The Runaway In Love (The Runaway Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  The Runaway In Love

  Helen Bright

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Helen Bright

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 978-1-912426-12-6

  Disclaimer

  Both this story and the characters within are fictitious. Any names of people and businesses used are a product of the author’s imagination. Therefore, any similarities are purely coincidental.

  Contents

  1. Tess

  2. Kolya

  3. Kolya

  4. Tess

  5. Kolya

  6. Kolya

  7. Kolya

  8. Kolya

  9. Tess

  10. Kolya

  11. Kolya

  12. Kolya

  13. Kolya

  14. Kolya

  15. Kolya

  16. Tess

  17. Kolya

  18. Tess

  19. Tess

  20. Tess

  21. Kolya

  22. Tess

  23. Tess

  24. Kolya

  25. Tess

  26. Tess

  27. Tess

  28. Tess

  29. Kolya

  30. Tess

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  Also by Helen Bright

  About the Author

  1

  Tess

  I’m not sure why I found Detective Constables Dickson and Twain—aka Dickhead and Twatface—so irritating today. Maybe it’s because my period was due and I was over-tired? Or maybe it was the fact that I’d been in this interview room for hours, answering the same questions over and over. The same bloody questions I’d been answering for the last three days.

  They both wore a smug smirk which they teamed with a regular eye roll. Up until today, I’d kept my cool; the presence of Oliver Ward-Jones, my solicitor, being a calming influence. But now, with my period due and a severe lack of chocolate breaks, my anger had reached boiling point.

  I knew that Oliver could sense how wound up I was; he kept placing his hand on my arm whenever I raised my voice to the imbeciles. Honestly, I thought you had to be clever to join the police force, but it seems selective hearing was the only requirement when these two joined up.

  Yesterday morning I’d been approached by a female officer while we waited for Dickhead and Twatface to arrive. PC Foster was lovely. She listened and didn’t act like I was some sort of criminal. She was one of the officers who’d been in the police car that had first pulled up at The Willows. I could have spoken to her that day and maybe they’d have found Sarah sooner. But then the idiots in front of me now had shown up and I knew that telling them anything would have been pointless. Besides, from the information that Kolya had gathered, Sarah was already dead: she’d been killed the day before. But for obvious reasons, I couldn’t reveal I knew that.

  When the detectives came to collect me for my interview/blame hurling, Kolya had spoken to PC Foster. At her suggestion, and with the advice of Oliver’s colleague, he’d arranged a meeting with the chief inspector in charge of this force. He was going to make a formal complaint to sit alongside the one that I’d made with regards to the eye-rolling bastards in front of me.

  As well as all the accusations of being involved in Sarah’s disappearance and subsequent murder, I’d also been accused of prostitution. Not only pimping myself out to the men that Sarah and Beth had been involved with, but also to Kolya—my husband of only four days. Oliver had raised all sorts of arguments and objections and insisted we take a break, but I’d heard it all before and it didn’t really bother me this time.

  Kolya, however, was furious, and I’m sure the chief inspector will be getting the full force of my angry husband right now.

  My husband… It seems so strange to say that. I have a husband. A handsome, mega-wealthy, powerful man, who creates and sells weapons; who has a son older than I am. A man that can’t leave his home without his bodyguards.

  The man who I was shot protecting.

  The police had wanted to know how I met my husband—something else I wasn’t allowed to reveal. We’d discussed at length exactly what I could and could not tell the police regarding my life after I left The Willows. Oliver suggested we say that Kolya spotted me standing in the doorway of his office building; he saw my clothes were wet from the rain and I was shivering. So, in an act of kindness, he offered to buy me new clothes and a hot meal. I told the detectives we clicked over dinner and fell in love right there and then. It was a lovely romantic story and one I wish were true. But sadly, our first meeting was filled with chaos, bullets, and pain.

  The police also accused me of being racist. It seemed that Hassan had been spouting all sorts of shit about me calling him a Paki—along with other girls whom he, Tariq and Farid had targeted. They told me they treated racism as a very serious matter. I laughed in their faces before replying, “It’s a shame you didn’t treat the sexual assault of a minor as a serious matter. My best friend would still be alive if you had.”

  The worst point in the interviews happened late yesterday afternoon, when they revealed some truly horrific photographs.

  I was heartbroken, angry, and physically sick when I saw what was left of my beautiful foster sister in that grassy marsh. I’ve seen police shows on TV where they reveal photos of long-dead victims, but nothing could have prepared me for the images of what remained of her decomposing corpse. Oliver had called a halt to the interview after that. I ran out of the room into Kolya’s waiting arms, sobbing hysterically.

  I’d become aware of a commotion, and when I turned around, Ivan had pinned Detective Dickhead against the wall and threatened bodily harm. Because of that, Ivan isn’t allowed at the station anymore. The detective was going to press charges but there was only his say-so regarding what happened. Neither Kolya, his guards, or either of the solicitors had seen anything…apparently. And for some reason, none of the station’s CCTV cameras had been working since I began my interviews.

  I’d sat up all last night with the light on being comforted by Kolya. Every time I closed my eyes those images had come back to haunt me. I wondered how long it would take for the memory of them to fade and be replaced by ones of a happier time.

  “I asked you a question, Mrs Barinov, and I would appreciate an answer.” Detective Twatface tapped his pencil against the writing pad he’d brought in to make him look professional or like he gave a shit.

  I was about to ask Oliver to repeat the question when Dickhead added, “It’s obvious you don’t think this is important. You weren’t even listening.”

  “Looks like you were contagious then, guys. After all, you’ve done nothing but ignore what I’ve said for days. I’d call at the pharmacy on your way home to see if they can give you anything for it. And while you’re there, ask them if there’s a cure for being complete and utter wankers. Personally, I think you’re both too far gone for that kind of miracle. But you’ll never know unless you ask.” I finished with a wink and a smile then stood.

  “I suggest you sit down, Mrs Barinov. We’re not done with you yet.” Dickhead now had an extremely red face—one that I was about to make a snide remark about until Oliver stopped me.

  “Detectives, my client has been nothing but co-operative with both yourselves and PC Foster since the interviews began. However, due to the constant disrespect you have shown her, coupled with the accusations regarding her r
ecent marriage, it’s no wonder she has become so angry and upset. My client has suffered the devastating loss of her best friend—her foster sister—yet you have treated her worse than most criminals. Why? Throughout each of the interviews I’ve tried to figure out why you’ve so much bitterness towards Mrs Barinov. The only time you’ve ever had dealings with her is when she’s been the victim of a terrible crime. Do you treat all victims this way? I find it utterly deplorable. Therefore, I’ll be making several complaints against both of you in the handling of these interviews, and make no mistake, I am not a man you can easily ignore. So I suggest you terminate this session forthwith. The time is now sixteen forty-four, in case you were wondering.”

  Twatface huffed and puffed a little before muttering, “Interview terminated, sixteen forty-four.”

  “We’ll pick this up again tomorrow,” Dickhead added.

  “No, you won’t,” Oliver replied. “Mrs Barinov has a meeting with PC Foster at eleven o’clock, and as soon as that meeting has ended, she’ll be leaving for her home in Oxford. If you have any further questions I suggest you make arrangements to visit with her there, at her convenience.”

  As we turned to leave, Oliver placed his hand at the bottom of my back and ushered me out of the small, dull room.

  Franco stood guard outside the door and took out his phone to call Kolya when he saw us.

  The interview rooms were in a cool, windowless corridor, but as soon as we were let out into the main waiting room, the heat from the sun as it shone through the windows hit us hard. I automatically shaded my eyes with my hand when the outer door opened, so I didn’t see Kolya at first, but I’d know those strong, comforting arms and the familiar manly smell anywhere.

  “How are you, my darling?” His pale blue eyes took in my appearance as he pulled me in for a hug.

  “I’m tired and cranky, Kolya, and I need chocolate and ice cream. Can we call somewhere on the way back to Jean’s?”

  “Of course, my love. Whatever you want. Though I must insist you ring Ivan as soon as possible. He’s called every twenty minutes to see how you are.”

  “I bet he’s driving Jean crazy,” I mused.

  “On the contrary. I do believe she’s had him doing a spot of DIY. He was up a ladder the last time we spoke.”

  We’d been staying with Jean at her house since we’d left Scotland. As there were seven of us in her three-bedroom, two-bathroom property, we had to get a little creative with the sleeping and bathroom arrangements. Kolya and I stayed in the room that Sarah and I used to share; Franco and Lucas shared the spare room; Ivan slept on the sofa bed in the living room, while Jonesy and Nate slept in the neighbour’s caravan, which was parked on Jean’s driveway. We could have gone to a hotel like Oliver and his associate, but I’d wanted to stay with Jean.

  It felt good to be back again, but seeing our old room had made me cry—remembering the fun times we’d had when we played music and sat up all night talking about insignificant stuff. It seemed so important at the time.

  Though we shared a room at The Willows, it was never the same there as it was when we’d lived with Jean.

  2

  Kolya

  I was glad to be done with this poor excuse for a police station. On the first day of the interviews, my guards and I had stayed all day in the waiting room. Although it appeared clean, there were strong scents of both urine and bleach, and there was chewing gum stuck to the undersides of the wooden bench seats. Names had been scratched into the yellowed pine and there were drawings of male appendages which varied in length and girth. I noted, from the artwork, that Dave woz ere 15/2/2012, and Andy G was a grass.

  The officer on the desk had tried to get us to leave the waiting area, and he ignored my request to speak with someone with higher authority. Oliver’s associate, John Farrow, had suggested I request to speak with the chief inspector. He thought my financial status might help influence the way we were treated while waiting and could, in turn, keep us more involved in how the investigation was progressing. Considering my involvement in the death of Farid Ali, that wasn’t a bad idea. Unfortunately, the chief inspector was on holiday and wasn’t due back at the station until today, so we could do nothing but wait while my wife was subjected to hours of unnecessary questioning and harassment.

  On our second day here we were approached by an officer named Karen Foster, who also recommended that I speak with the elusive chief. PC Foster managed to pull some strings and get us an appointment with him on his return this morning. The meeting proved less than helpful at first, with the man insisting both he and his officers had handled every aspect of Sarah’s murder investigation by the book.

  The solicitor beside me began to reveal page after page of ways in which the officers, and the force itself, could have handled things more efficiently. He also pointed to a lack of consideration and respect for both victims and witnesses. This information came from PC Foster in a meeting she’d had with Oliver and John at their hotel last night. It appeared Karen Foster and a number of her colleagues were frustrated with the way the case had been handled by certain officers, and upper management. Of course, we couldn’t reveal where the information came from, but there was enough in the paperwork that John spread out on Chief Inspector Carrick’s desk to make him sit up and take notice.

  When I told him I’d enough contacts in both the media, and UK government, to take the information and complaints to a much higher level—Carrick’s demeanour began to change.

  I’ve never played the “do you know who I am” card before. There are few in politics, the armed forces, and the financial sector, who have not heard of KOLCAT, though hardly any know me personally. This man was most certainly not aware of me. So I left him with a parting gift: my name, company name, the name of the Secretary of State for Defence—who would be more than willing to speak on my behalf—and how much of my financial reserves I was willing to part with to enable the investigation to run more smoothly, and at a much faster pace.

  John and I, along with my guards, waited once more on those uncomfortable bench seats before being approached by Chief Inspector Carrick around twenty minutes later. He shook my hand then led us all into a conference room before getting his assistant to serve us tea and coffee. Of course, I insisted that we leave a guard in the waiting room to take care of Tess when she emerged from her latest round of questioning, though Carrick did better than that, letting Franco wait outside the interview room itself.

  He informed me he was about to listen in to Tess’s taped interview sessions, so he could assess the way the detectives had handled them. It seemed either my status or wealth had an effect on the confidence he’d displayed earlier in his “by the book” team.

  While we awaited the completion of Tess’s questioning, I took a call I hadn’t expected to receive after all these months. My technical security team had been doing what they do best, whether legal or not, to find out who my would-be assassin was. While they could find nothing about the shooter—which was odd as his face was captured quite clearly on CCTV—they had managed to identify the driver of the getaway vehicle, whose face was hidden by a baseball cap and sunglasses. It appeared that Kevin had found a possible lead from a watch the driver wore, which he’d singled out from just two frames of CCTV footage.

  The driver had worn a custom-made Aebi watch. Kevin and Gustav—the man I relied on for security and political advice worldwide—had finally discovered who the watch had been made for. It was probably given as a bonus for a hit well executed.

  Eitan Harel was ex-Mossad turned paid hitman. He was usually the man holding a gun, so why had he been the driver in my assassination attempt? If he’d been the one taking aim that day I would have been a dead man, of that I am certain.

  Originally from Sweden, Gustav Nilsson now lives in Berlin with his wife and young family, though he travels with me regularly when needed. He has contacts in many government organisations, so having him in my employ has proved invaluable. If anyone could set up a meeti
ng with Eitan Harel, it would be Gustav.

  I’d left the station to continue my conversation with Gustav in my car. My father always taught us that walls had ears, so when you were discussing something of a sensitive nature, it is best you do so in a safe place. My car is swept regularly for bugs, despite the trust I have in my guards. Another of life’s lessons from my father.

  After creating a plan of action with Gustav—who had received all the information Kevin had gathered—I stayed in the car to await my wife’s return. The seats in the back of my bulletproof Mercedes S600 were much more comfortable than those of the conference room.

  When I got the call from Franco informing me she was leaving, I quickly made my way inside the station to greet her. Yesterday she’d ran out into the waiting area, sobbing heavily. When I found out what had caused her to cry, I wanted to put a bullet in both the detectives’ skulls. She was so distressed she could not sleep and couldn’t bear the light being turned off. Tess said that every time she closed her eyes an image of Sarah’s corpse would appear.

  I held her in my arms all night, and got her to talk about the fun times she and Sarah shared in the room where we’d been staying. There were photographs of both girls on tops of drawers, and pin marks from where they’d put up posters of their favourite bands and singers. I asked her to tell me about her happiest memory from the time she’d lived here, and anything else I could think of to distract her from what she’d been going through at the station. Eventually, after the sun began to rise and the birds had trilled their morning song, we had both fallen asleep.