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
