Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

is Luke doing with these? Another one displays Pete the Prick in a dark room. Is that a male or a female he’s with? I’m not sure. All I can say is, it is certainly not Penelope.

I lay the photos out side by side on the carpet like pieces of a jigsaw begging to form a picture, tell a story. There’s only one certainty here, though. It isn’t going to be a charming one.

What has Luke been up to?

I slip my phone out of my pocket and click on the camera, taking snapshots of all twelve of the images. As I get to the last one, I hear a car pull up and a door slam.

Art must be back.

Hurriedly, I return the photos to where I found them. As I’m replacing the book on the shelf, my elbow overturns the wire bin. Neatly folded bits of paper, Amazon cardboard wrapping, and a crisp packet spill out. As I place them back in, two tiny pieces of green paper fall from the crisp packet onto the carpet. I turn the packet upside down and shake it. More green pieces fall out, orange ones also. They look like pieces of torn-up Post-it notes. I shake the crisp packet some more. Wafts of salt and vinegar hit me. Checking the bag is empty, I gather the tiny pieces and slip them into my jeans pocket along with my phone and head for the stairs.

The front door opens, and bangs shut. Art’s voice bellows out. ‘Annie, I need you.’ As he bounds up the stairs. I hear him mutter, ‘What’re those bloody women still doing here?’

My heart pounds. I sidestep into the nearest room and dart behind the door. Piles of clothes and discarded polythene garment covers are strewn over a sofa beside a sewing machine. Dresses on hangers line the curtain pole. It must be Annie’s workroom where she carries out minor repairs and alterations. The smell of lavender is powerful in this room, more so than the rest of the house, but I’m far from relaxed.

Art heads up the hallway, mumbling something about Luke. My heart hammers, drumming in my ears. I’m sure he must be able to hear it. I stare through the crack in the door. It appears he’s looking straight at me. My heart beats even faster. He comes closer. A phone rings. Stopping to pat his jacket, he removes his mobile from the breast pocket and thumbs the screen. He glances up. I turn away, not daring to look anymore.

‘Reg!’ he bellows.

Silence follows. I force myself to peep through the crack of the door again as his voice fades.

‘Where are you?’ He hisses, leaning on the bannister. ‘Get down to the gym straight away. Shit has hit the fan.’

He turns and comes towards me, shoving the door I’m hiding behind. I press myself against the wall to stop it smashing into me. Taking a deep breath, I hold it in. He enters the room and heads straight to a stack of floral storage boxes in the corner. I can see him in the reflection from the mirrored wardrobe on the opposite wall. I will him not to turn the light on.

He muscles the boxes aside. With his passage clear, he kneels and pulls up a section of carpet. Metal creaking follows a clicking sound. He removes some packages. What’s in them? Money, drugs? Damn, I can’t see. Both? He marches towards the wardrobe. Still swearing, he slides open one of the doors. It is jam-packed with clothes wrapped in plastic and on the floor a vast selection of designer handbags and shoes. He pulls out a holdall from the top shelf, stashing the bundles inside. I silently beg him not to look around. My heart is beating so fast, I can hardly breathe. He removes something from what looks like a clutch bag and slips it in the holdall. Is that a gun? Sliding the door closed with a crash, he returns to the corner, slams the safe shut and replaces the carpet with haste.

Annie appears. The gin slurs her words. ‘What’s going on?’

He grabs the biggest floral box and shoves it to cover the safe in the floor. ‘We’re in real trouble. We need to get this out of here.’ He waves the holdall in her face. ‘That bloody JJ Harper. He’s got a lot to answer for. He’s dead meat.’

JJ Harper? Harper? Have we found our Jason Harper?

He pushes her out of the room. ‘I could’ve done without you getting pissed tonight.’ They argue all the way down the stairs. I hold my breath, straining to hear their heated exchange but can’t figure out what has happened to cause such a commotion.

When the front door crashes shut, I wait for Annie to return to the kitchen and my heart to return to a reasonable beat. I need to get Sasha out of here now. Returning downstairs, I hear them arguing and walk into the kitchen to witness Sasha strike Annie across the face with a cold hard slap. I wince. That was one almighty strike.

Annie’s hand flies to her cheek as a disbelieving gasp gapes her mouth wide. ‘What was that for?’

‘For your son,’ Sasha bellows.

‘But you don’t know what’s happened,’ Annie says. She retaliates, and it isn’t pretty. She possesses more strength than she realises, and her counter-attack unbalances her opponent. Sasha steps backwards, trying to steady herself against a chair, but loses her footing and falls into the breakfast bar. Balancing herself, she rushes towards Annie. They start scrapping like teenagers fighting over a boy. Hair is pulled and faces scratched. I can’t believe the performance before me. Sasha gets hold of Annie’s shirt and scrunches it up in her fist, shaking her backwards and forwards. Annie slaps her. They won’t stop. Like boxers in a ring, they both seem hell-bent on throwing the winning blow. I knew neither of them should have touched that gin.

I attempt to break up their undignified scuffle. ‘Cut