Never Coming Home

First published 2012 by Choc Lit Limited

Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

www.choclitpublishing.com

The right of Evonne Wareham to be identified as the Author of this Work has
 
been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the
 
public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90
 
Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library

ISBN-978-1-906931-70-4

Acknowledgements

A lot of people have helped with this book. First and foremost – my Choc-Lit Tasting Panel Readers. Did you know you’ve changed my life? Thank you. The whole team at Choc-Lit, who get the show on the road, and keep it there, and still find time to eat chocolate, and my fellow Choc-Lit authors, who have made me so welcome. The Romantic Novelists’ Association, particularly the organisers and readers of the New Writers’ Scheme, who have critiqued, encouraged and knocked the corners off manuscripts, and got me where I am today. The
RT Book Reviews Magazine
and Dorchester Publishing – their American Title contest brought
Never Coming Home
into being. On the technical side, Nigel Hodge shared his expertise on forensics. I hope I’ve done his help justice, within the confines of telling a story. Any errors are down to me. Family and friends and colleagues have supported me, and the book, on the way to publication. Thank you all.

Prologue

October 4th

He wasn’t meant to be there.

Not on that road, at that time, on that day – but the job in Atlanta had fallen apart, the client was screaming and someone had to sort out the mess.

Sometimes owning the company sucked.

Once he’d cleaned the brown stuff off the fan – and the walls and the floor – any sensible man would have taken the next plane out.

Except Devlin hated to fly.

Driving – well – that was something else. He’d take the plane in the end, but he could afford an hour or two on the road first. And right now
 
–

Right now the sun was going down, with a lot of bright, hot colour. Dusk and the empty highway ahead, and the Boss on the radio, keening about bad desire.

He could take the time, if he wanted.

Sometimes owning the company wasn’t so bad.

He almost drove past it.

There wasn’t much to see. Some rubber on the road, a few broken bushes. Something – that weird sixth sense, that had saved his ass more times than he ever wanted to think about – made him pull over. Just to take a look.

Then he was scrambling through the bushes and down the gritty slope, feet sliding on loose shale, towards the car.

It was a beat-up black Chevy. On its back, wheels in the air. Like an upturned bug.

The briefest look at the woman behind the wheel, dangling grotesquely from the still-fastened seatbelt, told him she was beyond anything but prayer.

All Devlin’s attention was on the other side of the car.

In the scrubby dust beside a rock, lit by the dying rays of the sun, was another victim.

This one was still moving.

5th October

Kaz Elmore had the corkscrew in her hand when the doorbell rang. She let out a low-pitched groan. It had been a long day. With no pressing need to get home, she’d lingered on-site, then found herself driving across London at the height of the rush hour. Her back was aching and her skin prickling from the unexpected afternoon sun.

There was a full bath upstairs, with her name on it. The fragrance of lavender bath oil drifted through the house. Only the sudden impulse for a glass of wine, to drink while she soaked, had brought her back down. She could already taste it – cool and slightly tart, condensation beading the rim of the glass
 
…
Grrr!
Opportunities for self-indulgence didn’t come by that often. She was trying to make the most of this one. If she was allowed to!

Her mouth twisted in a rueful grin. Five minutes more and she could have ignored whoever was standing on the step, finger pressed to the bell. Now, silhouetted by the kitchen light, she was clearly visible through the glass.

‘If you’re selling double glazing, mate, I know
exactly
where I’m going to bury the body.’

Kaz padded along the hall. A pile of mail was stacked, unopened, on the side table. Her eyes skittered towards it. She’d leafed through it already. There was nothing there. It was much too soon to expect a postcard, even if Jeff
 
… The doorbell pealed again.

‘Hold on!’ Flipping the catch, she eased the door open a crack, peering through the gap. ‘Uncle Phil!’ Annoyance forgotten, she unhooked the chain and threw open the door. ‘Hi! This
is
a surprise. I was opening a bottle of wine, or are you still on duty? Come in.’

Kaz was half-way down the hall before she realised her uncle wasn’t following.

‘What?’ She turned towards him, a sudden tightness in her chest. His face was bleak. His official face, eyes flat. Her stomach lurched. ‘What is it?’

‘There’s no easy way to tell you this, love. It’s bad news. The worst.’

Chapter One

‘You know, Dev, you don’t have to do this.’ Bobby Hoag leaned on the doorjamb of his partner’s office. Devlin was tossing files into drawers and packing his laptop into its travel case. ‘Have you thought about it?’ Bobby persisted. Behind him the reception area was deserted, the lights dim. An open window wafted the smoke from Bobby’s cigarette into the rainy Chicago night. ‘It’s been more than six months. By now these people will have settled, put it behind them. And you’re going to rake it all up again?’

That got Devlin’s attention. He looked up, scowling.

‘Would you ever put something like that behind you?’

‘Well – no,’ Bobby admitted. ‘But even so – if no one has got in touch, in all this time
 
–’

‘I’ve thought about this, Bobby.’ Devlin zipped the slim travel case and propped himself against the desk, folding his arms. ‘Christ, it’s not something I want to do. Maybe I won’t, when it comes down to it. This trip is about work, first and foremost. It just happens to be London, and the woman is in London.’

‘Cheyne Walk, Chelsea – you’re not the only one round here who can use the Internet.’ Bobby answered the raised eyebrows. ‘Classy address?’

‘One of the best – which makes the whole thing
 
…’ Devlin shrugged.

‘Curiosity.’ Bobby’s face opened up in relief. ‘Now
that
I can understand.’

‘Don’t worry, mate, I’m not going soft on you.’ Devlin picked up the case. ‘Maybe I’ll still decide not to bother the lady.’ He shrugged. ‘In six months, she hasn’t bothered me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go.’ He pointed a finger. ‘Hold the fort. Stay away from fast women and slow horses. Don’t let anyone pay us in nine-dollar bills.’

‘Hah!’ Bobby snickered. ‘I wasn’t the one who got scammed into taking those shares in a diamond mine.’

‘You can laugh buddy – if that mine ever comes good, I’m gonna be up to my ass in pretty wimen. Pretty wimen
love
diamonds.’

Devlin settled grudgingly into his seat. He’d been prowling the aisle of the plane until one of the exasperated stewardesses, perky blonde, with dimples, had suggested he might like to stretch out and relax. He’d given in, but only because of the dimples.

It wasn’t the flying that got him. It was the whole business of putting himself in someone else’s hands. The airport thing, trapped in ever-lengthening limbo between check-in and actually boarding the damn aeroplane, and then the plane itself. Someone else had to drive it, and that bugged him. For all he knew, there was a bunch of assholes up there in the cockpit, playing strip poker, while this high-tech piece of scrap metal flew itself into the handiest mountain.

He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and accepted a mineral water from the flight attendant. She was watching him warily. Probably wouldn’t have served him whisky, even if he’d wanted it. So – yeah – he was a control freak. With attitude. The hell with it. It had kept him alive for thirty-six years. With concentration he relaxed his limbs, focusing on the end of the journey. The job he had come to finish was no problem. It was the other thing. Was he going to find this Katarina Elmore or not?

Now that was the question.

He was no nearer an answer when the taxi pulled in to a quiet street, off Park Lane, and set him down. The hotel was discreet and comfortable, his two major requirements these days. It was also expensive. Money hadn’t been an issue for a year or so, but in this case the client was paying. Probably a trade-off against tax, or something. Devlin didn’t know and didn’t care. He didn’t do money on a corporate scale. Left all that to Bobby, who was sharp, reasonably honest and keen to stay attached to his balls. They went back a long way, him and Bobby.

Devlin sighed. These days Bobby also dealt with corporate relations. He set up the deals. Devlin got wheeled out to add gravitas, once the contract was ready to sign – and handled the bulk of the hands-on stuff. To each his strengths. It hadn’t always been that way. They’d watched each other’s backs, out in the field. But that was a different life. Another place, another time. His name hadn’t been Devlin then. And Bobby hadn’t been Bobby. When you dropped out of that world, everything changed.

He checked in, emptied his bag, rang the client and arranged to meet the next day. It was nearly six. Lunch time in Chicago. He’d slept on the plane – nothing much else to do. He wasn’t going to want his bed for a while. So – he could have an early dinner and reacquaint himself with English TV on the set in his room. He could do a show, or find a club with cold beer and hot women. He still remembered a few of those. He could just go for a walk. He rang down to reception. ‘Can somebody call me a cab? Yeah – Cheyne Walk.’

The house was in a kind of mews, not directly on the river. Compact, made of old brick. It was a world away from the backstreets of Hackney where he’d grown up. That was an even longer time ago. Yet another name, and another life. He frowned. He didn’t need stuff like that surfacing. He was American, nowadays – it said so on his passport.

He’d asked the cab to drop him on the opposite side of the road. Reconnaissance. Even now he didn’t have to knock on that neat, blank front door. Bobby’s words echoed. He would be stirring up something that maybe was better left. She’d made no attempt to contact him.