She escaped her homeland at eighteen to travelled to London. Once there, she perfected her English and became legally known as Chelsea Jackson, and she’s remained here ever since.
Now, at thirty, she loved her job as an accountant for the large firm she worked for. That’s how she crossed paths with Tony—he had contracted a bookkeeper. It wasn’t until balancing his books, all of his accounts, she realised Tony Patel’s true worth.
The affair started shortly after he took her out for dinner, one thing led to another. The status he had given her in his will was the meal ticket she needed to purse her dreams of painting.
“I really don’t need this shit, not again.”
Chelsea reached for her make-up bag to touch up her face. Once done, she left the bathroom and walked down the short hallway to her bedroom for her bag and keys. She stopped midway to admire the abstract art on the walls Tony had purchased. It touched her how he desired to please her, and bought them just for her because of her love of art.
She sighed, moved closer, and studied each fine line and brush stroke the artist had created. Her hand moved across the canvas. Absent-mindedly, she allowed her finger to trace the strokes.
“That’s it, there must be an art supply shop somewhere around here.”
Chelsea had the urge to paint. Her day, thus far, was ruined—cut short by Dunne and McDonald. So, she’d spend the late afternoon and evening painting London’s star-filled skyline, from the view of the floor to ceiling windows in the living area.
With a smile, she headed into the bedroom, grabbed her keys, bag, and coat, and then headed downstairs to her car. She’d locate an art supply store, then make her way over to the empty house she had allowed Tony’s wife to collect a few things from.
A few hours later, and with painting supplies in hand, Chelsea entered the house.
The fresh smell of bleach and cleaning products assaulted her nose. One of the first things she noticed was the dust free furniture in the living room. She ran her hands over the tables and chairs.
“Hmm, she went to town.” Laughter erupted from between her lips.
Chelsea opened the blinds to allow the afternoon light to flood the area.
Her artistic eye roamed over the room, and it was then that she saw the beauty—the potential of the home.
She walked through to the kitchen. The counters sparkled, and the air was fresh. As she opened the back door to the garden and looked out, she noticed it was in need of some attention, but she liked it.
This is so much nicer than the apartment, she thought, maybe I’ll move here.
Chelsea walked around the house, and entertained the idea some more. Upstairs in the bedrooms, she opened the curtains too, then inspected the bathroom. By the looks of things, Manisha hadn’t taken much.
What’s her game? She thought about the woman, then pondered what her next move should be. Should she sell the apartment and keep the house or better still, sell them all and get the fuck out of the UK like she had planned.
I need to get hold of Lance.
Heading back downstairs, she approached the kitchen table, sat in the far corner, then grabbed her phone, but each time she called, she was directed to voicemail. She scoffed at the electronic device and slumped in the chair.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
The sound of the clock on the wall filled the empty space.
13
Blood Money
John
Later that evening, John banged on the door of the garage, again.
“Lance, Lance, open up!”
There was no response.
Checking his watch, he noted it was approaching six in the evening. Twenty-four hours had approached, and he was still waiting for a response from Lance, following his last threat made yesterday morning.
He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and glanced at the mechanic’s business front.
Graffiti covered the shutters. It was clear that he wasn’t there. Or if he was, he was hiding and refused to come out.
John blew out a slow cloud of smoke toward the sky and shook his head. The road was quiet.
“Lance. Lance, stop messin’ aroun’ an’ get out here.”
He pounded the shutters again. They rattled under his force but refused to give way to allow him access into the building.
“All right, if that’s how you want it, this is on you, Lance,” he said under his breath and pulled on his cigarette. He contemplated the deadbeat’s whereabouts this evening, then took out his phone.
“Shit.”
Lance’s phone went to voicemail, and he ended the call. He scrolled through his contacts and pressed dial on his way back to the car.
The weather was so cold, he could see his breath snake into the air. “Yeah, Dan, have you seen Lance today?”
“Nope, why? You still can’t get hold of him?”
“Nah, I just stopped by the garage and there’s no answer. I already called around to his place, and he’s not there either.”
“Sorry, mate, can’t help you. I’ve not seen him.”
John grunted into the phone in response, discarded his cigarette on the pavement, then fished out his keys from the pocket of his coat. He balanced the phone on his shoulder, unlocked the car, then got in.
“All right, give me a shout if you see him. Don’t let him know I’ve been asking around.”
“Okay, catch you soon.”
John ended the call and sat for a moment before starting the car’s engine. His eyes were trained on the garage shutters.
“Okay Lance, have it your way.”
He imagined Lance tied to a chair, and the pain he’d put him through personally, if he didn’t check with a repayment for his debts today. This brought a smirk to his lips along with laughter.
He wouldn’t bother to get one of his men to carry out the ass whooping
