‘I don’t hold with his sort,’ the manager said.
‘What sort is that? The black sort?’
‘His involvement with murders.’
‘He has not been involved; he is an honest, law-abiding citizen. Any attempts by yourself and others to remove him from this store will be met with a strong rebuke from me and further investigation into you.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘It is not. Society is multicultural, and if you’ve looked, I’m black, as well.’
‘You’re different.’
‘Is it because I carry a badge?’
‘You’re educated, a police officer.’
‘I grew up around here. I know where you’re coming from.; I’ve experienced it all my life.’
Isaac knew that he should not pass judgement on people, but he wanted the manager to back off. If he did a detailed audit of the stock in the shop, of sales made, he’d no doubt find anomalies.
‘I’m ready,’ Billy said.
‘Okay. The sandwiches are on me.’
The two men left the shop and walked down the street. ‘He’s a bastard, that one,’ Billy said.
‘And you’re a fool for not contacting me.’
The two men ordered their sandwiches and coffees, take away. Not far from the sandwich shop was a small park. One of the benches was vacant. ‘I don’t want anything to happen to Charisa,’ Billy said.
‘And how about you?’
‘I can handle myself.’
‘No you can’t, and you know it. Level with me,’ Isaac said. ‘You’ve been stealing from the shop, trying to find the money.’
‘I’ll pay it back.’
‘No you won’t. That’s money stolen, not earned. It’ll take you years to make it back by honest graft. Your best hope is to tell me the truth of what happened.’
‘Okay. They picked me up not far from the shop and took me to a vacant block of land.’
‘Where?’
‘Not far. I can show you if it’s important.’
‘It’s not. What happened?’
‘Negril Bob, he was the one who told them to work on me.’
‘Work?’
‘Beat me up, make remarks about Charisa.’
‘What sort of remarks?’
‘You know what sort.’
‘How they were going to let her pay the money back.’
‘That’s it. They were crude though. It’s not the language I intend to repeat.’
‘Billy, you’re too gentle. These are violent men. They’ll have no issues with bleeding you dry and doing whatever they want with Charisa. How did you think you could protect her without the police?’
‘I wasn’t thinking, just doing what I had to.’
‘And that manager at your shop, he’s a hater. You can’t keep stealing.’
‘I need to protect Charisa.’
‘You’ll not protect her this way.’
‘Then what do I do?’
‘I need the two of you to keep me informed.’
‘But how will you stop them taking her,’
‘And killing you.’
‘I’m not important.’
‘Stop acting the hero, you’re not the type. It’s you and Charisa now.’
‘She’s got Troy.’
‘You’re still family.’
‘Did Negril Bob and his gang kill Samuel?’
‘We don’t know. They may just be trying to cash in on your grief, or they could be acting under instructions. These men are garbage, don’t try to make out that they’re not.’
‘I know what they are. Once Charisa’s out of the country, I’ll try and make something of myself, maybe get an education.’
‘Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. The future’s up to you. I need to know what you’ve taken from the store, itemised, and I need it today.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m going to get you out of trouble.’
‘You’re a friend.’
‘Don’t say that. I’m doing what is right. If the manager reports you to the police, it’s a criminal case, and I can’t help you.’
Chapter 11
Quentin Waverley had been found out. His denials in the past about his relationship with Amelia Brice had come to nought. Gwen, his pregnant wife, had found out the truth, not through her husband or her former best friend, but through the police. ‘You bastard. You’ve been screwing Amelia, even after we were married. What kind of man does that?’ she said.
‘The type of man that’s not married to you.’
‘Wait till my father hears about this. He’ll have you out of the company.’
‘And then what will you do? You’re the wife of a merchant banker, one of the social elite. You’ll do nothing, and you’ll do it with a smile. Do I make myself clear?’ Waverley said.
Gwen Waverley knew that he was right; she had married him, not out of an overriding love, but out of practicality. She wanted a man and children; her father’s merchant bank had needed someone to succeed him, and Quentin Waverley had fitted the bill. The fact that he was Amelia’s man had not come into it. Her father had agreed to the match, even helped plan her approach to the man, almost a hostile takeover.
It had been planned that she and Quentin were naked in bed when Amelia had walked in. Quentin had not known; he had thought they had two hours, but Gwen had received a message: fifteen minutes.
She had acted fast, touching him up and down his body, ensuring that he was salivating in anticipation, before hauling him up the stairs and removing all his clothes and hers just in time.
When they had first moved in together after his bust-up with Amelia, they had made love every night, and he had had no time for any other, but then the first child came along, and now the second, and he was back to his old ways.
‘Did you kill her?’ Gwen asked. She knew that he hadn’t, but she could be argumentative, she knew that, and he needed to be brought to heel. After one child, with another on the way, she realised that she was not as firm as she had once been, not as tender to the touch, and her husband was
