Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey Box Set Read online

  “You didn’t ask me if I wanted some toast, you selfish pig,” she spat at him. Specks of spittle landed on his face.

  “Really? That’s what this is all about? You’ve been home all day, not even got showered and dressed while I’ve been at work, and you want me to make you toast?” He stopped himself short of adding what he really wanted to add.

  “Would it have been so hard to ask?” she yelled back.

  Duncan shook his head in disbelief and sat back down to finish his meal, though eating in such a wound-up state was virtually impossible.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to answer me?” Her voice pierced the air.

  “Keep your voice down, will you? We don’t need the whole street hearing our senseless row again, nor the girls, for that matter.”

  “Well, you started it!” But Duncan was no longer listening. He was simply trying to swallow what was in his mouth, his stomach constricting in temper. What the hell was wrong with her? What had happened to the mother of his children, the woman he’d married, the woman he’d loved? But he couldn’t hold back any longer. He leapt to his feet, chair scraping noisily like a Gatling gun firing round after round into the small space, momentarily shocking her into quietness. Duncan lunged at her face first, his turn to let spittle fly.

  “You’re a lazy cow, that’s what you are!” he yelled. “I’m sick of it. Look at you, just look at yourself, will you?” He snatched a deep breath before carrying on with the tirade within him, one that had been wrestling to get out. “You’re a slob! The house is a mess and I’m more than sick of it. I’ve had it up to here,” he said, motioning to his temple with a stiff forefinger, “so either you sort yourself out, or I’m off. And don’t think I won’t take the girls away with me because I will. And right now, you’re not a fit mother to have them around anyway. Get some help, get whatever it is that puts some sense and pride back inside you, and do it quickly, because if there is no change, if you’ve not got yourself sorted in the next two weeks, that’s it. I’m done, finished.”

  The remaining air in his lungs drained out in a rush before he sucked a fresh breath in to refill them. Neither of them said a word. The sound of Coronation Street played out in the other room. Apt, really, their row playing out with the credits. If only it were that simple.

  Duncan was the first to move. He headed straight upstairs to his two daughters, who had more than likely heard every nasty word, leaving Sam looking stunned and speechless where she stood. He knew the waterworks would be starting round about now, but that had stopped working on him when he’d stopped caring any more. He gathered himself as he approached the children’s rooms. Jasmine’s door was ajar, her light shining into the hallway, so he pushed at it gently and stuck his head around the corner. Both girls were sat together on her bed; both their faces were full of sadness and worry. Jasmine had a stuffed rabbit on her lap and was stroking its felted-up ears. She’d had the toy since she was a toddler and no amount of her parents’ ‘losing’ it had worked, though one day she knew it would fall to pieces and Mr. Rabbit would be no more. Duncan did his best to fix a bright smile and lighten the mood. Seeing them visibly upset broke his heart. He kneeled down on the floor to their level, scooped them both into his arms, and kissed them both in turn on the soft part of their necks, their favourite thing.

  “Mmm, you two both smell good,” he quipped, trying to make them smile, but on this occasion, he was way off the mark. Sensing their distress and knowing his daughters were no fools, he sat back on his heels and tried to explain.

  “I’m guessing you heard Mummy and me shouting again, and I’m sorry you had to hear it.” Two sets of quiet, sad eyes looked at him. Jasmine nodded.

  “Sometimes, grownups don’t agree on things,” Duncan went on, “and we get noisy rather than talking about it properly. Like you get noisy with each other on occasion. But a few minutes later, everything is okay again and not so noisy. That’s all that Mummy and I were doing. We weren’t agreeing, so we got noisy. And we’re sorry. Okay?”

  Victoria nodded this time as Duncan leaned back in to give them a squeeze.

  “All right, then,” he said briskly, determined to restore order and happiness. “Let’s have a race to see who can get into their PJs and into this bed, and I’ll tell you a true story about the dragons that used to live in the woods by the park.”

  That did the trick; their parents’ shouting was almost forgotten as Victoria and Jasmine scrambled for sleepwear and then jockeyed for position in the one bed. Duncan helped by fetching another pillow from Victoria’s room and smiled as they both sat up ready for the best story two young girls could ever hope for.

  Duncan was going to have to make it a good one, he knew, and a long one. Maybe by the time he went back downstairs, Sam would have had time to think about his ultimatum and switch the tears off.

  He could only hope.

  Chapter Five

  For a change, Duncan was pleased that Sam was still asleep this morning. After their unholy row last night, they’d avoided one another for the remainder of it, she slinking off back to the sofa sulking, he reading exaggerated dragon stories to the girls. The thought amused him as he shaved in the bathroom – the two sad faces turning into bright little ones as the story had got more exaggerated and unbelievable. Maybe he should have recorded it for future use, something to draw on again and extend on for another night. He’d been tempted to let the girls sleep in one bed together and take the other himself, but he’d never been one for sleeping separately like other rowing couples did. So, after he’d tucked the girls into their beds, he’d climbed dutifully into the marital bed, keeping to his own side. Sam had kept to hers, and nothing else had been said.

  He rinsed his shaver blade under the tap and turned the shower on. As water tumbled over his head and rinsed the remaining shaving soap from his face, he rubbed his hands roughly up and down his face and pondered the day ahead. The case they were working on had taken its toll on many of the detectives; cases involving children always did. Had that been the catalyst for his outburst last night, he wondered, or was he right in his observations of how his wife had become? Calling her a slob had been mean, but deep down he knew it was true. She wasn’t ill, after all; she had become lazy, and not showering and dressing all day was not what most people did, home all day or not.

  The smell of citrus filled the shower cubicle as he lathered his body in soap and rinsed, feeling more awake than he had a few moments ago. While it was still early, he planned to have a quiet breakfast on his own then stop for a takeaway coffee and muffin on his way in. Working such long hours on the case, all he wanted was some peace and quiet, some time to himself, some time to think. In a perfect world, a weekend away – on his own – would do him the world of good, but there was little chance of that anytime soon. Maybe he’d get some respite on the tactical training course he had coming up – if it didn’t get cancelled beforehand. With all resources being thrown at the missing children case, he wouldn’t be surprised if they couldn’t spare him to go. And of course, the child was more important than his tactical training and a cheap hotel overnight stay.

  He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off quickly. Wearing only his underpants, he tiptoed around the bed to his wardrobe and fetched the clothes he needed. There was no sound from Sam as he took his clothes downstairs and finished dressing in the lounge. He poured cereal into a bowl, added milk and sat in the near darkness – again. It hadn’t been that long ago he’d been sat in the same place trying to eat his omelette during a screaming match. At least it was peaceful now.

  His phone vibrated on the tabletop. The screen said it was Rochelle.

  “Morning, early bird. What’s up?” He listened while he crunched.

  “You sound like a cement mixer. What are you eating?”

  “Muesli. It’s good for you.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Prefer a bacon sandwich myself with plenty of ketchup, but I didn’t ring to discuss breakfast options.”
<
br />   “Oh?” Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  “Thought you might like to know another child went missing last night. Another girl, seven years old, so similar in age to the others. She was playing with her friend in their back garden and then suddenly she wasn’t anymore. Mother reported her missing at about eight p.m. after she’d searched and called her friends.”

  “Eight p.m.? Why so late? It would have been dark long before then.”

  “Let’s just say the mother was out of it. Poor kid probably wasn’t even noticed as missing until she’d been gone a couple of hours. Fat lot of help the mother is going to be, I’m afraid. You nearly ready to leave? I’ll fill you in properly.” Duncan was draining his bowl as she spoke.

  “Just leaving now. Want a coffee on my way in?”

  “Always.”

  They hung up. It wasn’t just on American cop shows they did that. Rochelle did it all the time and Duncan had found himself copying, though not intentionally. It really pissed some people off, including Sam. He shook his head to dislodge the thought of his sleeping wife and all that meant. He grabbed his jacket and left through the side door, closing and locking it behind him. If she was going to lie in bed a few more hours, at least the girls would be safe from potential intruders.

  The outside was drizzly and cold, the slate-grey sky hanging heavily with no chance of the smallest chink of blue to ease the oppression of the coming day. Duncan turned the car’s heater on full; tepid air blasted at the windscreen and he willed the engine to warm it quickly. When a small, round space had been cleared on the glass, he pulled out into the road and headed off for coffee and then the station.

  Watching from the bedroom window, Sam stood gazing down as his car drove off into the wet, grey distance. Her face was blank. There were no tears; there was no emotion. Nothing registered on her face. Apart from dislike.

  Chapter Six

  The coffee shop was her local and looked like any other chain of coffee shop. Red or green logo – you choose; it was about all that was different. The same food, the same coffees, the same featureless service and the same unsmiling people, customers and staff. There really must be a nicer place to meet.

  Sam nursed her latte and filled Anika in on the previous night’s events. Anika listened with some interest, making relevant noises at pertinent times to let Sam know she was still paying attention. Anika had heard her friend’s grumblings about Duncan on many occasions but stuck it out anyway. What else was a friend supposed to do?

  Sam whined on. “And when he said he was off if I didn’t change, it put the fear of God into me. He’s been no support whatsoever while I’ve been trying to get another job and it’s really upsetting me. Why can’t he come home one night, just once, and hand me a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates or something nice? Maybe wrap his arm around me? Why not, eh?”

  When Sam looked up from her drink, she had tears in her eyes. Anika put her arm around her shoulder in comfort. Sam let the tears spill over and trickle down her face. Her nose started to run and she blew it loudly into her serviette. Snuffling, she scrunched it up and tossed it onto the table for the staff to clear away. Anika bit back a grimace of distaste.

  “It’s not nice when you have a row, I know, but you’ve got to clear the air Sam,” she said. “Tell him how you feel. He might not know that you feel unsupported and stressed. If he did, he might cut you some slack, help you around the place, do his bit, like. It’s worth a go, isn’t it?”

  Sam nodded. “I’ll have a chat when he gets home. But he’s always late back in the evenings now, and knackered, so it might not be a good time.” The whine was back in her voice again

  “There’s never a good time,” Anika said, willing herself to be patient, “but you have to try. No one ever wants to talk about their issues, but you can’t fix things if you both don’t accept they need fixing.”

  “I’ve tried to get another job, I really have, but there’s not a lot out there. Not one that doesn’t pay peanuts, anyway, and I’m not going flipping burgers somewhere. I’m better than that. I had a decent job twelve months ago. It wasn’t my fault they downsized. I liked it there.”

  Anika felt the sting of the burger comment but kept her face carefully neutral. Sometimes Sam could be so thoughtless, but Anika was stronger than people gave her credit for.

  “I know, Sam, but getting another job, whatever it is, will at least get you out the house again, give you a purpose. More than the girls, I mean. It will be good for your spirit.”

  Sam rolled her eyes at the word spirit. Anika was a believer and Sam wasn’t, but that didn’t stop Anika mentioning it.

  “There’s loads of jobs you’re qualified to do, Sam. I think you need to get a bit more active on it, though, be proactive even. Send your CV on spec, see what comes back.” Sam nodded half-heartedly and Anika took a deep breath. Sam’s lack of interest was beginning was to rub on her and she could feel her exasperation simmering.

  Gathering her things, she fixed a smile on her face. “Look, I’ve got to get off now, as much as I’d like to sit drinking coffee all day. Give me a buzz tomorrow and let me know if you talk to him and get things sorted. But do try, won’t you? And take another look at your CV, see if you can beef it up a bit. Make a list of where you’d like to work and I’ll help you if you like.”

  Sam had her head down, finding a stray piece of cotton on her thigh of immense interest.

  “Sam?” Anika prodded. “Give it a go, yes?”

  “Yes. I’ll give it a go. And thanks for listening.”

  Sam sat with her coffee dregs, watching as her best friend left the café, headed outside into the light rain that had yet to let up. The remaining cold froth in the bottom of her cup looked uninviting, and she’d had enough coffee for one day. She gathered her phone and her bag and trudged out of the café through the same exit, leaving the soiled serviette in the middle of the table.

  The cashier glared at her back, knowing full well what was inside it. The gall of her, she thought, and headed off to the storage room for a pair of rubber gloves.

  Once outside, Sam walked towards the newsagents to buy a newspaper. Maybe Anika had been right; maybe getting herself a job, even a basic one, would make her feel better, a bit more upbeat, until she found something more suitable. She didn’t have to stay there forever, did she? Just until she found something better, at any rate. And she’d spruce up her CV, spend the afternoon on the job sites. The more she thought about it, the more energy she gathered for the task ahead. If she was going to save her marriage, she had to do something.

  She selected the local paper and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.

  ‘By the end of the day’, she told herself, ‘I’ll be ready to roll.’

  After she paid the cashier, she unravelled the top of the packet of biscuits and stuffed half of one into her mouth in one go. The sweet, oaty chocolate biscuit soothed her nerves, and she chewed contentedly as she walked back towards her house.

  The walk took her twelve minutes. The packet of Hobnobs was fully devoured within ten.

  Chapter Seven

  It was no use. They needed more working capital; there was no getting away from it. As Luke thoughtfully scratched his designer stubble chin, he knew they’d exhausted most of their options. The banks weren’t interested in yet another underfunded, bright but wacky startup idea; nor were the few investors they’d approached. It seemed unless you were a tech startup, you weren’t trendy enough to warrant the interest. And even then, it was tough going, but at least you were taken a bit more seriously.

  Their venture was food – mobile food vans with a trendy take on traditional foods: gourmet organic burgers and mouth-watering pulled pork in BBQ sauce. But while it was a sexy idea, to the moneylenders it was also a huge risk. Everyone knew the food business failure rates were catastrophic, but Luke and Clinton felt otherwise. They’d had the idea, made their plan and were hell bent on making it work – not becoming another depressing statistic.

  Luke
was aware Clinton was talking to him and pulled his mind back to the present.

  “Sorry mate, I missed that last part.”

  “I think you missed most of it, didn’t you? Were you listening at all?” Clinton said indignantly. Luke had the good judgment to apologize.

  “Sorry, Clinton. My bad. I was just thinking about not being that failure statistic – drifted off for a moment. But I’m back in focus now.” He slapped his thighs noisily. “Tell me again?”

  Luke sighed loudly and pushed his specs back up his sweaty nose.

  “I said, maybe we should revise our presentation. Maybe it’s too dull, too many figures in it or something. Whatever it is, it’s not doing us any favours, is it? Either that, or it’s how we ourselves are presenting the info when we get in front of prospective lenders and investors. Maybe we should look at the whole thing again with fresh eyes, or, better yet, ask someone else to give us their educated opinion. It’s got to be worth a try, has it not?”

  Luke rubbed his stubble again in thought. “I am thinking as I sit here. I heard every word that time,” he said, smiling easily.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. When you’re ready, do tell me your thoughts, won’t you?”

  Luke tapped his chin with two fingers now. “Well, aside from doing something dodgy to raise the money, like becoming hit men or drug dealers, I guess we don’t have much of a choice. I can’t see what we’re doing wrong, but there’s obviously something not hitting the spot, because I feel sure the idea itself is sound. We’re just not explaining it well enough or succinctly enough, maybe, or perhaps the offer itself needs adjusting.”

  “You mean like the percentage on offer for the investment? You want to give more than ten percent away?”

  “I don’t want to, no, but if ten percent is not attractive enough for the money we’re after…” He paused. “Think Shark Tank or Dragon’s Den. They barter on the percentage given away for the sum invested. The contestants rarely get what they go in for. I’m saying we have perhaps been a bit too optimistic.”