Sins of the Father Read online

  SINS OF THE

  FATHER

  SINS OF THE

  FATHER

  Hannah Howe

  Goylake Publishing

  Copyright © 2016 Hannah Howe

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Goylake Publishing, Iscoed, 16A Meadow Street, North Cornelly, Bridgend, Glamorgan. CF33 4LL

  ISBN: 978-0-9933827-2-7

  Printed and bound in Britain by Imprint Digital, Exeter, EX5 5HY

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  The Sam Smith Mystery Series by Hannah Howe, available in print, as eBooks and audio books

  Sam’s Song

  Love and Bullets

  The Big Chill

  Ripper

  The Hermit of Hisarya

  Secrets and Lies

  Family Honour

  Sins of the Father

  To my family, with love

  Chapter One

  We were walking along the riverbank, Alan and yours truly, at the rear of Alan’s house. Soon, Alan would become my husband; soon, I would become Mrs Storey; soon, I would own a share of this splendid sixteenth century manor house; soon, I would wake up from this dream, for dream it surely was, like one of the fairy stories I’d habitually read as a child.

  The August sun warmed our necks and arms, topped up three months of steadily accumulated suntan. As ever, Alan looked casual and smart, handsome and dignified. Through his looks and personality, he was a magnet for the majority of women; through his standing as a leading psychologist, he could fund a comfortable lifestyle; he had everything he could wish for and, incredibly, he wanted me.

  “Are you sure you want to marry me?” I asked, pausing in mid-stride, leaning my head against his shoulder.

  “I’m sure,” Alan said, smiling down at me, slipping an arm around my waist, kissing my hair.

  The air was still, the breeze non-existent, so for once I didn’t have to battle with my long, auburn hair, didn’t have to tangle with my wayward tresses.

  “You’ve come to terms with your past?” I asked, referring to Alan’s first wife, Elin, to the tragic accident that claimed her life.

  “I have,” Alan said, releasing a poignant sigh. He turned to gaze at the river, which meandered by in lazy, somnolent fashion, its energy sapped by the long, hot summer, by the unusually dry weather; we hadn’t seen anything like it since 1976, so the locals said; I wouldn’t know, for in 1976 I wasn’t even a twinkle in my father’s eye. While staring at the sluggish brown water, Alan asked, “Are you sure you want to marry me?”

  “Yes,” I nodded decisively. “I’m sure.”

  “You’ve come to terms with your past?”

  Again, I nodded, though with less confidence this time. “I have. My mother and Dan are nothing more than memories, painful memories, true. But you are my present and future. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “So,” Alan said, “in ten day’s time we’ll get married.”

  A helicopter hovered overhead, diverted my attention to the sky, reminded me that within hours Alan would be travelling through that cloudless sky, on his way to a psychology conference.

  With a heavy heart, I said, “But business comes before pleasure.”

  “It’s the psychologists’ conference season,” he shrugged.

  “In Australia,” I sighed.

  Again, he shrugged, adding a playful smile. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.”

  “Very funny,” I said, the scowl on my face disguising my amusement. “Most men have a stag night or stag weekend,” I reasoned; “you have a stag week on the other side of the world.”

  Alan laughed, a sound as harmonious as the sweetest melody. He slipped his hand into mine then led me into the shade, into a welcome shadow provided by a line of oak trees. There, he said, “Listening to Otto Stine drone on and on about his outdated Freudian theories hardly constitutes a stag week.”

  “Will Pavlina be there?” I asked, referring to our Bulgarian friend.

  “Yes.”

  “Give her my love.”

  Alan nodded, “I will.”

  “Shame she can’t make it to the wedding,” I said.

  “We’ll catch up with her,” Alan said, “on honeymoon.”

  After the wedding, we would honeymoon in Bulgaria. A recent trip to Hisarya had whetted my appetite for the country; on that occasion, I’d become embroiled in a local mystery, allowed my inquisitive nature to get the better of me. However, on honeymoon there would be no sleuthing. I’d resolved to put my deerstalker and magnifying glass away, to lock them firmly in a drawer.

  First, I had to negotiate ten long days without Alan. I stood on tiptoe, gave him a passionate kiss then said, “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too,” he said, his chin resting on the crown of my head, his gaze, at a guess, fixed on a point of no significance. “We’ll link up via videophone, as soon as I arrive in Perth.”

  We kissed again then walked hand in hand, back to the house.

  As we strolled through a field, bone-hard and parched like the rest of the landscape, I said, “I bet you break an ankle, or your plane will be inexorably delayed on the way back.”

  “I’m going to Australia to a psychology conference,” Alan smiled; I’m not going to Austria to sample the skiing.” He gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll get to the church on time; nothing will stop me.”

  “We’re not getting married in a church,” I said.

  “A figure of speech,” he said.

  “A simple wedding.”

  He nodded, “It’s what we both want.”

  “Definitely,” I agreed.

  The wedding would be a simple affair, with just a handful of family and friends in attendance. First, the thought of those ten long days without Alan. Don’t wish it away, Elton sang, adding, I guess that’s why they call it the blues...

  I was singing that song quietly to myself when Alis, Alan’s teenage daughter, appeared at the garden gate. She waved to us and we waved back. Then Alan checked his wristwatch. Time was ticking; only minutes to departure.

  “Make sure Sam behaves while I’m away,” Alan said as we joined Alis at the gate.

  “I will,” she smiled.

  After the wedding, Alis would prepare for university; she’d create a new life for herself, pursue her ambition to become a doctor.

  “And make sure Alis behaves,” Alan said to me.

  “Dad,” she scowled. “I’m not a child.”

  “No, you’re not,” Alan said. Before replying, he’d gazed long and hard at his daughter, no doubt acknowledging the fact that his pretty little girl had grown into a beautiful young woman. There would be fun times ahead at the university and Alis would no doubt break a few hearts. Of course, we’d maintain her room at the house and she’d visit frequently. But the patterns of life were changing, the kaleidoscope was turning, forming new pictures; time was moving on.

  With his suitcases safely loaded into his Jaguar XJ6, Alan turned and hugged his daughter. He kissed me then climbed into his car. Within a minute, he was away, to Heathrow, on the first leg of his journey to Australia.

  As the Jaguar disappeared into the distance, Alis smiled and waved, shared in her father’s excitement. Meanwhile, I sighed, climbed into my Mini, engaged
gear and drove to my office. Time goes faster when you’re busy and, thankfully, I had plenty of work to do.

  Chapter Two

  I drove the short distance from Alan’s house in St Fagans to my office in Butetown, heading east, along St Fagans Road. With every mile, the fresh air of the countryside gave way to the heat of the city, to the shimmering tarmac, the police and ambulance sirens, the blaring of car horns. Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty...The Lovin’ Spoonful nailed that one, all right.

  In Butetown, I parked outside my office, in Marquess Terrace, then climbed the creaky Victorian staircase to my office door. Inside the office, I found Faye Collister, my assistant, sitting at her desk. Faye was one of nature’s organizers. In truth, she was obsessed with neatness, a problem born of childhood trauma.

  Like its occupants, our office was neat and petite. The furniture was basic – two desks positioned at right angles, a large filing cabinet, a small bookcase, a coat stand and a sink. A vase of fresh flowers provided a splash of colour while three cacti, supplied and painstakingly arranged by Faye, added tasteful decoration. Furthermore, a double glazed window, situated behind my desk, offered a source of natural light. That window was open, to allow fresh air to circulate in the tiny room. Indeed, Marlowe, our office cat, was sunning himself on the window ledge, his bulk sprawled across the concrete sill, his whiskers twitching as he dreamed of nefarious delights.

  “Ooh, look,” Faye said, offering me a saucy smile, “it’s the blushing bride.”

  “Knock it off,” I complained, duly blushing for no apparent reason, “if you’re going to start the wind-ups now, it’s going to be a long ten days.”

  I dropped my shoulder bag on to my desk, ran a casual eye over a mountain of bills and sighed.

  “Alan got off all right?” Faye asked. She stood, walked over to my desk, picked up my shoulder bag and placed it on the coat stand. Then she gave me an apologetic shrug. Faye’s obsession with neatness and order could be trying at times, especially for her. But we’d found a way to cope; basically, I didn’t question or interfere with her actions while she studied self-help manuals and tried to reduce her stress levels; her obsession with neatness intensified when she felt under stress.

  In reply to Faye’s question, I nodded and said, “He’s on his way; next stop, Australia.”

  “I suppose he’ll behave himself while he’s away,” Faye said, her pretty face still swathed in a saucy smile. Before I could reply, she added, “I’ve received confirmation from the venue and registrar. You pull out now, you’ve lost your deposit.”

  As well as organizing our office duties, Faye had the immediate task of organizing the wedding.

  “I’m not going to pull out, Faye; I love Alan; come hell or high water, I’m going to marry him. Anyway,” I complained, “why are you casting this pall of doom and gloom?”

  “It’s a wedding tradition,” Faye said simply.

  “Since when?” I scowled.

  “Since Adam and Eve and the apple.”

  I placed the bills in the pending tray and thought about that. “Did Adam seduce Eve, or did Eve seduce Adam?” I asked. “Or did the apple seduce both of them?”

  Faye shrugged. She picked up a pen and scratched the top of her head. “You’re not big on religion, are you, Sam?”

  “Only when I’m trapped in a tight corner,” I said; “then I pray like hell.”

  Faye examined her pen. She pursed her lips then placed the pen, neatly, on her desk. “Anyway,” she said, “everything’s booked. I’ve sorted the guest list. From your side I have Sweets, Mrs MacArthur, Mac and his boyfriend, and me.” She glanced at yours truly then frowned. “Sure you don’t want to invite anyone else?”

  “I just want a quiet wedding; I don’t want a fuss.”

  “From Alan’s side, I have his parents; they’re travelling over from France, right?”

  I nodded; Alan’s mother was French; his parents had retired to Brittany.

  “I also have Bernie Samson, Alan’s best man; his psychology mates and his ex-rugby playing pals. And Alis, of course. Is Alis bringing a boyfriend?”

  “She’s not romantically attached at the moment,” I said.

  “Good for her,” Faye said. Incongruously, given her good looks and sensual appearance, Faye managed to sound like a crusty maiden aunt. “So that’s the guest list sorted then.”

  “Do you want to invite anyone?” I asked.

  Faye scoffed. She swivelled in her chair then turned away, to gaze at the wall. “An old client, perhaps; or my mother?”

  Faye had spent time on the street, as a prostitute. And she was estranged from her mother. Both actions were linked to her childhood trauma. Money represented no problem for Faye’s mother and, every month, she sent her daughter a ten-figure cheque, which Faye promptly shredded. Their estrangement was sad, but understandable. Maybe one day they would reach the point of reconciliation and forgiveness, but not yet.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Invite someone if you like.”

  “I’m on my own,” Faye said, “and I like it like that.” She swivelled in her chair again, only to pause and face me. “Shame you can’t invite your mother though.”

  I nodded. My late, alcoholic, mother would have enlivened proceedings, if nothing else. “If she were alive, she’d probably talk Alan out of it,” I said, “over a bottle of gin. ‘When she was a little girl, Samantha dropped a dozen eggs on to the floor to see if they would bounce, did you know that. When she was six, she used to play suicide with her dolls; she’d place them on the window ledge then talk, to stop them from jumping. When she was sixteen, I caught her reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover...’”

  Faye laughed, “Sounds like you had an interesting childhood.”

  I nodded. “My childhood was interesting, to say the least. Is it any wonder I am who I am?” I walked over to the window and gazed down to the street. Children were wandering around, though few were playing; games involved computers and gizmos these days, not sport or hide and seek. “Still,” I reflected, “it would be nice if my mother were alive to see my happiest day.”

  “I’m sure she’s looking on from somewhere,” Faye said. Then, abruptly, she went off at a tangent, “Now what about the hen night?”

  “What hen night?” I frowned.

  “You have to have a hen night,” Faye insisted. “That is tradition. What do you think about booking a male stripper?”

  “Too tacky,” I scowled.

  “Okay,” she sighed, “we’ll just get you pissed instead; get you to do a striptease, take some photographs and plaster them over the Internet.”

  “You do that,” I said, “and you’re fired.”

  “I’m only joking, Sam,” Faye laughed; “don’t look at me like that.”

  It was time to change the subject; time to get down to business. “How did you get on at the seminar?” I asked.

  Faye opened her desk drawer. She held up an object, a cigar-shaped pen. “I bought you a present.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a spy pen. Audio, video, photography; great for eavesdropping and recording conversations. They also have a coat hanger spy camera, a camera you can hide in a USB, in a smoke alarm or alarm clock. And cameras you can conceal in air fresheners and button holes.”

  “We’re running an enquiry agency,” I said, my fingers caressing the spy pen, “not MI5.”

  “You got to get with it, girl,” Faye said, clicking her fingers. “You got to get up to date. You spend too much time in the past. All your music, DVDs, books...they’re ancient. At work, you rely on your wits and outdated methods. If we don’t get up to date, the others will run past us.”

  “Tell you what,” I said, placing the spy pen on my desk, “you get up to date. You run into the future then come back and tell me what it’s like.”

  “Okay,” Faye grinned, “so officially I’m in charge of modernizing the business?”

  I switched on my computer
. In terms of technology, I acknowledged that a computer was essential, though already a bridge too far. “You modernize,” I said, “but don’t do anything too radical.”

  Faye offered me a mock salute. “Aye, aye, ma’am; I’ll ask your permission first.”

  I ignored her, my attention captured by a stream of emails. Apparently, my emails were in danger of disappearing, unless I provided my security details to someone with no name and no business address. The email was addressed to, ‘Dear User’. It was a scam, of course; cyber criminals – a scourge of the modern age. I deleted the email and blocked the sender; some people are so pathetic, so sad. On a good day, they would elicit my sympathy; I was missing Alan already, so this was not a good day.

  “And talking of modernizing,” Faye said, standing, parading in front of me, “what do you think of my new outfit?”

  I glanced up and admired Faye’s clothing. She was dressed in black slacks, a white blouse and a black tie. A tan waistcoat completed her attire. Combined with her natural blonde ringlets, her pink nail varnish and pink lips, the outfit was stunning. I nodded my approval. “You look very smart.”

  “Think it’ll impress our clients?” Faye asked, fishing for a further compliment.

  “If they’re male,” I said, “it’ll knock them dead.”

  “I’m not looking for that,” Faye frowned. She returned to her desk where she adjusted her files. “But I do want your respect, Sam.”

  “You have my respect,” I said.

  “I have your respect and no one else’s.” Faye stared at her desk. She lapsed into a melancholy silence. Such moods troubled her several times a day, but after a moment’s introspection, she usually rallied.

  “Sorry,” she apologized, “I lost myself for a second.” She straightened the files again and her features brightened. Once more, she’d lifted the veil, fought off the gloom. “So you’re happy with the spy pen?”