Confessions Read online

  Confessions

  Caro Land

  Copyright © 2020 Caro Land

  The right of Caro Land to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in

  accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be

  reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in

  writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the

  terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living

  or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  978-1-913419-58-5

  Contents

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  1. Flux

  2. Prickling

  3. Taser

  4. Trust

  5. Juicy Murder

  6. Morphine

  7. Everyday Lives

  8. A Jiffy

  9. Fair Enough

  10. Scraps

  11. Ammo

  12. Baggage

  13. Scars

  14. No Smoke

  15. Closed Doors

  16. Favours

  17. Happy Moment

  18. Abruptly Sober

  19. Silver Spoon

  20. Money Talks

  21. Here and There

  22. An Ass

  23. An Explanation

  24. Sudden Diversion

  25. The Ghost

  26. Crumbs

  27. Forgiveness

  28. Black and Blue

  29. Fresh Air

  30. Coincidental

  31. Priorities

  32. Civic Duty

  33. Attic

  34. Shouting

  35. Feelings

  36. Blessings

  37. Sins

  38. Honest

  Have You Read?

  Acknowledgments

  A note from the publisher

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  You will also enjoy:

  To my lovely friends Sara Dyson, Liz Kemp and Nicky Roose.

  Remembering all the fun we had at sixteen.

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

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  1

  Flux

  Life was in flux, but the nooky was divine. Natalie yawned, stretching her limbs before relaxing again. It was men who were supposed to be unresponsive after sex, wasn’t it? Something to do with hormones that made them sleepy? Or perhaps it was just the exertion. Either way, that was the new Natalie Bach, lethargic and dopey like a cat after a night on the tiles, even though it was nearly lunchtime.

  Eventually she stirred again, spreading out on her front like a starfish. What was the time? Her lover had left the bedroom some time ago. He’d kissed the back of her neck and said something about her soft skin, a ‘quick run’ and then food. The grub part was a bonus; her stomach was grumbling, but a man who could sprint ten kilometres after that was heroic.

  She smiled to herself. Wesley Hughes; beau, boss and married father of two. She had tried to persuade him to stay longer in bed, pinning him with a leg across his warm torso. ‘Don’t leave me this way,’ she’d mumbled, but he had just laughed. ‘Don’t pretend you won’t be asleep in thirty seconds. The crows and the cows are a-calling.’

  The Cheshire cows and crows. And sheep, horses, pigs and goats. She’d accompanied him on his Sunday loop a few weeks ago and had surprised herself by running the whole way without begging for rest. Perhaps those half marathons with Jose in her thirties had put her in good stead. But she was officially in her forties now, so the once was enough. and besides she knew Wes preferred to run alone. He’d been arrested for attempting to murder his wife Andrea last year. The charges had been dropped, but only after the devastating discovery that the woman had deliberately spiked one of their twin son’s food to make him ill; she was currently on remand for charges ranging from poisoning to perverting the course of justice.

  Wesley Hughes needed the thinking time.

  The cottage wasn’t overlooked, so she didn’t bother with clothes as she padded to the window and yanked open the curtains. The radiator warming her chest, she leaned on the ledge and gazed at the gleaming countryside. Everything was white; white fields, white trees, white bushes and plants. Even the sheep and the goat in the field beyond the manicured garden had a light smattering from the steady snowfall. What a difference a day made.

  She took a quick breath. Was Wes okay venturing out in this weather? He’d bought some ‘super grip’ state-of-the-art trainers, but she hoped he was still taking care. Sure, her life was still in flux, but after six months of hefty buffets and bumps last year, her forty-first had started pretty damn well. She had waved her brother and his family back to Poland after a cramped Christmas in her small terraced house, and Wes had driven his sons over the Snake Pass to Sheffield uni. Nooky was back on the menu; delicious, lazy intimacy with her stunning man.

  She looked down at her naked body and blushed; when his brother Sidney was absent from this picture box country home, at least.

  The bang of a door reverberated up through the floorboards. Almost licking her lips like a hungry puppy, she punched the air and hopped back into bed. Beaming broadly, she pulled up the bedding. What would today’s delicacy from the Aga be? Yup, things were that good; not only did she fancy the pants off Wes Hughes, it turned out he was a damned good cook.

  Inane happiness, she knew. But in fairness the absurd grin wasn’t surprising; apart from Wes’s crazy wife and her own psychotic ex-boyfriend in Mallorca, life was – astonishingly – hunky-dory. Of course there were the usual complexities of work, not least the decision to keep their relationship a secret from their lawyer colleagues. But the cloak-and-dagger romance had turned out to be fun.

  Half closing her eyes, she studied the snow patterns as they stuck to the small panes of the casement. Her mind drifted to Mallorca. What was the weather doing there? At some point last year she had finally stopped loving Jose, thank God, but her home for five years was often in her thoughts. January had been the coldest month in Mallorca, yet sometimes it had been balmy enough to sit outside ‘Havana’, their beach-fronted café bar.

  Willing Wes to appear, she shook her head. Beds and wakefulness were a recipe for morbid thoughts. Yup, anxiety and guilt, still clattering around her skull. She had found out about Jose’s admission to a psychiatric hospital last November, but hadn’t yet visited him. The self-reproach wasn’t so much concerning her ex; it was more with regard to their bar manager, Hugo, who’d admirably picked up the pieces when Jose was sectioned. Over the last few weeks she had been in regular contact with him; he’d advised her to wait because Jose’s family, the Harrows, were in Mallorca for the festive season, but Christmas and the New Year had now been and gone.

  Nat sighed deeply. There were no more excuses. Yet she was still desperately searching for some.

  Loud enough to alert the poor frozen sheep, her belly thundered again. Then her ears tuned into muffled noises from the lounge below. She stilled and listened to the murmurs. What the…? Bloody Wes had turned on the TV. Football probably; the cheek of the man! Throwing back the duvet, she grabbed his shirt, tiptoed down the stairs, then burst in to surprise him.

  ‘Cheeky sod! You’re meant to be–’ She
clamped her palm to her mouth. ‘Oh sorry, I thought…’

  His gaze fixed on the television screen and clearly absorbed by the news, the man on the sofa didn’t turn. He was broad and black, but unless she’d dozed a hundred years like Sleeping Beauty, he definitely wasn’t Wes. Wes’s brother was older, but surely not that old? Aware of a slight stab of pique, she felt herself blushing. She hadn’t met any of his family. But that was fine, wasn’t it? Life was in flux; it hadn’t been broached; with the whole Andrea saga, it hadn’t been appropriate.

  Without looking her way, the man abruptly spoke. ‘We’ll end up like bloody America if we’re not careful.’

  Wondering whether to bolt or reply, Nat wrapped her arms around the unbuttoned shirt. Oh shit; its tails were barely covering her modesty. ‘Oh?’

  ‘There’s been another shooting in Salford.’ He shook his head. ‘If these delinquents want to kill each other, fine, but this time an innocent young child has been caught up in the crossfire.’ Finally turning, he glared. ‘Social media, television and particularly American gang culture: that’s the cause. Not a brain cell between them. They should lock them up and throw away the key.’

  Feeling the usual defensiveness, Nat took a breath. It was on the tip of her tongue to say it was complicated, that society and parenting, schooling and mental health issues, were also to blame, but who was she to make any comment? As a second-generation immigrant, she couldn’t help the impulse to stick up for the underdog, but she knew little else about it.

  As though finally clocking her presence, the man’s eyes focused. ‘So who are you?’ he asked. ‘A friend of Sidney’s, I assume?’

  Well, that discounted the brother, which meant this was the father. The heat spread from her cheeks to her chest, a mix of embarrassment at the state of her attire and bloody annoyance. She obviously hadn’t been mentioned, even in passing, to Wes’s mum and dad. On the one hand she understood: he was still married to the ‘Cling-on’ Andrea; he had eighteen-year-old boys and matters were convoluted by the ongoing criminal proceedings. On the other, he had made some promises on her fortieth birthday – insisted on them, in fact – the sort of undertakings his parents would have to know about eventually.

  ‘No, I’m a friend of Wesley’s, actually.’ Still gripping her outfit in one hand, she held out the other as though suited and booted. ‘Hello. I’m Natalie Bach from Goldman Law.’

  Inwardly she snorted. Bloody hell; the lawyerly autopilot must be inbred.

  Leaning forward to accept her handshake, Mr Hughes regarded her with a little more interest. ‘Ah. So you work for Wesley.’

  She held back the loud groan. It was ever thus; people always assumed she worked for a man. She could’ve been Catherine, managing partner of Goldman Law. But the truth was that she did work for Wes in a way; he was Catherine and Jack Goldman’s co-partner, and she was an ad hoc jack-of-all-trades solicitor, recruited by Jack a few months ago. After last year’s rollercoaster ride, both personally and professionally, she was still undecided whether to stay with them in their Didsbury high street offices or move on to a city centre law firm.

  Another bloody flux in her life.

  The lounge door swung open, saving her from a reply. An ample woman sashayed in with a tray, almost spilling its contents as she jerked in surprise. Placing the drinks on a table, she put a hand on her hip and examined Nat with an open, friendly face. There was no doubt she was Wes’s mum; although her skin was a touch paler and freckled, they looked strikingly similar.

  ‘What are you like, Joe?’ she said to her husband, whose attention was again lost to the headlines. She swept her bright gaze over Nat and smiled. ‘I take my eyes off him for a moment and see what happens.’ She paused for a beat, lifting her eyebrows. ‘Or doesn’t,’ she said, raising her arms when Joe made no acknowledgement. ‘I’m Kathleen, but do call me Kath. Pleased to meet you.’ She reached out a plump hand towards Nat’s, but instead of shaking it, she pulled her to the door. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen and leave the old grump to it. Tea or coffee?’ She winked. ‘Or maybe we could have a cheeky glass of wine.’

  Augmenting Nat’s sweatiness, the kitchen was warm. Reaching for a high larder shelf, Kath extracted an array of wine goblets and peered into each. She pushed one towards Nat. ‘Finally a clean one,’ she said amiably, cracking open a Pinot Grigio Nat particularly liked.

  After filling both glasses, she pulled out a chair at the small wooden table. ‘Do sit, love. You must be Natalie. I would say that Wesley has told me all about you, but you know what boys are like. All the information has to be squeezed out of them.’ She smiled, her even white teeth a replica of her son’s. ‘Like a tube of toothpaste. You know, when the lid hasn’t been replaced for a while, which happens every time in my house. You have to press hard to remove the blockage and then it all comes spurting out.’ She laughed a deep laugh. ‘That’s what it’s like to have boys.’

  Loving the analogy, Nat sat and smiled. Squeezing. Yup, not just boys, but every bloody man in her life.

  ‘He isn’t quite there yet,’ she continued. ‘You know, to squirting it all out.’ She put her palm to her mouth and guffawed. ‘Oh dear, no innuendo intended,’ she started, ‘but you know what…’ Not able to contain her chortle, she put a hand on her large belly and hooted. Her nerves sliding away, Nat joined in, powerless to stop the hysteria even when a shock of cold air blasted in.

  Soaked from head to foot, Wes was standing at the utility room entrance, the Lycra stuck to his body, leaving little to the imagination. Kath took one wide-eyed look, wiped her face with a paper napkin, and set off laughing again. Her ribs aching, Nat watched in wonder, astonished this woman and Andrea had rubbed along as in-laws for so many years. If, indeed, they had been friendly.

  Not quite knowing whether his handsome face would show irritation or that enigmatic look she found difficult to interpret, Nat turned back to Wes, but he was grinning and shaking his head.

  ‘I suppose you were just passing, Ma?’ he asked, stripping away his wet jacket. ‘Only a twenty-mile diversion from Sainsbury’s.’

  Kath blew her nose loudly. ‘Your dad brought some papers for Sidney.’

  Wes headed for the stairs. ‘I believe you, Ma, thousands–’

  The sound of his father’s voice interrupted his reply. ‘Wesley, come in here. What did I tell you about guns? How you and your fellow lawyers…’ Nat heard before the door clicked shut.

  Suddenly sobered by the memory of the dreadful headline news, Nat’s attention came back to Kath.

  ‘A child,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘Shot by another in Salford. Terrible, isn’t it?’

  2

  Prickling

  Goldman Law’s corner offices were quiet on Monday morning. Not that Nat knew for sure; she was still hidden away in the second-floor conference room, a decision made by Jack Goldman because there were more people than space in the suburban village building. Over the last few weeks her caseload had increased to such an extent that she’d been granted a filing cabinet, not the usual bog-standard grey, but a state-of-the-art chrome affair to fit in with the other smart furnishings.

  Feeling a strange mix of emotions, she stared at it now. Like her new company car, delivered only last week, it was nice to feel appreciated, but the fetter made her anxious, not so much to the firm, but to Jack Goldman himself. He’d been her mentor and father-figure for over fifteen years, and while she loved him dearly, she doubted he was good for her. Her politically incorrect pal Gavin Savage had his own solicitors’ practice in a dank, tatty office a few miles away in Heald Green. He had offered her a job with ‘more hours and less pay’. She wasn’t entirely sure if his terms were tongue-in-cheek, and she would be acting mainly for his criminal clients, but she increasingly felt that working there would, illogically, make her a better person.

  She turned to the sound of laughter beyond the door. She’d taken to propping it open with a legal tome from the small library behind her. Catherine’s studious ‘c
ommercial’ team were in pods on this floor, but the two guys and their typists were considerably quieter than the folk down below. Their open-plan area housed a variety of bodies, ranging from secretary to solicitor and everything in between, so was a hive of gossip and giggles. The same couldn’t be said for up here, but the little there was, Nat could now hear, if not see, through the closed blinds. So far she’d discovered that Catherine worked three out of five days most weeks and that she rotated the downstairs ‘bench boys’ on her cases, but never used the only bench girl. Odd. Perhaps it was because Emilia was Wes’s trainee; perhaps she just preferred men. Despite having been married to Jack for the past nine years, Catherine had preferred Wes over everyone not so long ago, but that was something Nat tried not to dwell on.

  Her ears pricked to a familiar, eloquent voice saying ‘cheers’ to someone.

  ‘Max!’ she called from her end of the table. ‘Come in and say hello before you go.’

  Kipper tie loose, he strolled in. ‘Hey, Nat. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Hunky-dory as it happens, thanks.’

  He pulled out a chair and flopped down. In his early thirties and the most senior of the bench boys, Max was undoubtedly attractive in a rugger-bugger type of way. He raked fingers through his thick quiff, but his smile didn’t seem to reach his baby blue eyes.