Disrespected: Lena's Friends, #7

By Chris Graham

Guns, Students, Religion, Rape, Murder, Greed and Revenge. Together they make a recipe for a deadly cocktail in a story of deception, abduction, violation, and murder.

 

What future do the victims have if Lena' friends are unable to help them? This story of cross cultural attitudes, honour and betrayal searches for answers where no answers where it may not be possible to find them.

 

From Bristol to the Balkans, Lena's Friends are in a race against time to save those who are unable to save themselves..

• Language: English
• Publisher: Selfishgenie Publishing
• Release date: Jul 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224015818

Book preview

Other Titles by Chris Graham

The Lena’s Friends Series

Transactions (Lena’s Friends Book 1)

Souvenirs (Lena’s Friends Book 2)

Coincidences (Lena’s Friends Book 3)

Retributions (Lena’s Friends Book 4)

Sharknose (Lena’s Friends Book 5)

Deadweight (Lena’s Friends Book6)

Poetry

A Walk On The Mild Side

Prelude

Gordini twisted himself violently, in an attempt to break free, as he ripped the gun from his jeans pocket and rammed it into where his captor’s stomach should be then pulled the trigger. The sharp crack of the gunshot was immediately followed by Anderson’s scream of agony as he fell to the floor and began to writhe in pain.

The Italian took immediate advantage, turning to flee as Wilson rushed to his friend’s assistance. As he knelt on one knee to comfort Steve, the young Detective Sergeant stopped screaming and stared up into the older man’s eyes. Wilson fought hard to hold back tears, as blood welled out to soak Anderson’s shirt between the stab vest and the waistband of his trousers.

Hold on, Steve... Just hold on!... Don’t you dare fucking die on me, you bastard. Help’s on its way... They’ll get you to hospital. Think of all those lovely nurses, mate... Hold on... For fuck’s sake hold on!

A thin smile appeared on Anderson’s lips. His mouth opened, as if he was about to speak, but no sound came out other than a groan that Nick more sensed, rather than heard. Steve’s eyes closed.

A local uniformed officer, who’d been walking towards them, broke into a run, as he called for an ambulance on his PR.

Wilson began to shout, Steve!... Steve!... Stay with me!... That’s a fucking order Sergeant, do you hear me? Wilson laid his ear to Anderson’s chest, then sat up again staring at it in an attempt to see if it was rising and falling. With the incessant noise, and the flickering light from all the emergency vehicles, he couldn’t tell if his old friend was breathing or not. Wilson reached for his wrist to feel for a pulse.

(From: ‘Deadweight’ - Not too bad at all for a big girl - By Chris Graham 2015.)

* * *

Detective Chief Inspector Nick Wilson squinted against the flying debris in the rotor wash, as the air ambulance lifted off into the night sky. Almost immediately, as the aircraft climbed away and its navigation lights receded into the distance, the two police cars holding the traffic at a standstill moved aside to re-open the road.

Wilson turned and walked back down the lane towards the apparent carnival of flashing lights. Figures were silhouetted against the flickering blue background provided by vehicles belonging to all three emergency services, but the images were blurred by the tears in his eyes.

The ambulance that had carried the casualty the few hundred yards to the main road, to where the helicopter had been able to land, passed him as he walked. He assumed they would stay on station in case of any injuries to the fire fighters, or in case any more bodies were discovered.

The fire was under control. The surrounding trees had been damped down thoroughly to allay any fears of the fire spreading through the woodland. By daylight the fire would be out, and later the barn’s remains would cool enough for the fire brigade’s investigators to sift through the remains. Wilson had a shrewd idea what they’d find.

He took out his phone, selected a number from its memory that he’d never had to call before, and called it.

Hello?... is that Melissa?

1 - Age and Infirmity

A Backstreet Pub in Bristol.

The man in the grey hoodie sat quietly at a corner table in the busy pub. There was nothing remarkable about him, to make him stand out amongst the mainly young clientèle. Only the fact that the peak of the baseball cap, worn under the hood of his sweatshirt, was pulled a little lower than most. Without looking up, he nodded to a customer who asked if one of the vacant chairs was free.

Yeah, he mumbled, One of ’em is... You can take it.

Cheers. The customer took a chair over to another table where three youths were arguing noisily about football.

A tall man in his twenties sat down on the remaining chair, placing two pints on the table as he did so. The first man nodded.

You Mickey?

Yeah... I’m Mickey.

The hoodie wearer nodded, Good. He was a man of few words.

You’re Miller?

The table’s original occupier shrugged noncommittally.

The newcomer continued, So... to business, Mickey began, You can supply?... As discussed?

Uhuh... Yeah, I can supply. From under the peak of his cap, the man glanced at the questioner for the briefest of moments, To buy?... or just hire for a job?

Hire’s best... They’re for show anyway... for gentle persuasion, if you follow me.

Barely visible below the peaked cap, Mickey saw the man smile.

Yeah... I follow. Nothing gets you a little respect like the muzzle of a gun, does it? He reached forward and slid one of the lagers towards himself, then slurped at it without lifting it from the table any more than was necessary. OK... Cash on delivery in a plain envelope, understand?... You get half the deposit back when my man collects... the rest when I’ve checked them over afterwards... right?

Yeah, right.

Miller nodded, Good... And if you want clean items... with no history... they cost more, and the rental’s trebled on any of them that get used, OK?

How dirty is dirty?

Nothing attributed to them over here... maybe abroad though... but they have been used, so somewhere there might be a ballistics report. He took a longer slurp at his drink, And if they get any serious use, he looked fleetingly at his customer, You understand what I mean, don’t you? The customer nodded, as he continued, Yeah... Well if anyone kops one, I need to know... We don’t want any liabilities hangin’ around, do we?... They can end up in deep muddy water... I can always get replacements.

OK then... Yeah... Dirty’s fine... We don’t plan on using them, and as you said on the phone, they’re a lot cheaper aren’t they?

The man in the hoodie nodded. Yeah... A lot. He stood up, Tomorrow morning... ten thirty, your place. He pointed a finger at Mickey, Be there. The armourer walked away, leaving most of his beer still in the glass.

His customer drank his own pint down in one, belched, then followed him out to the street.

* * *

Bristol Royal Infirmary.

The AFO cradled his Heckler and Koch in the crook of his arm as he held the door open. The hospital porter eased the wheelchair through, taking care not to snag the drip, hanging from its support on the back.

The three men made their way back to the private side ward that Detective Sergeant Anderson had been forced to consider as his home for the last few weeks.

As colleagues whose paths had crossed several times in the past, the two officers engaged in the usual police banter, though Authorised Firearms Officer Jock MacIntyre kept alert, scanning around him, just in case there was a need for the weapon he held almost casually, but always ready for use. The porter, Mohammed, had got used to its presence and now barely noticed it.

There was a vending machine in the corridor. The man in the wheelchair twisted round to speak to the porter pushing him.

Hang on a moment, Mo... Can we stop here a minute. He turned to the man guarding him, Jock?... Got any change, mate?... I really fancy some chocolate.

Jock MacIntyre shook his head in mock exasperation, I dunno... Typical bloody CID... always on the scrounge... It’s a shame they don’t have pockets in those gowns.

Anderson laughed, Pockets?... It hasn’t even got a back. My arse would be out in the breeze if I wasn’t sittin’ down.

Jock put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. He held them out to his wheelchair bound colleague.

Any good to you, Steve?

Steve Anderson looked at the machine, then turned to the orderly.

Does it give change, Mo?

The old Somali porter nodded, It’s supposed to, Sergeant... but you’re better off using the right money, ’cos it’s often out of change even when the little red light isn’t lit... They make more money that way.

Steve laughed, Yeah, Mo... We’ve got one at the station like that... an’ you can call me Steve, y’know... I’ve said it before, there’s no need for formality is there?... Anyway... How much is it?... Number three. He leant over for a better view, You’re going to have to push me closer... unless one of you can put the money in for me.

Jock chuckled, Drop your keks, an’ I’ll have a shit for you... you lazy sod.

Mohammed smiled at the Scotsman’s comment, then took a pound coin from MacIntyre’s open hand and dropped it into the slot.

Number three, Sergeant... er, sorry... Steve?

Anderson nodded, Yeah... Fruit an’ nut... Cheers.

When the porter pressed the button, the chocolate bar was propelled forward on a kind of spiral, then dropped into the hopper with a clunk. He reached down for it, then handed it to the man in the chair.

There you go, Steve... I hope you enjoy it.

They turned into the ward, passing the chair outside the room that Jock MacIntyre was supposed to spend his shift sitting on as he guarded Anderson. It had been agreed that he could sit inside instead during the day, to keep the invalid officer company. Steve’s boss, DCI Wilson, had deemed the threat to the detective to be lower than at first feared.

The porter locked the brake on, D’you want to stay in the chair, Steve?... or shall I help you get back in the bed?

If you could help me into the bed, please Mo... I might try for a bit of a kip in a while.

Mohammed took his arm and helped him climb onto the solitary bed in the room. Steve was still weak from his gunshot wound. It had been touch and go at one point whether he’d survive.

Jock sat on the seat beside the bed, Is your Mel coming tonight, Steve?

Steve shook his head, In the morning, Jock... She can’t get here tonight. He broke off a piece of the chocolate, then offered the bar to Jock, Want a piece?

Not for me... but thanks anyway. You enjoy it, mate... You’re the invalid.

* * *

A lane, outside the city.

The white Movano van pulled into an overgrown gateway along a secluded lane. Its driver got out of the cab carrying a large envelope. After looking up and down the lane to check all was clear, he slipped a printed vinyl logo out of the envelope and slapped it onto the side of the van. He went round to the secluded side and slapped another one onto the other panel. He looked at it, then peeled it off and reapplied it a little straighter this time.

He took a Hi-Viz uniform jacket from behind the seat and put it on, then got back into the driver’s seat and drove off.

After entering a village, only a few minutes down the road, he turned into a residential street and pulled up outside a house. He went to the side door of the van and took out the only thing in there; a cardboard box, sealed with parcel tape that bore the same logo as was now on the van.

Inside the house, hearing the sound of the van’s diesel engine, a tall figure looked out of the window expectantly, but was disappointed to see a van bearing the logos of a well known home delivery company. He went back to watching the TV, muttering softly under his breath about timekeeping. As he did so, the doorbell rang.

Opening the door, Mickey found the delivery driver, wearing the familiar uniform jacket, and holding the box. For a moment he was confused. He hadn’t ordered anything online, or from any catalogues, so he assumed the driver had the wrong address.

Parcel for you... COD. The delivery man smiled.

Me?... You sure you’re at the right place, mate?

The driver nodded, Yes... Positive... and you are expecting it. Have you got an envelope for my boss?

Err... Yes, of course... come through. He stood aside, Sorry, I wasn’t expecting a courier... well not one who looked like a courier, anyway. He led the courier into the front room where he took a thick envelope from the desk drawer.

Here, mate.

The courier put the box on the table, then took the envelope.

Cheers...Thanks for that. He tucked it into his inside pocket.

Mickey looked surprised, Don’t you need to check it?

The driver shook his head, No, my boss’ll do that... you’ll soon hear if you’ve short changed him... Remember, your items aren’t the only ones he’s got like them. You wouldn’t really want a personal demonstration, would you? Mickey’s eyes showed that he’d understood. The driver smiled, but there was no warmth in it. We may meet again, when I call to collect them... Till then, then.

He turned away, and left the room. Mickey just stood there. He could hear the driver closing the front door behind him.

After standing silently for almost minute, Mickey moved over to the box, split the tape with his thumbnail, and opened it. Looking at the contents, he shivered involuntarily. A few beads of sweat formed on his brow. He mopped at them with his sleeve then closed the box and put it into the cupboard out of sight. before pouring himself a stiff drink.

* * *

Tony Birdham’s house.

Tony Birdham rose from the table. A few minutes ago, he’d turned off the heat under his old fashioned percolator. It had plup-plupped to itself for long enough for the coffee running down the glass to be just the right colour. Now any grounds that had got past the basket had had time to settle, he was ready to pour. Tony was particular about his coffee.

He poured two cups, then returned to the table and handed one to his breakfast companion.

Lena sniffed at it and smiled, Mmm... That smells perfect, as always. You haven’t lost your touch, have you?

He shrugged, Are we still talking about the coffee? he smiled, I seem to remember that you haven’t lost yours either.

Due to Lena having been on a golfing, shooting, and business trip to Scotland with a wealthy client, which had been overlapped by Tony’s trip to a bike event in France, the couple hadn’t been together for a while.

She tilted her head to one side, raising one eyebrow as if questioning him.

And you’re surprised? She chuckled softly, Tony... I’m a professional... It’s a matter of pride as well as pleasure. She poured a splash of milk into her coffee, Unlike some of those downmarket girls you like to frequent.

Tony laughed. In the same way that his partner’s profession as highly paid escort, or prostitute if one wasn’t mincing words, wasn’t a problem to him, Tony’s own hobby of visiting massage parlours for uncomplicated recreational sex was OK by Lena. Some of their friends, or at least those in the know, felt it was what made them such a well balanced and stable couple.

Even I’m selective, Babe... unlike some. I was talking to some guy in the lounge of a parlour while you were away. He was telling me about a place that was recommended to him up London way that even he walked away from... and that was after paying.

She must have been rough, Tony... Did he say what put him off?

Yeah... It wasn’t so much the girl herself, but he wasn’t too happy with the set up.

How d’you mean? Lena asked, There’s only so many kinds of set ups for knocking shops... at least there are if they’re staying at least nominally within the law, and not actually calling themselves brothels.

Yeah... This was apparently above a cab office, and he chose his girl from photos... but when he was taken to the room, the guy who took him there unlocked the door.

Lena looked appalled, She was locked in, Tony?

So it seemed to him... and the girl looked out of it... Y’know, drugged or something and she looked very young too.

English? She picked up her mug.

Yeah... Well white, anyway... and her accent wasn’t noticeable, but she didn’t say much... as I said, he reckoned she was completely wasted on something.

And it was all guys running the place?... No women?

Tony shook his head, No... The bloke said it was unusual. There’s usually a woman receptionist or ‘maid’, Lena nodded, as he continued, But these were all Indian guys... well, Asians anyway... and they were operating the cab office too.

So he turned around and walked out then, Lena sipped at her coffee, Best idea, that... Did he ask for his money back?

Tony laughed, He said he thought about it for about half a millisecond...Then decided that the guys didn’t look like they’d look too kindly on it. He got up and reached for the percolator to top up his coffee, There were other punters there, who were taken to other rooms, and they were all Asians too... This was in Southall where there’s a huge Asian population, so it’s hardly surprising. It was an Indian bloke he worked with who recommended the place when he heard he was going up that way for a conference.

Lena looked annoyed, Sounds dodgy, Tony... an’ it gives the whole business an even worse image than it’s already got. He should have phoned the police or something... The girls could have been trafficked, or runaways... or held against their will. She seethed, That girl was locked in for fuck’s sake... an’ doped up to the eyeballs... They probably all were.

Yeah... I suggested that to him, but he wasn’t having any of it. The place had a door camera, and he didn’t want his picture being identified.

She drained her cup, Let’s hope someone else has reported it, then... Bastards like that need stopping. I thought these kinds of parlours were a thing of the past, now women can be more open about their work, but maybe I was wrong.

* * *

A lane, outside the city.

The courier pulled into the same gateway as he’d stopped at less than a quarter of an hour before. He got out of the van and quickly removed the logos from the sides, then took off his uniform jacket, tossing them all into the back.

Humming along to the song playing on the radio, he drove off towards the city with a smile on his face and not a care in the world. He’d already paid his operative for his well practised little masquerade in the pub. The operative was very aware that, should a prospective customer prove to be an undercover policeman, he would be entirely on his own. That was unless he wanted his own far more serious misdemeanours, involving similar items to those in the box, to become known.

* * *

The Lakhani family home.

Old man Mushtaq Lakhani looked across the table at his daughter. The sunlight gave her dusky skin a kind of smoky glow that he found quite breathtaking. Even wearing her western style clothes, she reminded him of her mother Shazia on that first time he’d set eyes on her. He smiled as he remembered the excitement of that far off day when his wife to be had arrived as a young girl from Karachi.

My dear... you really have turned into a truly beautiful young woman. He sighed, I am getting old, Nazreen... and soon it will be my time to move on.

But surely not yet, Papajee?... Rashid is running one of the stores now, and Kareem will soon be finished at university. She smiled, With his business degree, he’ll be able to take over the reins... You and mum will be able to relax a little... enjoy life.

But I want to see you settled in your own place too, my dear... I want to open another store for you and your future husband to run... and in the future, he left his sentence unfinished.

The girl looked worried, The future, Father?

The future... yes. He smiled, My dream... that I realise, in sha Allah, I will probably have to watch from Paradise... is for your children and your brothers’ children to each have stores of their own to run... My dream is that eventually Lakhani’s will be trading all over the country... maybe even across Europe too... serving our brothers and sisters and our other friends in the community for hundreds of years.

The girl sighed silently. Oh Papajee... Your dreams, eh? At least her father no longer actually referred to their non Asian customers as ‘our English friends’ as he once had. She considered herself to be English. She was born here, not in Pakistan.

The old man smiled as he continued, But first there’s this engagement of yours to deal with. He looked across to the kitchen clock, then clapped his hands twice, Come now, girl!... you must hurry. If you are to get to college on time.

The girl finished her cup of chai then rose from her chair.

OK... I’m going Papajee... don’t panic. My first lecture isn’t till later, but I need to go to the library first. She opened the door, pausing to put a pair of designer sunglasses on against the bright morning sun, I’ll see you tonight, OK? she blew him a kiss, You have a nice day.

Mushtaq watched as the sunlight made her gleaming black hair shine. He had to admit to himself that it looked beautiful, though he despaired at her for lightening the ends in the fashionable manner.

To him, it looked cheap and a little trashy as so many western fashions tended to. He still wished she’d cover it up. He shrugged. It was the way of things in this country. Allah in his wisdom would understand.

* * *

A village, just outside Bristol.

Old Mrs. White picked up her bag and moved closer to the kerb as the bus approached the stop. She glanced up at the church clock, and was pleased to see that the bus was on time. At least she’d be at the community centre in time for the coach. She’d intended to catch an earlier bus but her daughter had rang and she hadn’t noticed the time.

The bus doors opened with a rattle and hiss. The driver turned to watch as Mrs. White stepped aside and waved a younger woman on first.

Go on, dear... I’ll only hold you up. The other passenger got on, handing the driver the correct fare, then moving on down the bus. Agnes White smiled at the driver as she took a deep breath before climbing on board. He smiled back at her.

Awright, me darlin’... Nice mornin’ isn’t it?... Off to town are we?... I dunno, it’s OK for some, innit? A life of leisure, he paused momentarily, a hint of concern in his eyes, You OK there, m’love?

Mrs. White nodded. She held the grab rail to stabilise herself as she climbed the low step up into the vehicle.

Yes thank you, my dear... Haven’t seen you for a while though, it’s been the other young man. She held out her bus pass, but he barely glanced at it. He’d seen it many times. Agnes was a regular passenger on this route.

Yeah... bin away with the wife ’n’ kids.

The old woman wasn’t really listening, as she made her way to the first available seat in the almost empty bus, thankful that the driver wasn’t in a hurry.

Some of them, and it was generally the older ones, would start to pull away before a passenger had made it to their seat. That was OK if you were steady on your feet, but for Agnes White, those days were long gone.

* * *

The Hospital.

Hazel signed the clipboard, and handed it back to the young doctor with a smile that would have guaranteed an invite to a night out if he hadn’t been gay.

She turned to head back to the ward. The door in front of her swung open to reveal a familiar face carrying two cups of vending machine coffee.

A broad grin spread across Hazel’s face.

Mel... Hi... Here to see Steve?... How’s he getting on?

The girl with the chestnut hair smiled, You should know, Hazel... You’re the nurse, she smiled again to reinforce the fact that she was being flippant.

Yeah, OK... point taken, but to be fair, he isn’t my patient.

Yeah, but it’s handy you being transferred here from the Royal United. A familiar face lookin’ in on him, an’ all that... He says it’s nice anyway.  Mel smiled. The two women stepped to one side to allow a trolley to pass.

No Mel, Hazel explained, I was meaning how is he in himself? I know he’s healing quite well, but he can be a miserable sod when he’s bored, can’t he?

Melissa laughed, Oh yes... Tell me about it. Either miserable or insufferably randy when there’s no way I can do anything about it. She grinned, Not with a copper sitting in the room anyway. Still, it gives him some company.

Hazel nodded, S’pose you’re right there... Do they really think he needs guarding night an’ day though?

I reckon his Guvnor, Nick, is playing safe. It was the dead guy’s possible Mafia connections that freaked him. Nick Wilson an’ Steve have been good mates for years an’ the shock of him getting shot like that, right in front of his eyes, really got to him... He cares a hell of a lot about Steve. Beneath that rough tough no bullshit macho copper exterior he’s just a cuddly mummy bear looking out for her cubs.

Hazel laughed. She’d met Detective Chief Inspector Nick Wilson.

You what, Mel?... ‘Mummy bear’? she shook her head, You’re ’avin’ a laugh. Mummy bear was the last thing she’d have called him, though ‘bear with a sore head’ sometimes sprang to mind. No Mel... Grizzly bear, maybe... Wilson’s a typical old school copper. I’ve met him a few times... even tried it on with him, but he turned me down. Gave me the old ‘I’m a happily married man’ routine.

Mel spluttered half of the mouthful of coffee she’d just taken,

Hazel!... You’re amazing, you are. Aren’t you getting enough already? She put the two cups on a window sill, then taking a tissue from her bag, she proceeded to wipe the front of her sweater and the wall. I heard you’d been getting it on with one of the consultants here.

Hazel shook her head, Not any more, Mel... He was getting too clingy. He wanted me to accompany him to some seminar or other at a posh spa place. He thought it would be interesting to me as well, but I’m sure his main reason was the obvious one.

Mel laughed, Don’t tell me... It was over on Cranborne Chase, right?

No, laughed Hazel. That would have been really awkward... but it was a similar kind of place, though probably without the special services, eh? She reached out and took the tissue Mel had been using, Here... I’ll bung that in the waste, she continued, No, I was more worried that we might bump into one of my old clients, a top consultant in immunology, from somewhere on Tyneside now. There was a good chance he might have been there too. It was his kind of gig.

Hazel had a part time career that augmented her nursing salary quite nicely. It too might be described it as one of the ‘caring professions’ as, like her friend Melissa, she worked for a high end escort agency.

Sometimes Hazel’s uniform from her day job was exactly what her well heeled businessmen punters wanted to see. A nurse in uniform was a particularly popular sexual fantasy favourite.

* * *

A residential street in Bristol.

The old soldier pulled himself upright, wavering slightly, then using a pair of sticks, he made his way carefully towards the front door. He paused at the hall mirror to check that his short back and sides hair was in place, his regimental tie was straight, and there were no crumbs from his breakfast in his neatly trimmed moustache.

Once into the porch, he sat himself into the seat of his mobility scooter, secured his sticks under an elastic strap and swivelled the seat into the forward position. Taking the keys from his pocket, he unlocked the padlock and pulled the plastic clad chain from around the post to his porch, before dropping it into the scooter’s front basket.

He selected a different key, put it into the scooter’s dashboard, and turned the machine on before driving off down his garden path, past the lawn that his mowing service kept trim.

He paused for a moment to look at the grass, surprised that it hadn’t grown longer as it was due for a visit in a couple of days. Shrugging, he pressed the thumb lever on his handlebar and with a soft whine from its electric motor he drove the scooter out onto the pavement, nodding a greeting to a neighbour as he walked his dog.

It was a relatively short one mile journey to the rendezvous point in town. If he could keep up a good pace, and wasn’t held up too much by doddering pensioners and gaggles of chattering young mums blocking the footpath, he might even have time to pick up a copy of this morning’s Telegraph and a packet of his favourite small cheroots from the newsagent’s shop. Though smoking hadn’t been allowed on coaches for some while, at least he’d be able to smoke in the grounds at the National Trust property they were visiting.

* * *

A Bristol suburb.

Michelle Mallinson heard the sound of a car horn outside. She swallowed the last dregs of her tea, and got up to go.

OK, Norm, she called out of the window, Won’t be a moment. She closed the window. Hopefully the smell of grilling bacon would be gone by the time she returned, but if not, she’d have to put up with it. Leaving a window open all day was a risk she wasn’t prepared to take.

It was handy that the charity’s coach driver was a near neighbour. It meant she wouldn’t need to use her car. As a volunteer organiser for the charity that provided these outings, she could have claimed any travel expenses from the organisation, but sadly those didn’t include compensation for the stress and hassle of finding a parking space in Bristol.

Michelle checked that she’d locked the back door for a second time, then after quickly scanning over the cooker controls to ensure they were all in the ‘off’ position, and making sure the taps weren’t dripping, she left the room. She closed the kitchen door behind her, then hurried through the hall, grabbing her raincoat from the hook as she passed.

Norman Parker leaned over to open his passenger door for Michelle, as he watched her pulling the front door closed. It refused