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  Hard Return

  Hard Return

  Book 5 in The Amy Lane Mysteries series

  by

  Rosie Claverton

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  HARD RETURN © Rosie Claverton

  ISBN 978-1-912563-03-6

  eISBN 978-1-912563-04-3

  Published in 2018 by Crime Scene Books

  The right of Rosie Claverton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP record of this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book 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 written permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover design by blacksheep-uk.com

  For Faith – by the time you’re old enough to read this, you’ll be too cool for Mummy’s books.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Sarah Williams and everyone at Crime Scene Books for producing a fifth (fifth!) book in the Amy Lane Mysteries, in the same year that saw the whole series in paperback. You are tireless and unceasingly supportive.

  Thank you to Deb Nemeth, my excellent editor, who pointed out that this mystery book was a little too mysterious! You saved us all from suffering through an impenetrable enigma.

  My biggest thank you to my ever-patient husband, who entertained the baby for days and nights and weeks while I actually sat down to write this thing a whole year after I intended to start.

  And thank you to Faith, for the best squeezy hugs and trying to add her own contribution every time she saw Mummy with her laptop. All typos are hers, honest.

  Chapter 1: Behind Bars

  The cell door opened, the thin beam of the torchlight hitting his open eyes. ‘It’s time.’

  Lewis Jones stopped nervously twisting the old analogue watch on his wrist and picked up the anonymous black holdall that contained all his belongings. He stepped into the corridor and obediently followed the single guard down the hallway, the rest of the prison silent and somnolent.

  It felt like his last night on earth.

  Lewis was not going to miss Swansea Prison, but it had become familiar territory. Nothing like home, not comfortable, but somewhere he felt safe to sleep at night. It had been almost four years since he was sent down, a very different man to now – a child, really. A bloke who solved his problems with his fists and his boys around him.

  Yet when his little brother had been murdered, everything had changed. He hadn’t wanted to be that man anymore, didn’t want anything in common with the scum who had done for Damage. When this chance had come up, he’d grabbed at it with both hands. This was the reprieve he had been waiting for, the opportunity to remake his life like his best mate had.

  The same, single guard opened the doors in turn, all other faces in shadow. No goodbyes, no friendly smiles of encouragement. No one wanted to be involved in what was happening that night. No one wanted to know, to be culpable.

  As the door opened onto the outside world, Lewis felt the bite of cold air on his face, the last nights of winter making their presence felt. The waiting prison van stood open and he entered without prompting, knowing this was part of the plan. He hadn’t received a letter confirming the details, but he hadn’t expected one. You didn’t get nicely typed letters for shady operations.

  Lewis felt like he was in video game, like he was either lucky or losing his mind. He’d been headed to an appointment with the chaplain, but he was greeted by an unsmiling man in a suit instead. ‘Do you want the opportunity to start again?’

  After that, he’d barely cared about the details, knowing that any ‘opportunity’ with that kind of reward would take its toll. After he’d signed on the dotted line, the unsmiling man had delivered his verdict: ‘You’re in. Midnight, February 29th – the van will be waiting. Be ready.’

  A lucky day for new beginnings? Or a damned day that would send him down a damned path? Lewis had never been one for superstition, but his mam was a chapel-going, God-fearing woman who refused to believe her one remaining son was beyond salvation. He would do this for her. He would prove himself worthy of her faith in him.

  If Jason Carr could go from ex-con to assistant to some fancy hacker for the National Crime Agency, Lewis could turn his life around too. He and his best friend were alike in so many other ways, from their shaved heads and hard muscle to the Welsh dragons curled up on their right shoulders. To the days of their youth that had forged them into men brave enough to rob the gold exchange shop, and set their lives on the course that had landed them in Her Majesty’s finest hotel for crooks.

  The door to the van closed, plunging him into darkness. They hadn’t bothered to shackle him. He was outside the rules of the prison now, outside the system altogether. His mam would be informed he was on a ‘special rehabilitation programme’, but no more than that. If he was successful, he would have a place in the world again. If he wasn’t...

  Lewis hadn’t asked about failure. He hadn’t wanted to know, to consider the possibility. Anything had to be better than his dull, grey existence in Swansea Prison. The chance at a new beginning was worth any price.

  He sat alone in the dark with only his breath for company, the van swaying gently, the sounds of the motorway surrounding him before fading to nothingness. The occasional low of a cow disturbed the air, but it was otherwise silent beyond the walls of the van. He was travelling into the country, or to the coast. Somewhere out of the way.

  After almost two hours, the van came to a stop. The door opened, floodlights blinding him as he stepped out into the night. Lewis tried to hold his head up, not wanting to squint, to cower. First impressions were important, in prison and entering whatever place this was. He didn’t want to show anyone he was afraid.

  His first impression, beyond the dazzling light, was of a sizeable single-storey concrete building, ugly and grey. From somewhere close-by, he heard sheep calling to each other and he could smell the sharp stench of manure. The area felt enclosed somehow, though he couldn’t see much because of the light. It was deliberate – to intimidate him, to keep him off-balance.

  The next thing he registered were uniformed men around him, the light bleaching their skin whiter than white. One man appeared to be an officer, with two men flanking him in dark, nondescript uniform. Their features were obscured by deep shadows, but they stood like men who could break you without a moment’s hesitation. Lewis knew that kind of man intimately. For a brief period of his life, he had been one of them.

  The prison escort left without a word, shutting up the van and driving away down a gravel track. Lewis thought he caught the edges of trees in the headlights. Where the fuck was he? What was this place?

  ‘Name?’

  The officer scrutinised him, his face giving nothing away, his lean frame still imposing despite Lewis’ build.

  ‘Lewis Jones.’

  He stared back, fighting the urge to draw himself up to his full height and square up to the bloke. He just needed to watch and wait, understand the rules before he started to play.

  Abruptly, two black men came out the door dressed in the same uniform, with a third, ghost-pale man between them. Lewis’ eyes, adjusting to the glare, thought it looked like a dark forest camouflage – but his attention was quickly diverted to the third member of their party. He was naked except for a pair of boxer shorts, soaking wet and shivering.

  Lewis knew him.


  Alby Collins. One of the boys he had run with as a kid, one of the men in his gang when he’d been sent down for armed robbery. In his desperation to distance himself from that past, Lewis had cut all ties with Alby in prison, avoiding him until the man took the hint and left him alone. He hadn’t even noticed he was missing from the crowd at dinner or on the football field.

  The two men shoved Alby down on the ground in front of the officer. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even look at Alby.

  One of the new uniforms broke the silence. ‘He’s a thief.’

  The other nodded, the movement of his dreadlocked head casting strange shadows on the ground. ‘Second offence, sir.’

  The officer nodded.

  They dragged Alby to his feet again and gave him a push. ‘Round the block with you then!’

  Alby’s breath was misting in front of him and he was covered in goosepimples, like a turkey ready for the oven. He stood stock still, as if holding his body rigidly might somehow protect him from the wind stinging his dripping, naked flesh.

  Alby looked up then, eyes searching for someone to help him. Lewis resisted the urge to duck his head, waiting for Alby to meet his eye. He wouldn’t play the coward and deny his friend. Yet a small part of him didn’t want to fuck this up after only a couple of minutes, especially not for Alby Bloody Collins.

  Alby probably had nicked something. Lewis was the one who had trained him to thieve after all, and he was bloody good at it. What he wasn’t good at was discretion. If he’d stolen something of value, he wouldn’t have been able to keep himself from flaunting it. He deserved whatever punishment was coming to him.

  Even death?

  It was hard to judge the temperature when Lewis was just out of a metal box, cocooned in sensible layers against the chill. It wasn’t freezing, but it wasn’t a balmy summer’s evening either. Would Alby get hypothermia from jogging round the block? Was Lewis leaving him to die out here?

  Were these men prepared to take that chance? What rules were there in this place anyway? What happened if a man died out here? Would anyone care?

  Alby saw him. ‘Lewis! Lewis, you wouldn’t let them do this, would you?’

  All eyes were suddenly on him. He felt the officer watching him particularly, as Alby took one staggering step towards him. The man who'd shoved Alby hauled him back and tried again to propel him away from them, away from the bright light and into the darkness.

  ‘Wait!’

  He hadn’t meant to speak. Yet the focus was back on him, as Lewis stumbled forward and unzipped his fleece jacket. He chucked it at Alby’s chest, furious with his friend, and at himself for losing front so quickly. But his fucking conscience wouldn’t let them send Alby out into the night like that.

  ‘Run fucking fast,’ he said, voice harsh even to his ears.

  Years of instinctive obedience kicked in and Alby ran, not even stopping to put on the jacket, swiftly disappearing into the inky blackness beyond the floodlights.

  Someone grabbed at his T-shirt, but Lewis stuck his palm flat against the man’s chest, holding him away. The dreadlocked man held him fast.

  ‘You ain’t been here five minutes and you’re already interfering. It won’t go well for you.’

  Lewis didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared down the bloke until he released his shirt.

  ‘I don’t make the rules here.’ The officer spoke with an accent from deep within the heart of England. ‘You make them, you play by them.’

  He fixed Lewis with his dark eyes, the rest of his face completely in shadow.

  ‘You live by them. You die by them.’

  Chapter 2: Three’s Company

  Jason was sick of the sight of Owain Jenkins.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ he ground out through his teeth.

  Owain didn’t even look up from his laptop, just shaking his head and continuing to type. The man might’ve once been Jason’s friend, but now he was a thorn in his side whose niggling presence was driving Jason closer and closer to losing his cool.

  ‘I’ll just make breakfast then,’ he said, retreating to the kitchenette at the back of the living area of the flat.

  It was bad enough that he had to share space with Owain, day in and day out. That he’d been forced to give up his bedroom to the snooping bastard as part of their deal. No, worse than that was Owain’s systematic destruction of his relationship with Amy.

  When Jason had signed on as assistant to altruistic hacker Amy Lane, he had felt sorry for her. He’d seen a skinny nerd who never left the house and lived through her computer, and he’d thought she needed someone to take care of her. He’d never imagined that he’d find someone with a quietly dark sense of humour, a creative and curious mind, and a ruthless dedication to seeking justice. A person who didn’t care about his past in a prison cell, and honestly believed he could make something of himself.

  He’d never imagined he would fall in love with her.

  Jason scowled to himself as he threw some eggs in the pan, with onions, mushrooms and chorizo. Protein and vegetables, first thing in the morning, was the appropriate start to the day. He would do his job to the best of ability – what was left of it, anyway.

  They’d come close to being something more than friends. Amy had finished her mental health treatment programme, at the insistence of the Ministry of Justice, and then moved into their new flat, ready to start her job as a white hat hacker for the National Crime Agency. They had been full of enthusiasm, ready to embrace this new life together, whatever it might bring.

  Except Frieda Haas had to ruin it. The manipulative bitch had diverted Amy from prison to work for her and she had one caveat to her generosity: Owain Jenkins would be Amy’s 24/7 minder.

  The same Owain Jenkins who’d betrayed them all to Frieda in the first place, as a lowly detective sergeant with South Wales Police. Now living in their fucking flat all the fucking time. They’d both thought it was a temporary measure, just until Frieda learned to trust them. Over a year later, Owain was still haunting them like a ghost who just couldn’t be exorcised.

  Amy was effectively under house arrest. When Owain disappeared on the weekend, a man in a dark suit sat in a dark car across the street and watched the block of flats. Amy was certain the flat had been bugged and, without the equipment to check, they continued their lives in the same stilted, awkward way, as if Owain was still sitting in their living room.

  Jason set the kettle boiling for their morning caffeine and poked his head into the corridor to listen for sounds of Amy. The shower was running, which meant she’d only snoozed her alarm twice. He didn’t miss the days of dragging her out of bed and trying to keep her nourished despite her apathy, but he did feel increasingly like a spare part. He’d even started working part-time at Dylan’s garage, since his mate had decided to go 100% legit.

  As he poured out the water, Amy entered the room and perched at the breakfast bar. He served up her omelette with fresh toast and her morning coffee, acknowledging her grunt with a small smile. She was always non-verbal before breakfast.

  Owain sat next to her at the breakfast bar, where Jason grudgingly served him toast.

  ‘Frieda has a new assignment for you.’

  Jason took his own breakfast to the futon, his bed restored to its day state, and watched the news on mute. Owain talked at her for a few minutes, something about an auction site for stolen goods and stolen people. He wanted her to create a plausible way in, and then hand it over to a specialist agent to utilise.

  It always boiled down to the same thing – ‘make an agent’s life easier’, as if she was a tech-savvy PA who only existed to provide evidence or a password or a cover identity. No detective work of her own, no role for Jason in a wider investigation. Only ever pieces of the puzzle and never the bigger picture.

  When Owain had given his briefing, he moved away from the breakfast bar and retreat
ed to his place on the sofa. Jason stuffed the last piece of toast in his mouth and pointedly returned to the kitchen, unable to bear being near Owain for even a few seconds.

  Amy had finished her omelette and drained her coffee. She looked up at Jason, the bleached streak in her newly-bobbed hair still holding a faint hint of lilac. He remembered the greasy mess of her mousy hair when they’d first met, the faded T-shirts, the fragility of her frame. Now she was slightly curved where she had been slight, her nerd finery giving way to loose tops in neutral colours. Her hair styled with a blowdryer and straighteners and regular trips to the hairdresser.

  Jason was exactly the same, from his scuffed work boots to his worn leather jacket, his vintage Harley Davidson to his twice-weekly suppers round his mam’s. While everything was shifting and changing around him, he was desperately trying to hold on to what remained of the familiar past. When Amy had felt close to him. When she had needed him.

  It was selfish to wish for that. When he had first met Amy, she had been ill. Withdrawn and depressed and unable to open the door. He couldn’t wish for a return to that, no matter how much he wanted to feel useful again. Wanted to feel wanted.

  Something nudged at his hand. ‘I’m done.’

  Her coffee cup was pressed against his skin, still-warm china denting his calloused fingers. And beneath the pad of his thumb, something strange – a thin edge, a slight curl up into the whorls of his fingerprint. A scrap of paper.

  Jason picked up the mug, careful to trap the paper against the side, and took it over to the sink. He passed the mug deftly into his left hand and shoved the paper into his jeans pocket, resisting the urge to look at it. Methodically washing up from breakfast, he muttered something about bread and milk, before grabbing a carrier bag and heading for the door.

  It was only in the relative security of the corner shop, between the tinned veg and the plastic cheese, that he dared to unfold the tiny note. The writing was hurried scratches of thin black ink, a list of unfamiliar words, letters and numbers. What the hell was ‘16GB DDR4’, or ‘AX 860’?