becomes the target of hired hitman, The Chameleon. Police fall around him. It is touch and go whether Allison will survive. Allison has displeased someone and they want him dead.

CHAPTER ONE

Who are you?

‘The Chameleon’ studied a fistful of passports. He chucked them one by one into an empty case before deciding on an identity. He studied the photograph; short cropped blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, glasses, trim and fit. He was now, or soon would be, Sam Elliot. He had always liked that identity. He needed to grab the hair dye and his mouthpiece. All the changes could be made once he was out of James McPherson’s house. His BMW X5 had been impounded in the Albany Hotel’s underground car park. He smiled. It was a bummer that he had lost such a great car but then he was sure that the police would not be hassling him. After all, the number plate was cloned from the real James McPherson. He was used to dealing with car rentals, a different one for every job but he always liked to keep one in reserve for personal use.

He looked around at his sparsely furnished modest suburban semi. Now looking less inviting in the shaded light. The Venetian blinds left a striped pattern on the walls that reminded him of prison bars. He shivered.

He had packed everything he needed. He was used to moving around the country quickly. His belongings were few. He had no regrets. Well, maybe one. Life in retirement with Chrissy could have been good. He snorted, but then how could he have kept his true eye colour away from her? He could only have concealed it for a while. No matter, she wouldn’t be a problem for much longer, neither her nor her dog. Then, there was the small matter of his original hit, Greg Allison. That could be more problematic but he didn’t like leaving loose ends. He had enough money to retire and live in luxury. He was adept at fading into obscurity but it would niggle him that there was maybe still someone who could identify him, like Chrissy.

The Chameleon opened his other mobile phone complete with new number and Sim card. He dialled Kit Hill Cattery, Hello? Pauline? James McPherson here … yes, I have completed my work and will collect Snooks… Four o’clock okay? ... Great. See you then. He gave a last look at his property and picked up his laptop bag and car keys, flipped them in the air and exited what had been his safe house for the last five years.

He slammed the door behind him and blinked in the bright sunlight. His eyes twinged as they adjusted to the glare of the burning orange orb and he cursed softly as he saw his neighbour Miss Hartman approaching and smiling.

Mr. McPherson? I am so glad I haven’t missed you. Rumour has it that you are leaving us?

And how do you know that? he struggled to keep his voice level.

Oh, that’s easy. The local estate agent, Flaxby and Denham, were here taking photographs.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud and Miss Hartman’s face seemed shaded with suspicion.

Oh, he managed a smile. Can’t keep anything a secret here.

Not bloody likely. She blushed, Excuse my language.

Forgiven.

May I ask where you are off to? What about your forwarding address?

He bit back the retort that rose so readily to his lips. I am not sure yet. My mother’s gravely ill and my sister feels we should take it in turns to ease the load, he lied glibly. I don’t want to stay in my mother’s house or with my sister so I shall find a hotel in the locality and search for somewhere to rent or buy.

The sun reappeared and seemed to spotlight him as if in interrogation.

Oh? Miss Hartman’s eyes were questioning and he almost wished he could eliminate the life in her eyes but that would be foolish.

As soon as I am settled, I’ll give you a call. And now I must be on my way.

Of course, of course. I don’t want to hold you up. New car? she asked as she eyed the X Trail parked in the road.

Nope. Just a hire car while mine is being fixed. He hoped that would be the end of the inquisition, but it wasn’t.

Oh, I am sorry to hear that. What happened?

He wanted to tell her to mind her own business but checked himself from issuing a string of expletives. I am sorry, Miss Hartman, I really do have to rush. I promised I’d do my best to get to see my mother at visiting time.

Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hold you up… Where is home?

Um, Newcastle. Got a long drive. He climbed into the driver’s seat.

Safe journey. Miss Hartman gave him a cheery wave and The Chameleon sighed satisfyingly. He saluted his neighbour as he started the vehicle and moved away from five years worth of memories. Now, it was time to move on and collect Snooks.

*

The real James McPherson stumbled to the kitchen in his boxer shorts and bleary eyed he switched on the kettle before looking disapprovingly at his less than wholesome reflection in the mirror. It had been a long night and in his words he was bladdered; he scarcely remembered what had happened. He caught sight of his unshaven face in the mirror and wished he could turn it toward the wall. The drapes were still drawn but the daylight crept through in places and dust motes floated in the air as if they were invading life from another world.

He opened the bread bin. The sound was unpleasantly loud and he winced as he replaced the lid, which seemed to scratch metal on metal until it found its rightful place. He had removed two slices of granary multigrain and popped them in the toaster when to his horror he heard a splintering ramming sound as his front door was battered in and a barrage of armed policemen in riot gear burst into his home and ordered him to put his hands up.

Get on the floor. Down on the floor. NOW! Hands behind your back.

James needed no second bidding. He fell to his knees and prostrated himself. His hands were cuffed behind his back and four marksmen trained their weapons on the young man, who tried to speak. What’s the prob…?

Shut up! yelled one of the officers and James received the barrel of a gun pressed into his neck. James went quiet immediately.

A search team ransacked the house turning out drawers and cupboards much to James’ dismay. His computer was dismantled and carted off along with his Ipad and mobile phone.

On your feet, now! The order was hurled at him. He struggled to his feet, the gun barrel still pressed firmly into his neck. James McPherson I am arresting you on suspicion of murder, attempted murder, and grievous bodily harm.

What?

I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.

But…

The arresting officer began to bundle James unceremoniously toward the door. The passageway to the front door appeared as a tunnel of light and James blinked at its brightness and became aware that he was not dressed. He stopped and was pushed from behind and almost went sprawling.

Can I at least put my jeans on?

The officer nodded agreement and indicated that James should pick up his jeans from the floor and pull them on.

Hey, Man. This is all some terrible mistake, he muttered as he hopped into his denims. James grabbed his shirt from the chair and managed to pick up his lime green crocs from the floor before being shoved roughly out of the door.

Neighbours came out to watch as James McPherson was forced into a police car and with lights blazing, and sirens blaring, he was rushed away to the police station.

*

Detective Chief Inspector Greg Allison bit into his Mars Bar that he’d been saving until the end of the day. He sighed contentedly as he munched on the melting soft caramel and chocolate delight. His phone rang, Yes? he answered gruffly as he tried to capture escaping strands of toffee and flecks of chocolate that protruded from his lips.

He put down his treat and traced the sunlight pattern that filtered into his office through a large fronded fern on his desk with his fingertip, as he listened.

Sir, James McPherson is under arrest and on his way to the station, said the voice of Mitchell Hunt, the sergeant of the armed police response unit.

Good work.

Sir.

Yes?

I hate to say it, but I don’t think it’s the right person.

Mm. That’s as maybe. We’ll see when he gets here and discover if there’s any connection. Allison thrust down the phone, picked up his chocolate bar and stared out of his office window across to the General Hospital whilst enjoying the remainder of his beloved treat. He watched with interest the activity, the comings and goings that had been his wont when he needed to think. The sun played hide and seek with the clouds and the dappled sky threatened showers.

There was a knock on the door, Enter! growled Allison.

Mark Stringer, his sergeant, popped his head around the door.

Come in, Mark. Don’t just stand there.

Mark looked uncomfortable. His usual immaculate appearance was a little crumpled and his eyes betrayed the fact that he had not been sleeping well. Allison didn’t press his sergeant but he could see that something was bothering him and he didn’t think it was work.

Mark cleared his throat before speaking, A disturbing report has come in from WPC Beck. She was stopped in New Street, began Mark tentatively.

Yes?

A young girl approached her and told her she was being abused by a group of men… And she isn’t the only one.

Without jumping to conclusions it sounds similar to the cases in Yorkshire and Oxford.

It does. But they’re not linked. This seems to stem from a lodging house in the Handsworth district of Birmingham.

Get a full report and keep me posted. Put Taylor to work with Beck on this. They can liaise with you.

Sir? Mark hesitated.

Was there something else?

Yes, something very strange. Taylor doesn’t know what to make of it.

Give, ordered Allison.

Mrs. Clifton.

What about her? Not back from the dead, is she? And haunting poor Taylor? joked Allison.

Almost. She’s named Taylor, as beneficiary in her will. If her son Tony died without leaving a legitimate heir, her entire estate is to go to Taylor. She named him as a goodly, Godly boy who loved his mum and afforded her some kindness. She added the codicil when she was inside.

Bloody hell! So, her biological granddaughter doesn’t get a bean, as she was adopted?

No. Taylor has inherited a burnt out ruin of a house in Golden Hillock Road and… Mark stopped; he was enjoying stringing out the last bit of information. Wait for it… two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

Allison’s jaw dropped, I had no idea she was worth that much.

Nor did anyone else. Seems she was quite a frugal lady and invested in stocks and shares when Tony was a nipper. Came up trumps. Most of the shares were in BT and British Gas.

What’s he going to do?

Don’t know. He was talking of compensating the victims’ families, but then that could open the floodgates for more than he’s inherited. I told him he should keep it. After all he was a victim himself.

I’ll say. The thought of being drugged, kidnapped and raped by that foul woman…

Is it against the rules? To keep the inheritance, I mean.

Not that I know of, tell him to keep quiet and accept. After all he and Judy are just starting out in married life; they need all they can muster to raise a family.

I’ll tell him you said that, Sir.

Oh, and, Mark?

Yes?

I’m serious, he must keep quiet about it; the fewer people that know the better. The last thing we want is the press to get hold of this, like that carrot haired fellow from the Post.

You mean Booth.

Yes, like a bloody ferret after a rabbit down a hole, when he gets hold of something.

Sir, Taylor told me in confidence and I said I’d speak to you.

Good. Keep it that way. Tell him he has my blessing. And tell him to get together with Beck on this sexual allegation case. He’s newly promoted, he can take the lead.

Sir. Also, Pamela DeVere is requesting permission to leave the country now that her brother is dead. She says she’s given us more than enough information and if she’s no longer being protected she wants to get out and live abroad somewhere. She says her own life could be in danger.

Hmm. I don’t think so. I believe she is more than involved, and in more than a minor level, especially in the antiques’ fraud that has cost Brand his life. She’s to stay put, ordered Allison.

I think you’re right. I suspect she’ll try to do a bunk.

Then get someone to watch her. Goddamn! It’s always the same. Too much to bloody do and not enough hours or men to cope with the load.

Also…

What now? barked Allison and he lumbered toward the door as might a grizzly bear towering on two feet as if intent to do some damage.

Ronnie Soper.

What about him?

You remember him?

Of course. He was instrumental in helping us crack down on the artwork fraud.

He’s applying to join our station’s police force. He passed the literacy and numeracy tests. His drug tests came back clear and he completed his eight-week training course and passed with flying colours. He’s been working in Selly Oak.

Has he, be damned?

Wait for it… he’s requested seeing you with regard to a reference. He aims to work here in this station and eventually be accepted into CID and work with you. In fact, we never replaced Brand, and another vacancy has come up with the death of young Gary Watson.

Allison laughed, Cheeky blighter. Full marks for his impishness and audacity. He thought for a moment, and rubbed his chin, Tell him to make an appointment through Maddie. He’s a bright lad. The force could do a lot worse.

Right. Mark stopped at the door. Oh, and shall I pick you up tomorrow, Sir? For Gary Watson’s funeral?

Glad you reminded me. I’d almost forgotten. Allison paused as he thought. Yes, pick me up at ten, here. I expect the place will be packed.

Allison’s phone jangled impatiently and he groaned, What now? Mark, ask Maddie to bring me some tea. The Chief thundered to the phone and picked it up. Yes?

Mark stood hesitantly by the door but Allison waved him away. The big man collapsed into his seat with a sigh and hunched over his desk. He picked up a pen and doodled on a pad in between making notes, unconsciously recreating the pattern made by the refracted light through the fern fronds. It’s not really our concern. We don’t involve ourselves in Youth Detention Centres or Young Offender Prisons … I see … If it’s come from the Chief Constable, I don’t have much choice…. Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Allison replaced the handset and rubbed his grizzled chin thoughtfully, sighing heavily. This was not his brief. He wanted to focus on finding young Watson’s killer but just didn’t have enough men to do the job. With little or no clues he could see it being shelved onto the backburner. It was wrong. They usually went after cop killers with everything they had.

Allison glanced up as the first raindrops began to compete with each other for space on the windowpane and the sky turned a miserable grey almost matching his mood.

There was a polite rap on the door, which opened, revealing his secretary, Maddie, bearing a life saving cup of tea, which she set down on the desk in front of him. Greg Allison grunted his thanks and Maddie left as unobtrusively as she had arrived. He hugged the brew to him, warming his hands. Somehow, a cold mantle of depression filtered through to his bones and Allison shivered. He didn’t like the feeling, which was akin to some sort of premonition of impending doom.

Allison sniffed in derision, musing that he’d spent too much time with psychic, Holly. He took a mouthful of hot tea and the chill seemed to subside. He instantly began to feel better.

*

The Chameleon had arrived at Kit Hill Cattery, a pleasant place surrounded by broccoli topped trees and green wild flower meadows. The enclosures smelled fresh like summer rain. They were clean and roomy, and to be recommended. He had Snooks safely in the cat basket. Her whiskers had turned down and a little frown appeared on her face as if she was being imprisoned. She mewed in complaint. He paid Pauline Dowling in cash, peeling off crisp new bank notes, and collected his receipt. Thanks for looking after her so well.

My pleasure, Mr. McPherson. She’s a lovely cat.

That she is. I don’t know what I would do without her. He was sincere in his admission. As he looked up the criss-cross mesh wire of the cat enclosure cast a shadow on his face as if he was some amphibian or reptile with diamond shaped scales for skin. But the look was fleeting.

Until the next time then, smiled Pauline.

Of course. But I am not sure when that will be.

And I’m certain, Snooks will be happy about that! laughed Pauline. She had a rich throaty laugh and he suspected that in private she smoked, although there was no residue of tobacco smoke in her presence. It wouldn’t have been good for business.

The Chameleon placed the basket in the back, hopped into the driver’s seat and started the car. He gave Pauline a cheery wave and set off smiling, as he firmly closed one chapter in his life, and headed off down the leafy lane to the main road that would lead him eventually on toward Birmingham.

He switched on the radio selecting Radio 2 and listened to The Jeremy Vine Show as he travelled toward the M5 motorway, switching on his Sat. Nav. map as he drove. He thought quickly. He knew that the outlying districts of Birmingham and Bromsgrove, maybe even Halesowen, were bordering on some stunning scenery and it would be an easy matter to get into Birmingham quickly from there. He had the added advantage of no one knowing him in the vicinity and felt it would be a good safe place to stay. He would need to stop in one of the small hamlets, find an estate agent and get a property to rent until he could buy, or possibly rent a holiday let that would be furnished. So thinking this was a good plan, he happily joined in the chorus of the song that played on the radio, and singing that he would ‘move like Jagger’. He turned onto the slip road leading to the fast and busy M.5.

*

James McPherson, the newly arrested, but real James McPherson, sat in Interview Room 4 looking miserable as Allison strolled in with Stringer and sat opposite. Rain hammered on the window outside. It lashed down in stripes spattering the glass, which misted up from inside.

Mr. McPherson, do you own a black BMW X5? queried Allison.

Yes. James McPherson wasn’t going to say anything more than necessary. He’d seen too many American cop shows and knew that less was better. Although in his head he argued that he had nothing to be afraid of because he’d done nothing wrong.

Where is that car now, Sir? asked Mark.

In the garage at home, why? said McPherson feeling bolder, knowing his innocence.

Stringer nodded at Allison, It’s being checked out as we speak, Chief.

Allison grunted, Where do you work?

PC World. I’m the manager there.

Allison raised an eyebrow, And why aren’t you working today?

I have the week off. It was my brother’s stag do last night and the wedding is at the weekend.

Allison frowned and leaned forward, Do you own a cat?

James McPherson was thrown by the swift change in conversation and hesitated, No. I’m allergic to them. Cat hairs trigger my asthma.

The rain stopped its drumming tattoo on the window and the gloom began to disperse as beams of sunlight began to penetrate the room and the clustered rivulets of raindrops started to dry up like angel tears promising a new beginning.

Allison rose abruptly, Can we get you a cup of coffee? Or tea?

McPherson relaxed, I could murder a cuppa, white no sugar.

Allison nodded and gestured to his sergeant who also rose. They exited the room leaving a uniformed bobby on watch.

What sort of a bloody fiasco is this? ranted Allison.

We were warned, Sir.

Allison grunted, Phone PC World and verify his identity. Call the men on site at McPherson’s house and check if he’s telling the truth. And get the man a cup of tea. Allison strode off in his clumsy gait to his office grimacing and looking even more like a stubborn bulldog than usual.

No sooner had Greg sat down at his desk than Stringer was back. "Sir, James McPherson’s car is in his garage as he said.

Then someone cloned his number plate. Very clever to have the same make. Someone did their homework.

Looks that way; and he is who he claims to be. He manages PC World in town.

Let him go and get him a lift home. We will have to give him a grovelling apology. I’ll get Maddie onto it.

Sir, what about Chrissy Stephens? Do you think the hit man will come after her?

She’s the only one that can identify him. I’d say that was a certainty. We need to get her to a safe house. She will have to get a new identity and job. I’ll put the wheels in motion.

*

The Chameleon stopped off at a pub close to the M5 advertising free Wi Fi. He sat in a secluded corner of the bar, which smelled of stale, spilled beer, with his laptop. Underfoot his feet crunched on some stray peanuts and their foil wrapping. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, he hated untidiness and lack of cleanliness but needs must. The place was not busy, just a few drinkers supping ale at the bar, each one lost in their own world and the bartender took no notice of him as he scrolled through properties to rent.

He spotted a holiday cottage at the foot of the Clent Hills available for rent at two hundred and fifty pounds a week. It was in the countryside, yet the main road into Birmingham was within easy reach. It sounded ideal. He flipped open his phone and dialled the letting company’s number.

Hello? I see you have a property to let in Clent village…. Yes, that’s the one. Is it possible to view it? ... Good, yes… I am a writer and looking for a country retreat to work… Sam, Sam Elliot… I can… I can be with you by 10:00 a.m. tomorrow morning … Good, good … Certainly for three months, if not longer. Is that a problem? … Fine, see you tomorrow. Do you have a postcode? He scrawled something down on a stained beer mat as the agent spoke. Great. No, that will be perfect. Goodbye.

‘Sam Elliot’ flipped his phone shut, popped the coaster in his pocket and continued browsing the Internet. He selected a hotel, The Old Rose and Crown at Lickey in Rose Hill Road. It was pet friendly. He rang the number. Hello, I wondered if you had a room available for the night? … Yes… I’ll hold … Terrific. Do you need a credit card? No? ... I should be with you in about thirty minutes. Sam ended the call and closed his laptop. He threw some money on the table for his sparkling mineral water and left. His departure didn’t even warrant a second glance.

Sam had picked up a local paper, The Birmingham Post and Mail, lying on a vacant table, close to the door and tucked it under his arm. He made his way to his vehicle.

In the back car park he looked up. The clouds were rolling through the bruised sky, batted along by a keen wind, chasing the heavy sombre rain clouds away. The shower of rain had washed the tarmac leaving it sparkling clean as if impregnated by tiny jewels. He returned to his car, tossed the paper on the front seat with his laptop and pulled out a trilby hat from the back, which he pulled down on his head covering his hair. He opened his toilet bag and removed a mouthpiece that covered his own teeth, filling out his lips and presenting as perfect teeth. He put on a pair of spectacles and satisfied that his hair couldn’t be seen he started the car and made his way to the hotel. Once settled in he would dye his hair and test out his new look in a local bar. The teeth altered the way he spoke and he ran through some speech exercises to rid himself of the annoying lisp they gave him. He quickly remembered where he needed to place his tongue in his mouth for certain sounds but could not conquer the sibilant ‘s’ that remained. It was of no matter, he could sing along with the radio that usually helped him adjust to his new teeth.

Right, Snooks. The Old Rose and Crown and the Lickey Hills, here we come.

Sam punched the postcode of the hotel into his navigation system. A calmly cool female voice announced, Route guidance will begin when you join the highlighted route. Sam swung his vehicle out from the pub car park and into the street and followed the directions of the female voice, which led him to the outskirts of Bromsgrove. He turned into the green tree-lined country hill and motored to the golf club and the character hotel. He parked by the tables and chairs with their massive umbrella sunshades, picked up his bag and the paper, and entered the premises leaving Snooks who mewed pitifully in her cat basket on the back seat.

The check-in went smoothly. He paid up front, in cash, and Sam was given the key to room seven. He mounted the stairs two at a time, found his room and opened the door. It was satisfactory, richly furnished with thick burgundy drapes that would prevent the light from invading his sleep. He placed his bag, laptop and paper on the bed, put the door on the latch and sped back down the stairs to get Snooks.

The cat meowed plaintively as he rescued the basket from the back of the vehicle and re-entered the hotel. The proprietor Andrew watched him coming in and laughed, Well, that’s a first! Never had a cat as a guest before.

She won’t be a problem. I promise you.

No, I don’t expect so. Andrew walked off laughing to himself and shaking his head in amusement.

Sam walked up the stairs to his room and laid the cat basket on the bed. He stared out of the window at the woods opposite and the track leading up to the ponds at the side of the hotel. This would do nicely. He didn’t intend to stay too long. With a bit of luck he would rent the cottage in Clent and be able to move in almost immediately.

Sam collected the rest of his things, the kitty litter tray and all of Snooks’ needs. He settled on the expansive bed and released his beloved pet from her basket. The cat purred and rubbed herself around her owner, batting his hand with her head begging to be petted in that engaging way she had. It’s just temporary, Snooks. We can manage can’t we? and Snooks let out a throaty mew.

Sam picked up the paper and, out of interest, turned to the property section; it was always good to have a back up plan, as he did so, his observant eye caught an article on the death of PC Gary Watson. He tutted loudly. He didn’t like mistakes. Further on in the news item was the announcement of the young copper’s funeral. It was scheduled for two o’ clock the next day.

Sam determined he would be there. But now he had to dye his hair, tomorrow would come soon enough.

CHAPTER TWO

Black is Black

Holly studied her reflection in the mirror looking