PROLOGUE
Acacia Avenue, 11.05pm: Subject put out the rubbish
and returned to the house.
Carver slid the pen into
the ringed spine of the notebook and tossed them onto the passenger seat of the
car. Smothering a yawn, he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed
his eyes. Fifteen years he’d been doing this job. The last ten of which had
been in the field.
In the Goddamn field! He scrubbed his fingers through his artfully gelled hair,
giving mental rant to his frustration. I’ve
looked after ministers, senators and people so deep in the government nobody
knew they even existed! Hell, I’ve schmoosed spies, recovered stolen data, priceless
artefacts and even been instrumental in averting national and international
disasters a couple of times! So, what
the fuck am I doing in this tree-lined suburban nightmare?
He grabbed his cigarettes
off the dashboard and shook one out of the pack into his hand, then activated
the car’s cigarette lighter with an irritated jab of his finger. While he waited,
he recalled the conversation he’d had with the chief when he’d been called into
his office this morning.
“Sending you on a bit of
a recon operation.”
“Recon, sir? Isn’t that
usually Robinson’s area of expertise?”
“It seems our friends in immunology
have been cooking up a new cocktail, and our sources tell us that there are
some rather unsavoury fellows interested in their lead man. We’d like you to
keep an eye on him.”
“Has he been approached?”
“Not yet. For the moment,
I want you to get an idea of his routine, visitors to the house etc. You know
the drill.”
“But, begging your pardon,
sir, wouldn’t Robinson be better—”
“Here’s the address. Keep
me informed.”
“But—”
“It’s simple enough,
Carver. Watch and wait.”
The lighter popped, indicating
it was fully heated, and he pulled it out, holding it to his cigarette and puffing
softly until it caught. The tip of the cigarette glowed orange in the dark as Carver
took a long drag. He blew a few smoke rings and watched them float up to the
ceiling where they dissipated into the fabric. Sweet Jesus he was bored. In
fact, bored didn’t even come close. He hadn’t done surveillance since he was a
rookie for God’s sake. Why now? Why did it have to be him? Who did he piss off?
He couldn’t think of—the porch light came on and Carver watched the target as
he walked down the path, deposited another bag of rubbish by the gate then went
back into the house, closing the door behind him. Carver rolled his eyes as he
scribbled in his notebook again. Could this bloke possibly be duller?
Not for the first time,
he wondered why the hell anyone would be interested in this guy. From what he’d
been able to ascertain, the guy was so dull, he made picking your nose with a
lighted match, while waxing your bollocks with an orbital sander, sound like a
fun evening. But then, as the chief pointed out this morning, he wasn’t here to
wonder. He was here to watch and wait.
“Still don’t know why it
had to be me,” he mumbled to himself. He caught movement in the big bay window,
and he picked up the mini binoculars to see if he could get a better visual through
the net curtain. Ooh pulling the
curtains, how excit—
“Ah fuck.”
Everything fell into
place.
Chapter one
“This is oddly addictive!”
Miles said loudly.
Emme smiled as he turned
his attention back to the dance floor, where around thirty men and women danced
in formation, their cowboy boots stomping up a storm. As he bobbed in time to
the music, she chuckled softly to herself. If there was anyone less likely to
be found in a flannel shirt and faux Stetson, it was her mild-mannered—much rather
have his nose stuck in a book—husband. Not that it had been easy to get him
here. There had been a lot of pleading, arm twisting and some manipulative tears
she wasn’t altogether proud of, but she’d been willing to try anything.
“I thought these neighbourhood things were your idea
of hell?” he’d complained.
“They are. Which is why you’re coming with me. If I
have to suffer, so do you.”
“Why?”
“’Til death us do part, in sickness, health and
cripplingly awkward social situations… any of those ringing a bell?”
“Really? You’re playing the “because you’re
contractually obligated to” card?”
“I could always play the “because I said so” one.”
Miles had glanced down at his dinner and rolled his
eyes. “At least I now know what I’m going to do to deserve the fillet mignon.”
“Oh, come on,” she’d wheedled. “You’re the one who
said we should mingle, make friends. The yummy mummies have been trying to rope
me into one of these things since we moved in. After three months the excuse well
is running a little dry!”
“Fine. I’ll go. But you owe me.”
“Absolutely. Anything you want.”
“Anything…?”
She gazed around the
barn—or church hall, depending on how seriously you were taking it—and lifted
her glass in acknowledgement at the rather busty woman who waved frantically at
her from the bar—an old tressel table bowing under the weight of different
bottles of alcohol next to a large water butt filled with ice and bottles of
Stella.
“Oh God, incoming.” The
owner of the bored, monotone voice flopped down onto the chair beside Emme’s,
her acrylic nails curled around the stem of a wine glass the size of a
gold-fish bowl. She gave a brief tilt of her head to indicate the busty aforementioned,
who now headed towards them.
“Be nice, Harriet,” Emme admonished,
ignoring Harriet’s inelegantly worded response, as she watched Amanda Rixonby-Smythe,
head of the Neighbourhood Watch, cut a swathe through the line of Achy Breaky Heart-ers with the
determination of a bargain hunter on Black Friday.
“Emme! Darling! You came!
Miranda from number forty-two said you wouldn’t, so did Daisy from number thirty-six,
but I told them they were wrong. She’ll come, I said. She promised. And here you are!” The glasses rattled as Amanda threw
herself down on the chair opposite Emme and hoisted her tremendous bosom onto
the table.
“Here I am!” Emme replied
with as natural a smile as she could, pushing her glass closer to Harriet, who
immediately took the hint and refilled it from the bottle of Merlot she clung
to.
“And you brought Harriet,
how… lovely.”
“She didn’t bring me, Amanda,” Harriet Stanbridge—or
number twenty-four to give her correct title—drawled. “Oddly enough, I’ve been
allowed out on my own for a number of years now, the judge said it was okay.”
“Dear Harriet, always
with the wit, so… charming.”
Emme almost, not quite,
but almost snorted out loud at the exchange. She’d only known them five minutes
when she realised there was no love lost between the two women. Neither had
divulged what history they had, but she hadn’t needed to be a genius to know it
was there.
“I see you’ve got Charles
manning the bar again,” Harriet continued. “Do you think that’s wise
considering his weakness for cheap wine and…,” her gaze settled on Amanda’s
hair, “even cheaper blondes?”
“Anyway!” Emme not so
gently kicked Harriet under the table and smiled brightly at Amanda, whose face
had turned a shade of puce that really didn’t complement her pink and white
checked cowboy shirt. “You’ve done a wonderful job, Amanda,” she waved an arm
expressively in the general direction of, well, everything. “I was just saying
to Miles what a wonderful job you’ve done, wasn’t I Miles? Miles?”
“What?” Miles looked
utterly bewildered.
Emme gave an over the top
exasperated laugh and punched him on the arm—a little too hard by the glare he
shot her. She rolled her eyes at Amanda in a “see what I have to put up with”
way and said, “Keep up, darling. Wasn’t I just saying what a wonderful job Amanda’s
done with tonight?” The almost imperceptible widening of her gaze dared him to disagree.
“Yes,” Miles replied,
patting Emme’s hand where it lay on his forearm—maybe it was more of a slap,
but fairs fair—she’d get him back later under the covers, if he was lucky. “Indeed,
you were, darling. A wonderful job,
Amanda. I really don’t know how you do it. You certainly go above and beyond
the call for Acacia Avenue’s little community.”
Amanda twittered like a
teenage girl as Miles exuded charm from every pore. Not that Emme could blame
her, it’s how he hooked her after all. Well, that, a packet of Kleenex and the Friends box set. She nudged
Harriet in the ribs, cutting off the venomous quip she knew was desperate to
trip off Harriet’s tongue. Harriet glared at her, but snapped her lips shut and
refilled her wine glass.
Smiling fondly as Miles
kept Amanda enthralled with sweeping gestures at the room, Emme covered a guffaw
with a coughing fit, when Amanda actually ducked to avoid having her hat
knocked off. She should have warned her. Miles’ hands did most of the talking. He
shot her a quick sidelong look, not in the least bit convinced by her attempt
to cover her amusement. He knew her too well.
Emme turned her attention
to the dance floor, knowing from experience there was no point in trying to
talk to Harriet while Amanda was within insulting distance. She surveyed the
dancers, trying not to wince as old Mr Flanagan—number sixty-five—ran over
Sadie’s—number fourteen—foot with his wheelchair.
Apparently, when Amanda
had tried to tell him that line dancing wasn’t really for wheels, the old guy
had told her to piss off. Emme had tried, of course, to sound sympathetic to her
plight while giving Mr Flanagan a mental high five. She’d have told her to piss
off as well and, judging by the laughter followed by the kiss she slapped on his
withered cheek, Sadie hadn’t suffered any lasting damage.
If you’d told me eighteen months ago that this is
where I’d be…
The thought had crossed
Emme’s mind more than once over the last four months. She’d been more than
happy in their little flat outside London. They’d moved in a couple of weeks
before the wedding, and every nook and cranny had been furnished with some
little knick-knack which meant something. It was the first real home she’d had
in a very long time and they were happy there, settling into their new life
together.
Then, just before their
first wedding anniversary, Hugh was offered the opportunity of a lifetime. The
dream job that everyone hopes for, but rarely comes along. Of course, there wasn’t
any question of him turning it down. She’d follow him to the ends of the earth
and back again, they both knew that. Although she’d be lying if she said
closing the door to their flat the last time hadn’t been one of the hardest
things she’d ever had to do.
The house in Acacia
Avenue came with the job, and she couldn’t deny how beautiful it was. They’d
really sold it to them, too. Closer to the city they said, easier for Hugh to
commute to the office, a lovely community to be a part of. But they had somehow
neglected to mention that Acacia Avenue and its residents were the teensiest bit
more Stepford than Hertford.
