The Heart of The Actuary E-Book

K T Bowes

• Herausgeber: K T Bowes
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

His job is to neutralise risk. Hers is to turn a blind eye. But the stakes are too high this time. She needs to get to this risk first. And hide it.

After a terrible few months and the collapse of her world, Emma Andreyev is trying.
She's trying to reinvent herself, trying to recover, trying to pretend she isn't devastated.

Yet when an acquaintance sends a plea for help, she can't ignore him. He's calling in a debt and she needs to pay. But it's messy, complex, and requires secrecy and deceit, the two things which ruined her marriage to Rohan the first time.

When the Actuary accepts a government contract to capture a hacker, he has no idea his competition this time is his wife.

Leseprobe

THE HEART

of

THE ACTUARY

by

K T BOWES

The Calculated Risk Series

Book 4

Would you like to join my In-crowd?

I’m a believer in ‘try before you buy.’

Unless it’s underwear because that’s super dodgy.

There’s nothing worse than forking out your hard-earned cash on a doozy and regretting it.

I want you to love my work and feel like you got value for money.

Three of the novels below are free series starters.

One is free only to subscribers.

If you’d like the free books and to hear about others direct from me, then click the link below.

You can unsubscribe at any time.

I promise not to send Rohan Andreyev after you...maybe.

Yes please, I’d love my free starter library

Acknowledgments

This novel is for all those readers who have demanded the fourth book since I shelved it back in 2017.

My excuse was homesickness. It’s hard to write about a place you love when describing it makes you miss it more.

But here it is.

And I’ve loved writing it.

Rohan Andreyev has grown on me much more than in that first meeting when he told me his story.

And Emma has taken her fire and learned to wield it.

Thank you for keeping your faith in me, my friend.

I hope you feel it’s been worth the wait.

CHAPTER ONE

Minus

Emma Andreyev clutched her daughter tighter, fearing her trembling hands might drop the tiny body to smash on the hard floor. “I need to fetch my son from school.” A mistimed swallow cut her sentence in half.

“Then you’d better organise something.” The security guard folded his arms and spread his legs, the stance intended to intimidate Emma. “Because the cops are on their way. This store doesn’t tolerate thieving, lady.”

Humiliation sent an unhealthy flush spreading from her chest to the roots of her hair. She’d stolen nothing since the sandwich which fed her starving belly on her sixteenth birthday. The sympathetic shop owner caught her and compounded her shame by offering her a chocolate bar to add to her meagre meal. The items clung like ash to her throat, and she vowed to starve in the future.

Her gaze flicked to the doorway and the guard turned his body to study whatever caught her interest. He shifted enough to block the open door, and the flash of determination in his gimlet eyes removed it as a viable escape. Emma backed up further in the tiny office. Her spine hit a filing cabinet and the dull clang sent papers spewing sideways from an unwieldy pile teetering behind her head. They floated to the brown carpet like flakes of snow. The scent of cheese and onion crisps wafted around the room as a haze. Stephie murmured and bumped her forehead against Emma’s shoulder. Dread filled her heart, and she cringed as her breasts tingled and then ached in a simultaneous warning. Feed time.

The two security guards had approached her as she exited the store. At first, she hadn’t acknowledged their shouts, her mind occupied with her next task. Emma had bought the craft items required to turn her son into a book character overnight, the plan both genius and achievable. She’d intended to feed her daughter in the car park before fetching Nicky from school. When the guards took her by surprise in the blinding sunlight, all common sense deserted her. She allowed them to cup their palms beneath her elbows and frog march her through the aisles. Other customers turned to stare, and shock struck her dumb.

“You won’t let me check your bags, but the cops will make you.” The security guard postured, a wide grin splitting his face almost in half. Enjoyment flickered behind his muddy brown irises. His shirt buttons strained against a torso which arced from his collar to his waistband. He formed a human grenade stuffed into a uniform. “You’re the second one today.” He rocked back and forth on his heels as though expecting Emma to congratulate him. She pressed her spine against the filing cabinet and it tipped enough to hit the wall. Stephie grumbled again, bopping Emma’s ear with her tiny head. Panic heightened the blue buzz in Emma’s ears and prevented her from rational thought.

“I need to sit down,” she rasped. She blew out a breath between pursed lips. “I don’t feel well.”

“She doesn’t look good, Pete.” The guard’s sidekick stepped through the office door in time to hear Emma’s plea. The antithesis of his colleague, he walked on beanstalk legs and his wrist bones protruded from the cuffs of his sleeve. “You need to let her sit down. The cop earlier said you can’t be mean to them.”

With a grunt of irritation, the overweight guard shoved a chair towards Emma. Its wheels splayed beneath it as it juddered across the worn carpet. Emma stared at it for a moment before sinking into the blue fabric. She rested her shopping bag on the floor between her feet, wincing as her handbag plunged south from her shoulder and landed on top of it. An unhealthy clunk told her it squashed one of the craft items. She prayed it wasn’t the paint.

A vibration from the phone in her pocket acted as a starter motor. Emma shifted Stephie to lie with her head in the crook of her elbow and gazed down at her baby daughter. The child blinked her long lashes, wide blue eyes peering out at her from a state of perpetual curiosity. Her crown bounced against Emma’s arm as she swivelled to drink in as much of the scene as her brain could process. Her gaze settled on the two guards and she frowned. At not yet six weeks old, her eye muscles and developing retinas would only discern the blurry shapes in the distance. But Emma’s reaction to them communicated fear.

Stephie’s rosebud lips parted in a wail and her forehead creased. Emma groaned in misery as her body responded and the pads in her bra soaked up the first of her milk leakage. She looked up at the guards. “I need to feed my baby.” Panic added a note of aggression to her tone, galvanised by Stephie’s discomfort. “Get out.”

The heavier guard glanced at his colleague and rolled his eyes. Then he scowled. “No way, lady.”

Stephie squirmed in her arms and drew her legs into her chest. Turning her face towards Emma, she scented the milk and urgency infused her cry. Responsibility and hormones cauterised the vying emotions of humiliation and fear. The child’s needs dominated everything, and Emma slipped her hand into her blouse and released the catch on her maternity bra.

The security guard’s eyes bulged like boiled eggs as Emma’s knuckles showed through the fabric. He saw no flesh, but his brain ran riot with ideas and suggestions. She pushed Stephie inside her oversize blouse and winced as her daughter latched on to her nipple. Her toes curled in her plimsolls with the effect of the first strong sucks. The child quieted, her tiny fingers fretting at Emma’s blouse as she got busy filling her stomach.

Maternal instincts lit a fire in Emma’s belly, and rational thought returned. In a pretence of shifting position on the chair, she slipped her right hand into the pocket of her sweatpants and caressed the hard edges of her phone. The skinny guard nudged his colleague. “We should give her some privacy, Pete. She might report us for human rights or something.”

“I won’t do that.” Emma’s voice sounded stronger. Her phone buzzed against her fingers. “But you will be sorry.” She pressed the longest button on the right of the screen. Three presses in quick succession. The action seemed to suck the energy and life from her. Putting her faith in someone else to bring rescue and consolation presented a risk. She tried not to consider what might happen if no one came. Because he would this time. He would come for her.

CHAPTER TWO

Plus

Emma glanced at the feed from the security cameras. He strode across the store, his back ramrod straight and his features hard and angular. A ball of unnamed emotion rose into her throat and sat there, blocking her next breath. Her chest tightened with its weight. She tried to swallow but it stuck. He’d responded to the SOS she sent from her mobile phone, not hesitating to seek her out and weigh into her mess. Her eyelashes blinked while her brain clamoured for explanations. She’d coped alone for so long, raising her son without hope of ever escaping her self-made poverty trap. Emma gulped, understanding what she’d missed until that moment.

Her heart gave a painful stab of fanfare as her rescuer moved with speed and determination across the store. He disappeared from the monitor as he moved beneath the camera.

The security guards relaxed while she fed the baby. She’d managed it with such discretion, the fat one seemed a little disappointed. The men still blocked the doorway, but they’d turned their bodies towards each other to chat. With their backs to the security monitors and their jaws occupied with gossip, they didn’t realise a tsunami of pain headed their way in a few short seconds. Pete waved his arms as he mentioned the name of the store twice in his eagerness to impart irrelevant titbits.

Emma latched her daughter off the second breast and let Stephie’s body flop across her thighs. An efficient feeder, she’d nursed herself to sleep within fifteen minutes, unlike her older brother who’d messed around for hours and given himself regular bouts of colic. Emma fastened her bra and lifted Stephie over her shoulder. Gentle pats to the baby’s back sent the air bubbles gurgling through her digestive system as she snuggled against Emma’s neck.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Rohan Andreyev appeared in the doorway. His tall, muscular frame occupied the space, cutting out the fluorescent lighting from the corridor. His silent approach sent the security guards scrambling.

“You can’t come back here!” Pete flapped his arms in front of him. “The cashier can help you, out there.”

“We’ve got a bit of an incident.” The skinny guard took a more reasonable stance.

Rohan balled his fists and his entire body tensed. He walked through the guards as though they didn’t exist. They parted before the wall of hard muscle like leaves resisting a waterfall, closing behind him.

“The cops are coming.” Pete raised his voice, all authority gone from it. “We did a citizen’s arrest. For shoplifting.”

Rohan ignored them. His facial muscles relaxed as he stared down at his wife. “Well done.” He gave her a nod of approval. “You remembered to press the button.”

Emma nodded. Rohan’s presence negated her need to assert herself. She must hold it together until she reached her car. Then she could cry like a baby. She cleared her throat. “They mentioned the store name. I hoped you’d know where to come.”

“Da.” Rohan replied with the Russian affirmative. “I heard.” He lifted his hand and gentle fingers coasted over his daughter’s round head. Her downy hair moved beneath his touch. His nose wrinkled and his jaw hardened as he spun to face the two men. He directed his next question to them. “Why are you holding my wife here? Tell me.” Authority dripped from his tone and the guards baulked against the force of it.

The skinny guard pointed towards Emma’s shopping bag. “We’re not sure what she stole.” The words stammered from his lips. “Someone saw her put something in there, but she didn’t pay for it at the checkout. We arrested her just outside the store as per the legal requirements.”

Emma’s heart sank, and she released a groan with her next exhale. Gratitude flooded her senses when Rohan didn’t turn to question her or doubt her integrity. She tutted and leaned her head back against the brick wall behind the seat. The rough texture snagged at her curls.

Rohan bent and seized the shopping bag. He upended it on the floor and craft items scattered around his feet in a wide arc. Red paint dribbled from its cracked plastic container, staining the carpet with the last few spots it hadn’t already spread throughout Emma’s bag. Rohan held the fabric by one corner and jerked his head at the two guards. “Well!” he demanded. “Talk duraki!”

Idiots. He’d insulted them in Russian. Though the word might have sounded nonsensical, they understood his meaning.

“We need the receipt!” Pete sounded less sure. He shifted from foot to foot and glanced backwards at the doorway. Emma’s gaze flicked to the security feed, and she saw a police officer walk through the automatic front doors.

“Emma?” Rohan’s tone sounded tender. His faith in her sent tears prickling against her eyelids.

“My handbag,” she whispered. “I stole nothing, Ro.”

“I know.” Leaning down, he grasped the handles of Emma’s bag and hauled it against his chest. He fumbled the clasp and zippers before withdrawing a length of greying receipt. Grunting, he shoved it back inside and withdrew another. “Bargains for Everyone,” he announced, his tone confident as he read the header displaying the store name. “I will read things to you.”

“No.” Pete shook his head and his voice became a whine. “That’s not how it works. We take the receipt. There’s a process.”

“Not today.” The Slavic undertones of Rohan’s accent induced a sense of threat where none existed.

“What’s happening?” The cop arrived in the doorway and the guards took turns to fix identical snarls of victory on their faces. Pete gave a slow nod and rubbed his hands together. His muddy irises lit with a peculiar sparkle.

He jabbed his index finger first at Emma and then Rohan. “This woman stole from the store and wouldn’t let us check her bag. Then this guy turned up and started breaking stuff.” He pointed to the red stain on the carpet. The cop stiffened and his eyes widened.

“Not blood!” Rohan’s tone dripped with disdain. “It’s paint for our son’s costume. My wife nipped to the shop, and these clowns detained her. For no reason!” He turned his blue-eyed glare on the two security guards and they both swallowed.

Emma cleared her throat. A hard birth followed by a blood transfusion, surgery, and weeks of recovery had sapped her energy. It also benched her self-confidence. She’d relied on her husband enough for one day. “Take Stephie,” she said to Rohan. “I’ll sort it out now.” Their fingers brushed as Emma lay the child in her husband’s arms. “Thank you,” she whispered, the word communicating more gratitude than the action warranted.

Rohan took his daughter, handed the fluttering receipt to Emma, and stepped away from the mess on the floor. Seeing his hands busy and no longer bunched into fists, the guards heaved a collective sigh of relief. Emma spotted a glimmer of disappointment in Pete’s flaccid features. She sensed he’d enjoy a few good work stories, although he’d always tell it from the hero’s perspective.

Emma held the receipt out to the police officer. “Please, can you read the items? I’ll match it to what came from my bag.”

Pete tried to complain, but the cop silenced him with a frown. He stepped in front of the guards and obscured their view. Fresh faced and pleasant, he seemed keen to get to his next job. Between them, they matched everything from the till receipt to the items scattered on the carpet. Red paint stained Emma’s fingers as she handled the objects with which she’d intended to heal her strained relationship with her son. Rohan made a phone call while she worked, asking a friend to collect Nicky from school.

“He’ll be disappointed with me.” Emma looked up at Rohan and watched the blue of his irises darken. Tears welled in her eyes. “I promised.”

Rohan’s lips twisted, and he gave a definitive nod. “Will be okay,” he assured her. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“There’s nothing extra in this lady’s possession.” The cop turned to the security guards, his tone terse and his movements jerky. He squatted next to Emma, his Kevlar vest obscuring the outline of his torso. “So, what’s the issue here?”

“Her handbag.” Pete jabbed a chubby index finger at Emma’s bag. Discarded at Rohan’s feet, it remained open, old receipts still spewing from its bowels. Emma looked at the evidence from a lifetime ago that she once ventured out alone and without fear of her body’s inadequacy.

The police officer released a sigh of exasperation. He jerked his head at Emma. “Do you mind, miss?”

“No.” Emma sat back on her heels, exhaustion dragging her muscles towards the earth. Her plans hadn’t seemed over ambitious as she made them with Nicky that morning. Yet the day’s events robbed her of her dwindling energy as though she’d already swum in rapids. She stared at the office carpet and wondered how she’d survive until bedtime.

The police officer dug through Emma’s handbag. His radio crackled on his vest. He shuffled the old receipts into a pile and sat them on the desk, his actions conveying care and respect. Emma’s red purse sat on top of them and he lifted out a book. “The Cock with the Crimson Comb.” His lips quirked upwards into a smirk. “Victor?”

He faltered on the surname and Rohan finished it for him. “Victor Vazhdayev. It was my brother’s favourite book. My syn wishes to dress as the character. For my brother on the anniversary of his birthday.” Rohan’s jaw showed through his cheek. He didn’t elaborate on Anton’s current status, his brother’s ashes scattered in the gardens of Wingate Hall. Instead, he jerked his head towards the packets of feathers covering the floor. Red paint stained the plastic and obscured the labels. Rohan’s eyes narrowed as he turned to face the guards. “I suspect my wife pulled the book from her bag to check the colours. That’s what you saw.”

Emma swallowed and stared at her ruined project. Misery shrouded her like a cloak. She’d wanted to fetch Nicky from school herself and show him the feathers and paint. She’d used Stephie’s nap time to cut out a cardboard crest and find an old jumper suitable for attaching the coloured feathers. But she’d failed. Again. Allaine would greet him from class and the disappointment would further damage their tenuous connection.

“She could have stolen it from the children’s section.” The skinny guard reached for an explanation, though his guilt laden gaze flicked to the battered story book. “Someone saw her do it.”

The police officer set the book inside Emma’s handbag with care. Then he turned to the guards. “Get the manager,” he demanded. “Why isn’t he here?”

Pete fluffed his chest and his buttons strained enough to create gaps of hairy pink flesh between the edges of his shirt. “Off sick today,” he announced. Assumed authority glowed from his eyes and he straightened his spine. “We’re in charge.”

The officer’s shoulders slumped. “Right,” he replied, his tone brusque. His index finger jabbed to within centimetres of Pete’s bursting shirt. “Then I suggest you replace every single item from this lady’s bag and apologise.” His teeth ground in his jaw.

CHAPTER THREE

Multiplied By

The short walk across the car park passed in a blur. Emma kept her gaze lowered to the pavement, concentrating on her feet padding one in front of the other. The ruined cloth bag flapped at her legs. Someone bumped against her as she followed Rohan. She winced at the pain jarring her stomach and lifted a hand to protect herself. The bag strap twisted over her wrist and spread red paint over her sweatpants. Emma didn’t glance up at the culprit, humiliation shrouding her as she imagined scandalised shoppers whispering behind their hands. She stopped at the curb before following Rohan. To her surprise, no one showed any interest in her progress. Trolleys wheeled through the car park as people unloaded their shopping into their vehicles. An air of busyness tingled around her. Emma heaved out a breath laced with relief and the residue of fear.

Rohan stopped to wait for her. He balanced Stephie over his shoulder and carried Emma’s belongings in his other hand. Her tan leather handbag bumped against the new cloth shopping bag containing the replenished supplies for Nicky’s transformation. They beat a tattoo against Rohan’s trouser leg. Emma sighed again, and he turned towards her. “You okay?”

“Just shocked,” she admitted. “It’s not how I expected my afternoon to end.” She flapped the empty bag in her left hand. Paint seeped through the lining. The security guard had insisted she take it away with her.

Rohan shifted Stephie on his shoulder and handed Emma her handbag. “Find the key?” he asked, his tone gentle.

Emma’s fingers shook as they dug beneath the receipts and closed around her car keys. The familiar jangling tightened her chest again and the fearful lump returned to her throat to obstruct her voice. Relief tinged with terror. Emma lifted the key attached to a bunch of others and held them out to Rohan. His brow knitted for a fraction of a second as he assessed her before deactivating the central locking and hauling open the passenger door. Stephie’s head lolled as he slid her into the baby seat.

Emma leaned her spine against the yellow paintwork and closed her eyes. The sunshine reflected off its bright surface, turning it into a blazing orb which glowed behind her eyelids. She’d waited for weeks to drive it after her surgery. Her shoulders slumped at how the trip turned out so far. “What a disaster,” she breathed.

Rohan pressed a kiss against his tiny daughter’s fluffy head and withdrew from the vehicle. He shut the door with a click. His arms infused Emma with security and tenderness as they enfolded her and crushed her cheek against his shirt. She released another sigh.

“Are you really okay? You can stop pretending now.” His voice rumbled through his chest and Emma gave an unconvincing nod. Her fingers traced the line of his jacket. The starchiness of the fabric jarred something in her understanding.

“Where are you going?” She hated how needy and demanding she sounded. “Why are you wearing this?” Her hand tipped palm upwards as suspicion loaded her tone with angst.

“Easy,” Rohan soothed. His fingers smoothed across her shoulders. “I need to work, Emma.” His lips quirked on one side. “I can’t live off my brother’s money and my wife’s goodwill forever, vozlyublennaya.”

“You can!” Emma gripped the cuff of his jacket, desperation in her voice. The fabric creased beneath her fingers, Rohan’s favourite knife absent from its hidden seam. “Please, don’t leave me now.” Begging stripped her emotions raw, and she recognised the ball of fear in her throat. Her subconscious had registered his clothing and tried to warn her. It hadn’t been relief at seeing him after all.

“I have a job.”

“But you promised.” Emma’s voice held a faint whine. “No more jobs.”

Rohan’s fingers stroked the line of her jaw. She searched his expression for deception. “I agreed not to accept any until after the baby arrived. I kept my word.” His irises glittered in the sunlight. “One of my old clients ran into difficulty. They need me to retrieve stolen data from a disgruntled employee. It’s an easy fix. Shouldn’t take me more than a few hours. The hardest part is finding him. I’ve got Dolan onto it already.”

“So, what’s the catch?” Emma’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “If I hadn’t needed you, would I have got home and found you’d gone?”

Rohan threw his head back and laughed. His reaction unsettled Emma even more. “You still don’t trust me?” He placed his right hand over his heart and feigned sadness. “But I’ve worked so hard to give you full disclosure,” he said. “I made promises and honoured all of them.”

Emma grumbled and her fingers gripped the sill above Stephie’s window. “You say you’ve kept them, but how am I to know?”

Rohan’s nose wrinkled and the light dusting of freckles over his cheeks shifted with the movement. “What else can I tell you? I haven’t worked since Stephie arrived. This is an old client and I’ve hunted risks for them before. It’s a routine actuarial job and nothing dangerous. You don’t need to worry.”

“When will you be home?”

Rohan ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m waiting for Dolan to give me the details and then I promise to tell you more.”

Emma walked her fingers over the sleeve of his jacket. “But you’re armed, aren’t you?” The absence of the knife in its hidden pocket meant nothing. There were other places he kept weapons. Her gaze flicked to his knees, wondering if he’d fastened the blade to the shin of his prosthetic leg instead. Her brain locked, making it impossible for her to decide if that was a good or a bad sign.

Rohan cocked his head. “You needn’t worry, Em.” His long fingers slid his phone from his back pocket and he dialled a number. Emma searched his face, studying the myriad tiny battle scars in case he disappeared like she imagined he might. Like he had once before when the army took him and made him a captain.

A movement in Emma’s peripheral vision sent a jolt of fear ricocheting up her spine. The overweight security guard lumbered into the car park, a packet of cigarettes clutched in his fingers. He concentrated on lighting his fix, and Emma resisted the urge to yank the driver’s door open and dive into the seat.

“Hey, Allaine.” Rohan’s call connected. Emma frowned. “Please, can you bring Nicky to the supermarket to meet us? His mother wants to take him to a coffee shop. Yes, tell him she bought the stuff for his costume.” He listened to Allaine’s reply. Nicky’s voice sounded through the speaker, a high, irritated tone. “Five minutes then.” Rohan killed the call and pushed the phone into his pocket. He smiled at Emma. “Allaine will leave my car here for you. I’ll drive them home. Spend time with our syn and come back when you’re ready.”

Gratitude flooded Emma’s chest. She glanced at the sleeping baby in the passenger seat, her mind already performing calculations between feeds. She pressed her hands against her cheeks and scrubbed as though to rid herself of the afternoon’s events. Nerves tickled the pit of her stomach. She released a ragged breath. “Thank you, Rohan,” she whispered. “He’s finding it difficult. It used to just be him and me. Our house is so busy now.”

Rohan nodded in agreement. “I know,” he replied with a sigh. “Ray said he’s almost finished the rooms over the stables. Allaine and Kaylee already moved in most of their gear.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Then there’s only Freda to send home and it will be just us again. Moya sem’ya. My own little family.”

Emma blinked and nodded at the thought of the elderly lady who’d taken up residence in their spare room. Despite owning an apartment at a local seniors’ community, Freda showed no sign of leaving. A smile cracked the serious expression marring Emma’s features. “She got her bloomers stuck in the washing machine yesterday. Ray had to remove the drum.”

Rohan waggled his blond eyebrows, and the humour sent sparkles skidding across his blue irises. Light heartedness shrouded them both for a moment. Then Rohan’s Mercedes drew up alongside them and Allaine reversed the enormous car into the next space. Nicky’s sullen face glowered at Emma from the rear seat.

“Here we go,” Emma breathed. “Operation Make Amends, phase two.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Greater Than

“You said you’d meet me from school with the new baby today.” Nicky slouched next to her, his shoulders rounded and his gaze on the pavement. “I told everyone. You made me look a liar.”

Emma gritted her teeth and fixed a smile onto her lips. She reached out to take her son’s hand and noticed the ruined cloth bag still in her fingers. “Damn!” she hissed. Paint stained her thumb and the back of her wrist. She cast around for a dustbin.

“What’s that?” Alarm drew Nicky’s blond brows into a furrow. “You’re bleeding?”

“No.” Emma blew out a breath. “It’s a long story.”

Nicky paused on the path and settled his hands over his hips. The action gave the appearance of a much older man demanding answers. Rohan. “Tell me the story,” he demanded. His features softened. “I’m desperate to forgive you. The story might help.”

“Okay.” Emma spun around on the street. “Just let me find a bin first. I think there’s one outside Sainsbury’s.”

“No.” Nicky shook his head. “I need to see the evidence.”

Emma released a groan and balled the bag into her hand. Something dug into her palm and she rearranged the seam of the strap to dangle beneath her wrist. “Right,” she said, checking her pocket for the cash Rohan gave her before leaving. “Baptist coffee shop? I think it’s open late today.”

“Yeah!” Nicky punched the air with his fist. “I wanna cuppa tea in a special cup and saucer. And I’m pouring it from the pot myself.”

“Okay.” Emma relented, relief sliding through her nerve endings. The trip to the church cafe run by senior citizens became a favourite treat leading up to Stephie’s birth. Staffed by volunteers, the cafe kept the prices affordable. Nicky had developed a penchant for the tea cakes and as food loosened his tongue, Emma found out all his secrets for the price of half an hour and a couple of pounds.

Nicky switched sides and held his mother’s fingers. Emma’s muscles relaxed with each step through the centre of the small market town. Nicky’s pace increased as they turned onto Manor Walk, his jubilation emerging as skips and bounces. His feet slid to a halt outside the door. Lifting one hand, he pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “Please, may I have the tiniest little tea cake?” His eyes grew round, and he dropped the fingers to pat his stomach. “It might help me concentrate if your story is a bit boring.”

Emma pursed her lips to avoid reacting. Her instinct drove irritation, but his honesty encouraged humour. She checked the wad of notes Rohan shoved into her pocket and saw with gratitude he’d anticipated his son’s persuasiveness. “Yeah,” she replied. “Daddy gave me enough for that.” He’d given her enough for a night at the Hilton hotel, but she kept that to herself.

Nicky struggled with the door and bounced into the cafe with enthusiasm. He held out his arms like a televangelist and announced their arrival. “I’m back!”

An old lady waved from behind the counter. She propped herself up on a stool and fed cash into the register with a smile. “Bill!” she called over the hubbub of chatter. “Bill!” Her wavering voice summoned an elderly man waiting tables. He wore a chequered pinafore tied around his torso to protect his formal shirt. He jerked his chin upwards in recognition and his wife jabbed a crooked index finger at Nicky. “Our boy’s back!”

“Hooray!” Bill threw his arms into the air in exaggerated delight. Though as Emma watched, she sensed the sincerity in his movements. “And how’s our Nikolai?” Bill bent his body in half to speak at Nicky’s level. “We’ve missed our little helper. How’s that new sister of yours?”

Nicky tapped his chest with importance. “Stepanovich cries all the time. And she poops a lot.” He clamped his fingers over Bill’s wrist. “I wanted to call her Svetlana. It means lumin… lumin… bright light.” He fumbled over luminescent. “But Uncle Anton didn’t get kids, so my dad pinched one of his names.”

“We’d love to see her.” Bill’s rheumy gaze flicked up to Emma and back to Nicky. Emma swallowed, relieved when he didn’t press the point. She figured her weight loss and pale complexion told him part of why they’d been absent.

“Bill, do you have a tea cake for me?” Nicky glanced at Emma, responding to her frown. “Please.”

“Pardon?” Bill dipped lower, his precarious balance digging the soles of his sensible shoes into the carpet. Nicky edged closer, positioning himself next to the old man’s hearing aid. Bill cupped his right hand behind his ear as the filter snapped free between Nicky’s brain and mouth. Instead of repeating his request, Emma’s son regaled the whole cafe with the source of the sadness dogging her bones.

“Mum can’t have no more babies,” he announced. “Something broke when Stephie popped out.” He winced and glanced back at Emma. “She’s been a bit sad because of her hystericalectomy.” A second glance caused his eyes to widen at what he saw in Emma’s face. “Oops,” he whispered. His lips twisted and guilt radiated from his cerulean irises.

“Take a seat.” A feather light touch on Emma’s shoulder made her jump. A horrible hush descended over the customers. Emma sensed their collective pity wrap around her psyche like a damp blanket.

“This was a mistake,” she breathed. Her arms squeezed her torso, gripping with the intensity of a strait jacket.

“No, it wasn’t.” Freda’s exotic floral perfume worked her affection into Emma’s senses. She squeezed the ball of Emma’s shoulder with increased pressure. “Take a seat in the corner. I’ll fetch your order and sit with you a while.” Freda’s knotty fingers pushed her towards the table where her son busied himself clambering into a chair. Someone had encased her feet in concrete and her trainers dragged against the carpet as she moved. The effort of sinking into the cushioned chair cost her everything, leaving nothing in the tank for scolding Nicky.

Emma’s son stared at the embroidered tablecloth. When he looked up, tears filled his eyes. “Sorry, Mummy,” he whispered. “I can’t help it. Things can only sit in my chest for so long before they pop out.” He patted the space over his heart. “They get too heavy for me.”

Emma nodded. The blockage in her throat seemed to shift enough to admit a faint croak to escape. “Know how you feel.”

Nicky frowned. He slid from his chair and edged it closer to hers. The metal legs dug into the carpet and left drag marks. “Don’t cry, Mummy,” he pleaded. His lips twisted, and he rested his small fingers over the bunched fists in her lap. “Let’s not tell Daddy about this.” Abandoning his chair, he climbed into her lap and stretched his arm around her shoulders.

“How did you find out?” Emma pursed her lips and imagined her wily son playing in the many secret tunnels which ran through the manor house. But before she could summon a rebuke, he pressed a slender index finger over her mouth.

“Daddy said.” He bobbed his head to force eye contact. “But don’t be cross with him. I missed you so I got into your bed without Daddy seeing me. He didn’t turn on the light while he made a phone call to Ray. Then he sat on the bed and cried.”

Emma inhaled and a palm pressed over her heart. “He cried?” The notion sounded ridiculous. She’d never seen Rohan Andreyev cry, not even as a boy. His stoic, blank, Slav expression formed the backdrop of their shared childhood.

Nicky nodded, the action exaggerated enough to jog the chair. “Yes. About babies.”

Emma swallowed and released the held breath. She’d spent the last six weeks wallowing in self-pity and forgotten the horror for Rohan. She remembered seeing him hold their daughter as the midwife wheeled her away. Blood coated her from the waist down and the images winked out after that. As she sat in the seat in the warm cafe, the fabric of her sweatpants dug into the fresh scar tissue across her abdomen. The surgeons hadn’t wasted time on keyhole surgery. They’d slit her open and repaired the damage. No more babies.

Freda appeared at the table, a plate of tea cakes in her gnarled fingers. She placed them in front of Nicky’s chair with a flourish. Bill appeared with a tea tray. Three mismatched cups and saucers sat next to a china pot. With his shaking hands, he set them in the centre of the tablecloth. Brown tea dripped onto the fabric to join the other indelible stains.

“I’ll pour!” Nicky bounced off Emma’s knee and she winced at the twinge of pain which bloomed outward from her groin. Freda pulled out the chair on her other side.

“You look like someone kicked you in the guts,” she announced. She bobbed her head of white curls to reveal a hair clip adorned with sparkling gems. The light caressed them like kisses, a testament to their status as genuine diamonds.

“That’s how it feels.” Emma pursed her lips. She lifted her left hand, the cloth bag still squashed into her fist. Red paint spread from her wrist to stain the cuff of her sweater. She groaned and unfurled her fist.

“Is that blood?” Freda leaned closer.

“No.” Nicky interrupted. He stood on his tiptoes and hoisted the teapot with a grunt. His jaw flexed with the effort and he dribbled tea into the nearest cup. “It’s a long story. Wait for me, please?”

CHAPTER FIVE

The Freda Fraction

Emma’s story sounded far less dramatic in its retelling, but Nicky hung on every word. Butter added a sheen to his rosebud lips, teacake crumbs dotting his chin and cheeks. He paused, his hand lifted halfway to his mouth and his eyes wide. “Tell it again,” he insisted. “What did Dad say to the men?”

Freda leaned forward, tea dripping down the dainty china cup in her fingers and splashing into the saucer. Both members of the audience held their breath. Emma pushed out her bottom lip. Her shoulders slumped, tiredness filtering back into her muscles. “I’ve told you twice.” She reached for her teacup and it clanged against the mismatched saucer. “He said, ‘Why are you holding my wife here? Tell me.’ And then the guards kinda fell to pieces.”

“Why are you holding my wife here? Tell me.” Nicky’s lips split into a wide grin as he repeated the sentence in a gruff voice. A crumb plunged from the end of his nose and landed in the yellow slick on his plate. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

“Fantastic.” Emma spoke through gritted teeth. “I hoped you’d be pleased about the items I bought to make your book character.”

“I am.” Nicky’s blue eyes widened with sincerity. Then his blond brows furrowed into a line. “But I’d quite like to go as Daddy.”

A gargantuan exhale whooshed from Emma’s lungs and her body sagged in the chair. She kept her tone level. “Daddy isn’t a book character. The Cock with the Crimson Comb is a book character. I bought the stuff to make that one for you.”

“Yeah.” He twisted his lips into a grimace. “Okay then.” He pushed another section of teacake between his teeth and the conversation halted. Freda lifted a manicured eyebrow and observed him. Her lips parted and Emma sensed her waiting to censure Nicky if he dared to speak with his mouth full. He didn’t and she closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the cafe and the mixed scents of food comforted her.

She jumped as Freda’s cup clinked against its saucer. “Will I put that dirty bag in the rubbish for you?” she asked, her tone gentle.

“Thanks.” Emma wrinkled her nose as she inspected the remnants of red paint staining her nails and the back of her left wrist. A rumpled paper napkin had removed the worst of it. She reached sideways and lifted the bag from the carpet, careful to hold it by its strap. Freda hauled herself upright and took it between her finger and thumb.

“Craft paint is like Baileys Irish Cream,” she declared. “It looks a small amount but it goes absolutely everywhere.”

Emma allowed herself a lopsided grin. “I’ve never seen you spill it.” Since claiming the spare bedroom a few weeks earlier, Freda had supped her way through four entire bottles. Emma hadn’t noticed a single drop wasted.

“Where’s the stuff then?” Nicky cocked his head and a pink tongue poked out to lick the butter from around his lips. “Please can I see it?”

“Dad took it home.” Emma’s blunt reply induced a furrowed brow, and her son gave a definitive nod.

“Can we go home soon? I want to know how you’ll make me into The Cock with the Crimson Comb.”

Emma peered at the dregs in her cup. Her body’s reluctance to move warned her how much the altercation with the guards had sapped her meagre energy. But she forced her head to nod and pushed her chair back from the table.

“Stop!” Nicky commanded. His tone of voice mimicked Rohan’s with such accuracy, it caused both her and Freda to halt like marionettes. He pointed a delicate index finger at the bag swinging from Freda’s hand. “There’s something in the bottom of there.”

Emma shook her head. “There isn’t. The security guard pulled the broken carton out and threw it in the dustbin.” She wrinkled her nose and tried not to relish the red smear which stained his white shirt cuff. Freda gave the bag a wiggle and it swung from side to side.