Risky Business Read online

  Risky Business

  By W. Soliman

  Former British police detective Charlie Hunter knows how cold cases can claw at your gut. His mother’s unsolved murder was why he joined the force. Now he’s reluctantly taking on cases as a P.I.—though what he really wants is to be left alone.

  When a young woman asks for his help, he can’t say no. Cleo Kendall is convinced that her father, who’s serving a life sentence for murder, isn’t guilty. Everyone thinks the case is closed, but Charlie doesn’t agree. Especially when his investigation leads him to his difficult stepbrother, who may be involved with his mother’s murder and Cleo’s family.

  With the detective chief inspector watching his every move, Charlie delves deeper and deeper into dangerous territory. But someone doesn’t want Charlie getting to the bottom of this case—ever.

  92,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  June is a good month for us here at Carina Press. Why? Because it’s the month we first started publishing books! This June marks our two-year anniversary of publishing books, and to celebrate, we’re featuring only return Carina Press authors throughout the month. Each author with a June release is one who has published with us previously, and who we’re thrilled to have return with another book!

  In addition to featuring only return authors, we’re offering two volumes of Editor’s Choice collections. Volume I contains novellas from three of our rising stars in their respective romance subgenres: Shannon Stacey with contemporary romance novella Slow Summer Kisses, Cindy Spencer Pape with steampunk romance Kilts & Kraken, and Adrienne Giordano with romantic suspense novella Negotiating Point.

  From the non-romance genres comes Editor’s Choice Volume II, and four fantastic novellas: paranormal mystery Dance of Flames by Janni Nell, science-fiction Pyro Canyon by Robert Appleton, humorous action-adventure No Money Down by Julie Moffett, and Dead Calm, a mystery novella from Shirley Wells.

  Later in June, those collections are joined by a selection of genres designed to highlight the diversity of Carina Press books. Janis Susan May returns with another horror suspense novel, Timeless Innocents, following up her fantastic horror debut, Lure of the Mummy. Mystery author Jean Harrington offers up The Monet Murders, the next installment in her Murders By Design series. And the wait is over for fans of Shawn Kupfer’s debut science-fiction thriller, 47 Echo, with the release of the sequel, Supercritical. Rounding out the offerings for mystery fans, W. Soliman offers up Risky Business, the next novel in The Hunter Files.

  Romance fans need not dismay, we have plenty more to offer you as well, starting with The Pirate’s Lady, a captivating fantasy romance from author Julia Knight. Coleen Kwan pens a captivating steampunk romance in Asher’s Invention, and fans of m/m will be invested in Alex Beecroft’s emotional historical novella His Heart’s Obsession.

  If it’s a little naughty time you’re longing for, be sure to check out Lilly Cain’s Undercover Alliance, a sizzling science-fiction erotic romance.

  We’re proud to showcase these returning authors, and the amazing books they’ve written. We hope you’ll join us as we move into our third year of publishing, and continue to bring you stories, characters and authors you can love!

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Dedication

  For my mother. I only wish you were still able to enjoy reading as much as you once did. I know you’d be proud of me.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, my heartfelt thanks to my talented editor, Deb Nemeth, who made this book so much better with her insight and skill. Also, to everyone else at Carina Press who worked so hard to produce this book. I’m truly grateful.

  And to Andre, thanks for putting up with me.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  We shared a piano stool, this scrawny black kid and me. Together we produced the strong swinging pulse of an old Art Tatum number, my fingers stiff and clumsy as they sought out the right keys. I showed the kid—Gavin his name was—how to imitate a ride cymbal by striking a beat with his right hand just after he’d produced a weaker one with his left.

  The kid was a natural at this but was getting a hard time from his mates because he didn’t conform to their version of normal. So here I was, doing what I’d sworn I’d never do again and tinkling the ivories. I was only making an exception for the kid’s sake. If the exploitation of his talent was the only thing preventing him from falling into a life of petty crime, it was a no-brainer. I’d just have to work out my neurosis about music some other way.

  When the session ended, I pointed my beloved Harley towards home. Preoccupied, it took me a while to realize that the same dark blue Vauxhall had shadowed me for more than five minutes. What was that all about? I swerved the Harley into the outside lane and opened up the throttle. The car followed, losing me on the straight but catching up again when I slowed the heavy bike in a snarl-up.

  It confirmed my suspicions. I was being tailed. It was Sunday afternoon, the road into Brighton was quiet, and the car following stood out like a fox in a henhouse in my wing mirrors. Its driver must have known from my frequent changes of lane that he’d been spotted, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

  Which bothered me.

  I’d upset enough old lags during my time as a copper to have made a few enemies. If they were prepared to come after me in broad daylight, they must either be right cocky bastards, very determined to get me, or just plain stupid.

  Whatever, it didn’t look good.

  In the end, instead of riding directly home, I decided to head into the centre of Brighton and lose the car in traffic. The narrow streets in my hometown weren’t designed for modern-day traffic and were gridlocked practically 24/7. That was when a motorbike came into its own.

  My plan worked like a dream. Or so I thought until I pulled into the multistorey at Brighton Marina and saw the Vauxhall illegally parked on a double-yellow in front of the supermarket, its driver watching the entrance to the car park. Why follow me if he knew I lived on my trawler in the marina?

  I gave no indication that I’d seen the car, rode up the ramp and pulled the bike into a slot on the lower level. If the driver wanted to talk to me he’d have no choice but to follow me into the car park. If he left his vehicle where he was, it would be towed away in no time flat. As usual, there were no free spaces for cars lower down. The driver would have to try his luck on the upper levels and I’d get a good look at him before he saw me.

  I concealed myself behind a pillar as the car p
assed my position. Moments later the sound of footsteps running down the concrete stairs heralded the arrival of my pursuer. Only one set of footsteps. That made me feel better, and I abandoned my half-formed plans to call reinforcements in the shape of my old colleagues. I was glad I hadn’t when it dawned on me that the footsteps were light, the tapping sound almost certainly made by a woman’s heels. My mates would laugh themselves silly if I’d called them to protect me from a woman.

  Even so, I was still cautious and didn’t immediately reveal myself. The woman stopped beside my bike and looked round, as though sensing I was still there. She was tall and slim, with short black hair that sat up in spikes. Her large brown eyes darted round the car park, as though she couldn’t quite figure out how I’d disappeared so quickly. She looked familiar, probably because she was dressed in the uniform of a croupier. I often played poker in the marina casino and I figured she must be a dealer there. But that didn’t explain why she’d gone to such lengths to follow me. Time to get some answers. I stepped out immediately behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Looking for someone?”

  She started violently and clutched her chest. “Oh God, I didn’t see you there! You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “That’s what you get for following people.”

  “Ah, you saw me then.” That appeared to please her. “I thought you must have done.”

  “You wouldn’t make employee of the month in the espionage business.”

  She shrugged. “I saw the bike parked opposite the house where I have a flat, and I thought I caught a glimpse of you talking to a kid about it. I’ve wanted to have a private word with you for a while now so I followed you. It seemed like a good way to get your attention.”

  I was almost tempted to smile at her lack of guile. “You certainly did that,” I said, contemplating her for a moment, trying to place her. “Sorry, you seem to know me but I haven’t a clue who—”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would. I’m Cleo Kendall. You’ve probably seen me in the casino.” She stuck out her hand and I instinctively shook it.

  “Hello, Cleo Kendall. Nice to meet you. Now, what is it you think I can do for you that made you resort to such drastic measures?”

  “Well…” She hesitated, suddenly unsure of herself. “It’s a bit complicated.”

  I rolled my eyes. “When isn’t it?”

  “I’ve got half an hour before I need to sign in,” she said, checking her watch. “Can we go somewhere for a quick drink and I’ll explain?”

  I was too intrigued to even consider refusing. We headed for the local Wetherspoon’s pub and I ordered myself a pint. She would accept only mineral water.

  “If I report for work with alcohol on my breath, it’s grounds for immediate dismissal.”

  “I suppose you do have to keep your wits about you.”

  “Yes, but don’t let it stop you.”

  “It won’t.” I took a healthy swig of beer, just so she wasn’t left in any doubt.

  “We prefer the punters to feel relaxed.”

  I chuckled. “I’ll just bet you do.” I waved a hand. “No pun intended.”

  She obviously wanted something from me badly because she didn’t roll her eyes at a feeble joke she must have heard dozens of times before.

  “Anyway, Mr. Hunter—”

  “It’s Charlie.” Every time someone called me Mr. Hunter I assumed they were talking to my dad. And my dad was very much on my mind right now. “Now, you were going to tell me what you want.” I used a brusque tone to encourage her to get to the point.

  “I’ve been trying to catch you in the casino but you haven’t been in much lately.” She made it sound like an accusation. “At least not when I’ve been on shift.”

  “Sorry, if I’d known I’d have made a point of checking your schedule.”

  She waved my sarcasm aside. “Besides, we’re not supposed to fraternise with the customers. I knew you lived here on your boat. I’ve seen you around. And absolutely everyone knows the Harley is yours. It’s a legend round these parts.”

  I grunted, inwardly conceding that she had a point. All the decorative artwork featuring the devil women that immortalised my early midlife crisis did make it stand out a bit.

  “I didn’t have any way of getting to you.” She grinned. “So when I saw your bike I decided to follow you back, hoping for a quick word when you got here. You know my dad.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Yes, your lot were responsible for banging him up.”

  I drained my glass and stood up. “I can’t talk to you about that,” I said, feeling a moment’s regret. She was surprisingly easy company.

  “No, it’s all right.” She tugged at my arm. There was a desperate look in her eye that persuaded me to resume my seat. “I’m not here to have a go at you. I know you weren’t directly involved. But something’s happened and I need to—”

  “I’m not on the force anymore, Cleo. And even if I was, I couldn’t discuss your dad’s case with you. Take it up with his brief if you have issues.”

  “That useless layabout.” She blew air through her lips and simultaneously attracted the attention of the barmaid, ordering me a refill. “Do you actually remember my dad, Charlie?”

  “Kendall.” I sorted through my memory. “How long ago?”

  “Ten years.”

  “Are we talking Mike Kendall?” I had a nasty feeling about this.

  “That would be him. You did him for the murder of that bookie, Jeff Spelling.”

  “Not me. It wasn’t my case.”

  “You knew about it though. You were around at the time.”

  “It was difficult not to know about it. It was splashed all over the papers for weeks.”

  “Yeah,” she said, grimacing. “And so were we.”

  “Where is he now?”

  She frowned. “Who, Spelling?”

  “No, idiot, your dad.”

  “Oh, he’s in Belmarsh, doing life.” She flapped a well-manicured hand. “If he keeps his nose clean he could be out on probation soon. Overcrowding, you see.”

  I did see. It happened all the time. British justice at its finest. “Okay, so it wasn’t my case and you don’t appear to bear a grudge.” I fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “So what is it that you do want from me?”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  I almost spilled my replenished pint. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I said he didn’t kill that bookie.”

  “But I thought you accepted his guilt.”

  “I never said that. I said I accepted him being inside. There’s a big difference.” She shrugged. “My dad’s a career criminal. He’s been in and out of trouble with the law for as long as I can remember. But violence isn’t his style. He’s actually a very gentle person and a more unlikely murderer it’s difficult to imagine.”

  “You’d be surprised what even the mildest-mannered bloke is capable of when provoked.”

  “I expect you’re right but not in my dad’s case. He didn’t plead guilty this time, if you recall. He’s always put his hand up to his other crimes because he knew it would get him a lighter sentence. But with this, even with all the evidence you had against him, he wouldn’t roll over.” She paused to sip at her water. “And that’s my problem. I want him out of there but when his parole hearing comes up, unless he confesses and expresses remorse, they’ll probably keep him locked up.”

  I didn’t say anything. Instead I dredged up memories of the case in question. As soon as I called it to mind, my own misgivings surfaced.

  “You didn’t think he did it either, did you, Charlie?”

  Was she a mind reader? “Okay, let’s see what I remember about it, which isn’t much. Like I said, I wasn’t on the case.”

 
“Do you want me to tell you?”

  “No, let me work through it first. Your dad was at Spelling’s betting shop the night he was killed. His prints were all over the room behind it, which he used as a private office, and on the baseball bat that was used to stave Spelling’s head in.”

  “So were other, unidentified prints. Besides, he doesn’t deny being there.”

  “He couldn’t. He was caught on CCTV leaving the shop at about the time of the murder.”

  “I know it looks bad, Charlie, but it was a setup.”

  “I remember that Spelling had something to do with a betting scam.”

  “Yes, and my dad was a very small cog in that sophisticated wheel. More of a gofer really. But he was a friend of Jeff Spelling’s, which gave him a good reason to be in and out of his place all the time. Anyway, he got wind that Spelling had fallen for a barmaid and was about to scarper with the takings from fixed dog races at Catford. Dad went round that night to try and talk some sense into him. You just don’t cross the sort of people behind that scam and expect to get away with it.”

  “Who were they then?”

  She shot me a look. “I’d have more sense than to tell you, even if I knew.”

  “So, if Spelling was alive and well when your father left him, how come the real murderer didn’t show up later on CCTV?”

  “Well, that’s partly what got him convicted,” she said, biting her lower lip in evident frustration. “The defence couldn’t produce an alternative culprit. Not that they tried too hard. Anyway, you don’t need me to tell you how easy it is to dodge a camera if you know it’s there.”

  “True, but even so—”

  “Dad says Spelling was fine when he left and I believe him. I always know when he’s telling porkies. His prints were on that bat because he moved it from a chair when he sat down.”

  I must have looked sceptical because she leaned toward me, her expression passionately intent.

  “Jeff Spelling was my dad’s friend, and Dad had nothing to gain from his death. Anyway, it would have been a really risky business, opposing Spelling’s powerful connections by bumping him off, and Dad’s not that stupid.”