Chapter 61

 

Joey opened his eyes and it took a second for him to become accustomed to where he actually was. He’d been dreaming about the gallery and April cleaning the toilets. God, she’d been convincing as Gemma the cleaner, and he’d fancied her rotten in that tight little uniform.

His head was thumping.

Fuck, how much had they drunk last night?

He reached an arm out for April, but the bed was empty. He’d really missed her. He’d vowed that he was going to wake up every morning from now on, with her by his side. He’d speak to her about that. He didn’t want her getting up before him. He was determined that each morning when he opened his eyes, she was the first person he saw.

Christ, his head hurt.

He must have slept solidly not to have heard her get out of bed. He could hear the shower running and would love to join her, but needed to gather himself a bit first. The roof of his mouth was dry and his breath smelt sour. He licked his dry lips.

He reached for his watch, surprised to see it was ten o’clock. He sat on the edge of the bed and felt woozy.

What the hell had they had?

He waited for a few seconds before heading across the room to the fridge for a bottle of water. He unscrewed the top and glugged nearly the full bottle. The movement of tilting his head backwards made it throb even more than it was already. He grabbed the unit to steady himself as a wave of dizziness rushed over him.

 

April had opened the patio doors and the sea was crashing only a few metres away. He’d have a dip in there later once he’d eaten and hopefully cleared his head. No more alcohol today though, better give that a rest. He slowly finished the water, gently titling his head this time.

The view was spectacular. He took a few paces to stand on the patio and gazed at the cruise ships in the distance with the passengers herding off and into the smaller boats taking them to shore. St Maarten was paradise for duty-free shopping.

They’d decided to have a few days there and then would be moving on. He wanted to spend some time with April as they’d been so long apart. The sex between them last night had been amazing. How many times had they fucked? He couldn’t remember much, only flashbacks to various positions. It was almost as if he’d blacked out.

What a remarkable woman she was. They’d met at work, he was a police sergeant, and April had been assigned to him as a mentor as he was under review by the Independent Complaints Commission. They’d launched an investigation into a whole bunch of them for supposedly taking back-handers. Instead of being suspended on full-pay while they concluded on the investigation, the force had introduced a new regime where any officer under investigation was not suspended, but allowed to work under supervision until it was concluded. The writing was on the wall, though. He knew he would lose his job.

He’d been attracted to April from the beginning. At first they were just casual, fuck buddies, but their relationship developed at a fast pace. Not in work. There they had to behave professionally, and did that very well. Nobody suspected they were an item.

He was bitterly disillusioned with the Force and dreamt of owning some land and working for himself. He’d been brought up in the country and after the cut and thrust of the Met, he yearned for life at a slower pace.

As the internal investigation had progressed, April confirmed it was highly likely he was going to be sacked, and it was by chance she spotted an advertisement for a security officer at the Carson Rider gallery. She teasingly said he ought to apply for it – it was one way of getting out of the police force before he was pushed.

They’d joked he was over-qualified to be a security guard, and messed about online producing a CV which indicated he’d spent some time in the police force, but they were creative about him being disillusioned with it and had fled to the country and joined his parents on their farm where he’d worked for five years. Coincidentally, during this period, April had been part of a team looking at the Rider brothers and their possible involvement in the theft of paintings.

The light-hearted application turned into reality and he applied for a job at the gallery. Although it was half the money he was earning in the Met, it was a means to an end. He was likely to be dismissed from the force anyway; it seemed only a question of time. His reasoning was, if he got the job and did it for a while, then he could use them as a reference for another position. April, as a senior officer, gave him the reference to say he’d previously worked in the Met, but had left five years earlier.

Dylan Rider and Ingrid had interviewed him and offered him the job. Seemingly the insurance companies preferred security guards with a background in policing.

The job worked out well as he became quite useful to April keeping her informed about the gallery, which she used at work to push the investigation into the Rider brothers further. Eventually, a covert operation had been facilitated by the Met in conjunction with the insurance company, to carry out an undercover operation at the gallery. For it to be authentic and subject to scrutiny, it was necessary for April to spend three months in the open prison. During that period of time, he hated not being able to see her or hear her voice. He missed her. But he always knew they’d get to this point. Nothing was more certain with her at the helm. She was a master at planning.

Once the covert operation began, he watched her regularly, always when she was meeting Paddy in the park and on a couple of other occasions. He liked to feel close to her. He was sure she would know he was out there watching. Not much got past April.

Each evening at the gallery he saw her, and on the occasions they met as a threesome at the pub with Rachel, he savoured being close to her even though he couldn’t be familiar with her. Nobody suspected a thing. She’d insisted on virtually no communication between the two of them, not even texting until right near the end.

On the day April was supposed to be moving the painting, they needed a distraction so they could still move the painting to France, but just a different way. Taking the technician, the tailing car, and the Rider brothers out of the equation, gave them time. The fake police officers were a master stroke. While that was going on, he’d collected the van around the corner from April’s flat where she’d parked it and conveniently left the van keys in her mail box. He’d driven the van to Portsmouth and across to Le Havre where he offloaded it to the original buyer. All the paperwork was in order, they’d just cut the Rider brothers out, perfectly. The painting was stolen anyway, so the hard work had been done for them. The buyer didn’t care how he got the Portillo, as long as he did. And he’d paid handsomely for the privilege.

Joey thought about April and how she’d masterminded the whole plan. She was incredibly astute. What a future to look forward to with her in it. If he didn’t know in the beginning he was in love with her, he did now. The thought of spending the rest of his life together with enough money to enable them to do whatever they liked, gave him a huge adrenaline rush. And, headache or no headache, he wanted her again.

He tapped on the bathroom door, “Coming in, ready or not.”

She didn’t answer. He tried the door, but it was locked.

Christ, she’d been in a long time.

“April, are you okay?”

No answer.

He shook the handle. “Let me in, April.”

Still no answer.

Something was wrong.

Fuck, how long had she been in there?

The lock was a disabled one which could easily be turned from the outside. He quickly used his thumb nail to open it. The bathroom was full of steam and it took a second for his eyes to become accustomed to the fog in front of him.

The hot water was running in the shower, but the cubicle was empty.

The bathroom was empty. April wasn’t there.

His blood pressure plummeted. He felt light-headed. His chest tightened.

She’d gone. And he knew with absolute certainty, the money had gone also.

His stomach heaved.

He screwed his face up as he recalled her sending for champagne and him telling her not to bother as it was almost morning. But she’d insisted. She must have drugged him.

He turned the shower off and rubbed his throbbing temple.

Fool.

It had been him that had taken all the risks and moved the painting. It had been him that had sold it on. All for what? Here he was, standing alone in a bathroom with no painting, no money, no nothing.

And she’d got the lot.

How had he not seen it coming?

His brain went into over-drive. She’d masterminded it all from the very beginning. His job at the gallery. The undercover operation. Paddy Frodsham. Dylan Rider. They’d all fallen for it, hook, line and sinker . . . she’d made fools of all of them, him being the biggest fool of all.

 

 

 

THE END