The Note (Unsolved Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  Lance watched closely as John lit a cigarette. He spun around on his heels, then made his way to the entrance of the garage. Cars whooshed past the main road, during the early morning rush hour traffic. With his back turned to him, Lance kept an eye on John as he stood there. He kept one hand cocked inside his smart trouser suit pocket and the other, he raised slowly now and then as he smoked his cigarette.

  “John, please, I really—”

  “Shhh.” John held up a hand and silenced him with his back still turned. “A deal’s a deal, Lance.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’m one of the most understanding loan sharks around London, you ask anyone. But I don’t take too kindly to broken promises, fuck interest repayments.”

  He flicked his smoke on the pavement, turned to Lance and raised a hand to his ear. “The penalty for late payment is what, Lance?”

  “Death.”

  Lance dropped his gaze to the ground and chewed on the inside of his lip. “I know John, like I said just give me—”

  “Twenty-four hours Lance, you’ve been warned.”

  John flicked his wrist and glanced at the time. “Don’t make me come back here cuz I don’t wanna hear any of your bullshit excuses.” He walked off towards his car.

  Once he was out of sight, Lance let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. He shook his head, dropped the rag on the floor and headed over to his phone in his small back office. Hands shaking, he scrolled through his contracts, found who he was looking for, and then pressed call.

  “Chelsea, it’s me.”

  “Hi, Lance. What’s up?”

  “I need some money and quick.”

  “How much?”

  “Hundred grand.”

  “A hundred grand! Lance, what the fuck have you got ya self into now? I ain’t got that kinda—”

  Lance moved the phone away from his ear and paced his office. After a few rounds, he headed to the door and glanced outside.

  No one was there, just the old clapped-out motor he was working on.

  “Chelsea, don’t lie,” he said through gritted teeth into the phone.

  “That old man left you everything. You’ve got access to that kind of money and ya know it.”

  “Let me think about it, okay?”

  “What’s there to think about Chelsea. We’re together, we had a plan, I thought you’d help me out.”

  “What do you need it for?”

  “I can’t say right now, just do me this one favour will you?”

  “I said I’d think about it, Lance, I need that money.”

  “Need it? Need it? Don’t make me laugh, Chelsea, I need it in twenty-four hours.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Chelsea. Chelsea!”

  The line disconnected. Lance dropped the phone on his messy desk, filled with paperwork and tools.

  “Little bitch!”

  Later that night, Lance turned on the gas fire burner on his grease-ridden stove, then rubbed his hands together over the heat to generate warmth. The unreliable heating system in the grubby one-bedroom flat he rented in a run-down area in Whitechapel, east London, hiccupped in the background.

  His mind moved to John. “Twenty-four hours,” he muttered, then turned to bang the central heating boiler on the wall, so it would click on.

  Rolling his eyes, headed over to the table, and then picked up the past due bills he’d thrown down in a pile earlier. He rubbed his temples, but the stress continued to mount. With a deep sigh, he took a seat in front of the backlog of responsibilities he had abandoned months ago. As he did, out fell a newspaper clipping.

  He snatched it up, narrowed his eyes, and then scanned over the headline.

  “Millionaire found dead on the common.”

  He chuckled, straightened his face, then moulded it into a distorted, sinister smile.

  Dropping the paper, he shifted through the unopened mail, all of which were red letters reminding him of the overdue payments on his business premises.

  “Four months in debt, fuck! This can’t be right.”

  He ran a hand over his stubbly chin, then fixed his eyes on the calendar on the wall.

  “Has it really been that long?”

  His phone buzzed with a text message.

  John’s name and a message floated across the top of his screen. He pulled up the text in full and read: Time’s ticking, Lance. Twenty- four hours. Remember.

  “Fuck you, John.”

  Closing the message, he scrolled back to Chelsea’s name and pressed call. She answered on the first ring.

  “What’s up, Lance?”

  “I need that money.”

  “You’ve not told me what for?”

  “I just need it that’s all. I’m behind on my mortgage payments, and I need a loan.”

  “A hundred grand worth of missed payments?” Chelsea laughed. “Do me a favour, Lance, I’m not that dumb—”

  Lance gritted his teeth in frustration. “All right. Fine. Yes, I’m behind on my payments, but there’s more to it. I took a loan from John Fuller to cover some other past debts I had, and now, I need to pay him back too.”

  “John Fuller, the local shark?”

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “Who doesn’t? You’re in the shit if you can’t pay him back. A few months ago, Pauly, you remember him, right? The bar owner from Bethnal Green, well, John strung him up by his balls from what I heard, all over late payments.”

  “You’re not helping the situation, are you gonna give me the money? Yes or no?”

  “Why didn’t you use the money from John on your business debts?”

  “I had to pay back an old score, one from a few years back I thought wouldn’t catch up with me. There, now you know everything.”

  Lance got up from behind the table and headed over to the warmth of the gas burner. The heating system’s full strength hadn’t kicked in yet. London’s weather had drastically changed over the last few days. One moment it felt like a mild autumn, the next, more like the harsh winter weather of January.

  Lance lowered his voice, trying to keep himself composed. “Chelsea, listen, I thought we were a team?” Didn’t we have a plan for that money together, once the old boy was gone?”

  “Hmmm, yeah, that’s the problem. I don’t need a man who wants to live off my money.”

  Lance chuckled, and the sarcasm poured out of him. “Yeah, that’s right. You prefer old millionaires about to kick the bucket, so you can scoop up all their cash, I forgot.”

  “Fuck you, Lance! I cared for Tony. You and his family can go to hell.”

  “Get a grip, woman. It was a joke. Where has your sense of humour gone? We both wanted the cash and him gone, remember. So really, you owe me.”

  “Owe you?” Lance heard the smirk in Chelsea’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “For what exactly? You didn’t do shit. You were too scared to.”

  “Scared? I’ve been there, done that, and that’s why I’m still in this shit hole of debt now. For not bumping off someone who I was paid to and taking the money. I don’t want that life anymore,” Lance yelled down the line.

  “Whatever. Lance, bye.”

  “Chelsea, don’t you dare put the—”

  At the sound of the deadline, Lance threw his phone on the kitchen counter. He took a deep breath, licked his parched lips, and then racked his brain for his next move.

  His gaze fell to the table holding his past due bills and the newspaper cutting announcing Tony’s death. Chelsea and his wife’s pictures were beside an image of the dead millionaire. His eyes rested on Chelsea.

  “You need teaching a lesson, girl. That money is as much mine as yours.”

  3

  What’s Done In The Dark

  Detective Dunne

  Tuesday morning, Dunne and McDonald pulled up outside Chelsea Jackson’s plush flat, overlooking London’s River Thames.

  “What do you think she pays for this?” Dunne brought the unmarked car to
a slow crawl.

  “More than she makes.” McDonald glanced out the passenger side window.

  The gated residential area, located a stone’s throw from Vauxhall Bridge, was home to some of London’s must sought after properties. Within walking distance from Victoria Station, yet it was close enough to commute into central London. But it was also within reaching distance of south London’s upmarket restaurants, bars, and cultural hot spots.

  Dunne parked the car next to the curb, then did a quick visual sweep of the area.

  McDonald, head bowed, double checked his notepad for details.

  “Ready?” Dunne turned to McDonald.

  “Yep. Number twenty-five, let’s go.” McDonald pocketed his notepad, then grabbed the car door handle.

  Stepping out of the vehicle, Dunne rose to full height, working a cramp out of his calf, then stepped onto the pavement. He glanced at his watch. “It’s ten thirty in the morning.”

  McDonald joined Dunne, and together, they headed over to the immaculate building.

  “She might be at work.” Dunne grabbed the handle of one of the glass double doors of the entrance and found it locked.

  McDonald shrugged and pressed the intercom buzzer.

  “Hello.” A sleepy female voice answered.

  “Miss Jackson, it’s Detective McDonald. I’m here with Detective Dunne also.”

  “Huh, all right.” A silent pause lingered, and then Chelsea yawned loudly into the intercom. “It’s morning. How can I help you? detectives?”

  We’d like to have a quick word with you, if that’s okay?” McDonald leaned over the intercom box.

  “Oh.” Chelsea’s voice jumped up an octave or two.

  Dunne glanced at McDonald and whispered, “Well, that got her attention.” The nervous tone of her voice replayed in his thoughts.

  “Seems that way.” McDonald nodded his head.

  “W-what about?” Her voice cracked.

  “If you could let us in, we won’t keep you long,” said McDonald in his most charming voice.

  Buzzzzzzz.

  At the sound of the doors unlocking, Dunne entered followed by McDonald.

  Dunne glanced left then right. Nothing seemed out of place in the pristine entrance.

  No doubt, the twenty-five flats were owned and rented by professionals, all with well-paid jobs. No urinated stairwells assaulted his nose. The corners remained rubbish free, and not a mark of graffiti lurked for the eyes to see.

  “Come on.” Dunne pushed through the entrance of the stairwell. “What was the number again?”

  “Twenty-five.” McDonald took the stairs two at a time.

  Once on the floor, and in front of the door, McDonald rang the bell.

  The door swung open, and a burst of lavender mixed with Jasmine, wafted from her flat.

  “Morning.” Chelsea, wrapped in a dressing gown with messy bedhead hair, leaned on the door frame.

  “Morning, no work today?” Dunne ran his eyes over her, taking in her dishevelled appearance.

  She looked like she had a late night. The dark circles under her eyes a tell-tale sign. Plus, her constant yawning. He glanced behind her into the flat, searching for any visitors she may have, but no one appeared to be there. There was no other lightening inside her home, and the curtains to the living area remained closed.

  “No, it’s my day off today.”

  A yawn escaped her lips, then she focused in closely on Dunne and his partner, as if taking in their suits and physique.

  He and his partner were of similar height and build, but they had striking differences. Dunne’s milk chocolate skin contrasted against his pale blue shirt, whereas McDonald’s unusual mix of dark mahogany-coloured hair with icy blue eyes now seemed to hold her attention.

  “Come in.” She waved Dunne and his partner inside, then pointed behind her. “Go straight on into the living room.”

  Both Dunne and McDonald stepped over the threshold, then made their way into the open plan living space.

  Off to the left, Dunne visually took in an attached kitchen area—he cleared the room again visually, ruling out any additional occupants, then turned his attention to the living room.

  Expensive, name brand leather sofas occupied the room.

  A large television mounted on the wall was set to the ready position, and a perfect view of London filled the ceiling to floor windows.

  Chelsea had gotten lucky when her late lover included her in his will, mused Dunne. He smoothed his beard and took in the sterile, almost picture-perfect book appearance of the area.

  “Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Chelsea walked down a short hallway to what Dunne suspected was the bedroom.

  McDonald took a seat, and Dunne joined him on the sofa.

  Dunne leaned into his partner and whispered, “Wasn’t this one of the properties he left her?”

  “Yep. And from what I remember, it’s just one of many.”

  “Damn, not bad,” Dunne said under his breath, then took another look around. “Well, I can see why his family was so pissed she got everything.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dunne pondered the deceased millionaire’s state of mind when he changed his will and cut his estranged wife and family out, leaving everything to a younger woman he had recently met.

  “Two months he had a fling with her.” McDonald checked his watch. “And she got everything?”

  Chelsea appeared at the doorway dressed in a simple black dress. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen? Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “No thanks,” replied Dunne.

  “Naw. I’m all good,” said McDonald.

  “We have a few questions for you.” Dunne decided to just dive in since he didn’t have all day.

  4

  De ja Vu

  Chelsea

  Chelsea lowered herself onto the sofa opposite Dunne and McDonald, then covered her face with her hands.

  “Not this again. I thought we were done. I’ve not done anything. I have no idea—”

  “Look, Chelsea, we understand that,” replied Dunne. “His murder was closed and left as a cold case. But we have a few more questions for you. Something else has come to light.”

  Chelsea’s gaze flashed back to meet Dunne’s dark brown eyes in an instant.

  What? She gripped the hem of her skirt, then smoothed the fabric over her thighs.

  Dunne’s words caused her pulse to race for a second, but she recovered and focused on getting her body language in check. She remained cautious, not wanting to appear on edge by the unexpected news.

  Chelsea remembered all too well how observant Dunne and his little side kick were, especially during the last investigation into Tony’s murder. The last thing she needed was to be in the spotlight, again.

  She didn’t relish being under the thumbs of the detectives or for Tony’s family to examine her life under a microscope.

  Her mind briefly moved to Manisha—Tony’s estranged but very legal wife.

  This can’t be happening! I bet she’s behind all this, she thought.

  She tossed the situation around in her mind as if to try and place exactly what could have come to light that would send Dunne back to her doorstep. Her fear turned to rage.

  A steady heat pooled in her stomach and made its way through her body, invoking her anger. The mere thought of Tony’s family, or anyone else for that matter, messing up her plans again didn’t settle well.

  Chelsea took a deep breath, smoothed over her hair, then fixed the most innocent face for Dunne and McDonald she could muster.

  She placed a hand over her heart and got into character as if to resume her delegated role to remain off Dunne’s radar.

  “What do you mean something else has come to light?” She widened her eyes and glanced from Dunne to McDonald. “Do we have more information on who killed Tony?”

  Her hand fell to her cheek, then she strained out a few tears. “I still can’t believe it. Who would ha
ve done such a thing?” Her words slipped past her lips through false sobs and tears. “He had no enemies as far as I knew.”

  “We need to talk to you at the station.” McDonald scooted to the edge of the sofa, his knees pressing against the coffee table.

  “Wait.” Chelsea shifted her wide-eyed gaze back to him. “Are you arresting me again?”

  She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, playing the hurt, vulnerable lover, yet, inside, she seethed. The heat of anger threatened to explode and mess up the hard work she had done throughout the last investigation to claim her innocence.

  Dunne’s stare roamed over her as if he were studying her carefully.

  Chelsea ignored him, sniffled, dabbed at her tears, and then met McDonald’s ice blue eyes.

  “More like an interview—under caution.” McDonald held her gaze.

  “But I’ve not—”

  “Just come with us to the station, Chelsea, then you’re free to enjoy the rest of your day.” McDonald moved a decretive pillow, setting it at the end of the couch.

  Chelsea rose and looked around her home. She took in the luxury surrounding her and kicked herself for not booking a one way ticketed to Australia sooner. Big plans were in the work that required the money sitting in her account. And they didn’t involve Lance, these detectives, or any of Tony’s surviving family members.

  Holding back a smile, she felt it bubble within her. The thought of the vision board she had made and displayed in her bedroom kept her focused on the task at hand. Her goal was to set herself up with a nice little place near the beach somewhere in Australia, forget about working, and do something she enjoyed with her life. Like painting, it was her one true talent other than number crunching as an accountant. Numbers paid well, but not well enough for the life she wanted. Plus, London’s weather was nothing exciting. She figured she could more than afford to take some time out, work on her tan, and find herself a nice Australian hunk to pass the time.

  She glared at McDonald and tried to steady her breathing. “This isn’t fair. We went through all this before I—”

  “Let’s go.” McDonald rose to his feet, followed by Dunne.