Stardust: A Sam Smith Mystery (The Sam Smith Mystery Series Book 10)

  STARDUST

  STARDUST

  Hannah Howe

  Goylake Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 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: 978-0-9933827-4-1

  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

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Stardust

  To my family, with love

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  SAM’S SONG

  LOVE AND BULLETS

  THE BIG CHILL

  RIPPER

  THE HERMIT OF HISARYA

  SECRETS AND LIES

  FAMILY HONOUR

  SINS OF THE FATHER

  SMOKE AND MIRRORS

  Web Links

  Praise for Hannah Howe

  and the Sam Smith Mystery Series

  Chapter One

  According to the media, Jeremy Loudon was a multimillionaire who lived near Llanmaes in the Vale of Glamorgan. At Loudon’s request, and on a bitterly cold January morning, I drove to Llanmaes, through country lanes and green fields, to a sprawling mansion.

  Loudon owned the mansion, a large stone building, four hundred years old. The building contained three chimneys, a grey slate roof and light pink walls. Although not decorated with stained glass, the size and shape of the windows reminded me of a church, while the gable end with its delicate pattern of unpainted stones spoke volumes for the mason’s craft.

  I parked my Mini in a lay-by, outside a pair of tall, black, wrought iron gates. A glass-panelled sentry box stood behind the gates, to my left. A modern mason had constructed the sentry box from old stones, remnants of an outbuilding, then added the glass panels to the upper half. Through the glass panels, I spied two serious-looking porters; if you tickled them with a feather, I doubt that you’d raise a laugh.

  One of the porters left the sentry box and approached the gate. I smiled at him then introduced myself, “Hi, I’m Sam Smith, here to see Mr Loudon.”

  The porter relayed my message to his partner, who spoke on a telephone, presumably to someone in the grand house. With the message received and understood, the man at the gate escorted me to the house.

  Inside the mansion, I paused beside a wide stone staircase, its steps irregular, worn away through centuries of tread. Adjacent to the staircase I noticed a heavy black door, covered with shiny silver studs, held in place by three sturdy hinges. That door was partially open to reveal a second staircase, which led to who-knows-where, maybe to a secret ‘priest’s hole’, a hiding place for ministers who conducted clandestine services during the 1600s, a century of religious conflict and upheaval.

  The porter escorted me into the living room then he disappeared with silent tread, melting away like a ghost through the walls.

  In the living room, I gazed at a young woman, a female in her mid-thirties. She had platinum blonde, shoulder-length hair with dark roots showing, along with light blue eyes, which were tired and bloodshot. Her face was pretty with dimples in her cheeks while red lipstick highlighted her wide sensuous mouth. In a sensual sprawl, her body covered a well-upholstered chaise longue, a stylish item of furniture in a stylish, elegant room. The woman wore a silk robe and knee-length leather boots. A silk robe and knee-length leather boots? Sometimes it’s best not to ask.

  I smiled at the woman, but she gazed past me, to a point in the middle distance. I was about to introduce myself when a man entered the room. In his mid-forties, he offered the smouldering sensuality of a modern Mr Darcy, with a touch of upper-crust arrogance as he spoke into his phone:

  “Move the Dalrymple funds into the offshore account. Invest in ATG; we’ll stick with our plan of building up a strong portfolio. Ditch the Northeastern take-over bid; they are a bad investment, especially with this political fiasco over Europe.”

  Jeremy Loudon paused – I recognized him from his social media profiles. He frowned at me, then said into his phone, “They are a bunch of losers; we don’t want anything to do with them.” Then he smiled, amused by a turn in the conversation, “Sure, Seb, sure. That gives us a million on the week?” His smile broadened. “Net, or gross?” Then he laughed aloud, “Remind me to put a little something extra in your back pocket.” After another chuckle, he closed the conversation, “Ciao, Seb, ciao; we must touch base again real soon.”

  With a frown returning to his face, Loudon asked, “Can I help you?” He pressed a button then dropped the phone into his trouser pocket. “You’ve come about the vacancy, the maid position?”

  “I’m Sam,” I said. “The enquiry agent.” I dipped my fingers into my shoulder bag and produced my business card.

  “Ms Smith,” Loudon said. He studied my card, the creases on his forehead deepening. “I was expecting...” He paused then shook his head as though to clear it. “Never mind. Do sit down. A drink?”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “What about you, Annabel?”

  Annabel closed her eyes then placed her right hand to her forehead. “Maybe later,” she groaned.

  “This is my partner, Annabel Fisher.” Loudon walked over to the chaise longue and beamed at Annabel. Then he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Annabel is a famous interior designer; you must have heard of her?”

  I sat on a soft embroidered chair, smiled and said, “Sorry, my knowledge of interior design doesn’t stretch beyond the labels on paint tins.”

  “Quite,” Loudon frowned.

  Although we were communicating, speaking the same language, something told me that the banter I shared with my colleagues was out of place here; the gulf in social status wrapped a tour
niquet around our words, strangled all hope of easy conversation.

  “Annabel designed this room.” Loudon glanced around the room, at the portraits, the landscape paintings, the antique furniture and the velvet drapes. “When did we meet?” He gave her shoulder an absent-minded squeeze. “Was it really twelve years ago?” He smiled at the memory then explained, “I invited Annabel into my house and she’s been at my side ever since. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s truly the love of my life.”

  Loudon offered Annabel an affectionate gaze. However, the interior designer was still contemplating her interior, her eyes closed, her right hand clamped to her forehead.

  “Do you have someone to love, Ms Smith?” Loudon asked.

  “My husband,” I said.

  “That’s nice,” he replied, his tone casual, dismissive. “You’re probably wondering why I invited you here.”

  I nodded, “That thought did cross my mind.”

  “I’d like to hire you.”

  I grinned, “To paint your walls?”

  He frowned, “To find something that’s very dear to me.”

  “I charge...”

  “I can afford you,” Loudon said, his strident tone cutting across my words. “And any expenses you may incur. Your task is to find my briefcase.”

  “You lost it?” I asked.

  “It was stolen, from my gaming room. Would you like to see my gaming room?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I followed Loudon through an open arch into a room at the rear of the house. Inside the room, I spied its centrepiece – a green elliptical table, trimmed with gold, surrounded by ten leather armchairs. The armchairs were high-backed, akin to cherry-coloured thrones.

  “Any idea who stole your briefcase?” I asked.

  “I have two suspects,” Loudon said. “One, our maid. Actually, she’s a relief maid; our regular maid’s on maternity leave; inconsiderate, but there you are. We were not satisfied with the relief maid and were going to replace her anyway.” Loudon walked over to a walnut bureau. He produced a file, encased in moleskin. “Here’s her picture and CV, as provided by my human resources people. Her name is Velvet.”

  I accepted a sheaf of papers from the file and studied Velvet’s picture. “Attractive,” I said.

  Loudon compressed his lips. He offered a terse nod, “If you like the ebony look.”

  I flicked through Velvet’s CV and noted that she earned extra money, singing and dancing at The Stag nightclub. The Stag was owned by local mobster, Rudy Valentine, and managed by his greasy cohort, Slick Stephens.

  “Velvet has absconded,” Loudon said. “She didn’t report for work this morning and my people have been unable to contact her.”

  “She absconded, with your briefcase?”

  “That is one theory.”

  “You have another theory?”

  “I do,” Loudon said. “But first, let me show you a picture of my briefcase.”

  I frowned, “You have a picture of your briefcase?”

  Loudon glanced around the gaming room, at the numerous portraits of Annabel Fisher. He said, “I have pictures of everything I love.”

  From a second moleskin file, Loudon produced various photographs of his briefcase. Made of leather, with a distinctive tartan panel on its underside, the briefcase contained two gold initials, J L, positioned on its locking strap.

  “When did the briefcase disappear?” I asked.

  “Last night.”

  “From this room?”

  “Yes.”

  “At what time?”

  “Around 2 a.m.”

  “Your staff work that late?”

  Loudon offered a thin, condescending smile, “My staff work around the clock.”

  “And after they’ve completed the night shift they’re expected to double up on the day shift?”

  “Not every day; I do allow them some time off.”

  Loudon walked over to the gaming table. He sat on one of the luxury armchairs. There, he steepled his fingers, placed their tips against the cleft in his chin. “My briefcase was stolen during a poker game. Do you play poker?” he asked.

  “I play chess,” I said.

  “Chess?” he frowned.

  “Yes. It’s a game of pure skill; devoid of any chance.”

  Loudon scoffed, “Sounds a bit dry for my taste.”

  Shuffling card games and chess to one side, I asked, “What does your briefcase contain?”

  “A sizeable amount of winnings.”

  “How sizeable?”

  “Around a hundred thousand pounds.”

  “You’re good at poker,” I said.

  He grinned, offered me a sultry look, “I’m good at everything.”

  “A hundred thousand pounds,” I said, ignoring his look and its implications, “that’s a lot of money. Why don’t you inform the police?”

  “I don’t want to kick up a fuss or cause any trouble.”

  “But you don’t mind if I kick up a fuss or cause trouble?”

  Loudon leaned back in his chair; he swung gently from side to side. His fingertips were still resting against the cleft in his chin while his eyes continued to burn with a smouldering determination. “I would prefer if you tiptoed your way to finding my briefcase. However, if you should run into any issues, I have the financial resources to smooth your path.”

  I nodded then said, “You mentioned that you have another theory, a second suspect.”

  “I do; a new player in our game.” Loudon stood. He walked over to the walnut bureau and produced another moleskin file. “His references were impeccable, but there was something about him, something shifty, distrustful.”

  “Do you have a picture?” I asked.

  “I have a dossier on, and photographs of, everyone who joins my game.”

  From the file, Loudon produced a glossy A4 photograph. He handed the picture to me.

  “His name is Tony Michaels,” Loudon said.

  “No, it’s not,” I said; “his name is Mickey Anthony.”

  Loudon took the photograph from my fingertips. He glared at the picture, then at me. For a second, his veil of arrogance slipped as he offered a look of incredulity. “You know this man?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Can you recover my briefcase?”

  I smiled, enigmatically.

  Chapter Two

  Jeremy Loudon was not my typical client, and maybe I was not the right person to help him. However, after a recent arson attack on my office I needed all the clients I could get, needed the funds to rebuild my agency. In addition, Mickey Anthony’s involvement intrigued me; with or without Loudon’s patronage, I would question Mickey.

  From Loudon’s luxury home, I drove fifteen miles east, into the centre of Cardiff. As Anthony and Associates, Mickey rented an office in the city centre, in a prime location, a location I’d rejected due to a lack of funds.

  Mickey Anthony’s career as a private investigator resembled a game of snakes and ladders, littered with numerous highs and lows. A womanizer, trickster and alcoholic, Mickey gave our profession a bad name. Recently, he’d fallen into the gutter, where he’d scrambled a living, working out of his camper van. However, somehow, he’d straightened himself out, secured an office in a prime location and a seat at Jeremy Loudon’s gambling table. I was curious to know how.

  I entered a modern office block, narrowly avoiding the propeller threat provided by the revolving doors. A flight of stairs led to Anthony and Associates. In the outer office, I encountered a young woman. She wore a short skirt, too much make-up and a fixed smile.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’d like to see Mr Anthony, please.”

  “Your name?”

  “Sam, Sam Smith.”

  “Your business?”

  “Personal.”

  “One moment,” she said.

  The young woman stood then stepped out from behind her desk. She walked over to an inner, glass-panelled door, her hip
s swinging, her ankles threatening to break as she struggled with her excessively high heels.

  “A Sam Smith to see you, Mr Anthony,” the young woman said, poking her head around the door. “She says it’s personal...”

  Mickey Anthony issued his orders and the woman turned to face me. The smile remained fixed on her face, a pleasant face, a face of innocence masquerading as experience. “Go right in,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said, holding my breath as her perfume threatened to overpower me.

  With the woman seated at her desk, I closed the inner door. Then I said to Mickey Anthony, “You have a secretary.”

  “Kelli,” he nodded; “she’s very efficient.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I glanced around the office, then at Mickey Anthony. Mickey had transferred a number of items from his old office, including a series of classic racing car prints and a punchbag, suspended from the ceiling. Mickey liked to work out by thumping the punchbag. In his mid-forties, he had dark, tousled hair, a pugilist’s face complete with a kink at the bottom of his nose, and a square jaw covered in designer stubble. As usual, he wore a roll-neck sweater and jeans. The period of alcohol abuse had left a roll of fat around his midriff; other than that, he looked in decent shape.

  “Impressive office,” I said, smoothing the back of my pencil skirt, plonking my rear on to a client’s chair.

  Mickey nodded. He grinned, “I hear you’re on a boat.”

  “It’s only temporary,” I said. “Until we can get something sorted.”

  After the fire at our office we, yours truly and my colleague Faye Collister, had searched in vain for premises to match our budget. With no delight in sight, we’d plumped for a houseboat, a vessel that had seen better days, now permanently moored in Cardiff Bay. Faye seemed quite at home on our office houseboat, whereas landlubber Sam preferred the security of firmer ground.

  “The last time I saw you,” I said, “you were living on the booze, working out of a camper van.”