Read a Sample: Grant

“Not another babysitting job!” Grant threw himself into a chair and tossed his leather jacket onto another. Heaven knew why he’d brought it with him. The early summer heatwave made it unnecessary.

“Stop whining. You suggested we offer bodyguard services, remember?”

Grant sighed. “Cap … I know they’re valuable jobs, and worthwhile ones, too, but this is the sixth in a row. I’m so bored I’m losing the will to live.”

“Are you now?” Fritz’s expression didn’t change as he pushed a folder across the desk. “Here. Got an email enquiry yesterday morning. Prelims make my nose itch. He’s coming in at nine for a chat. Listen in. If you really don’t want this one, ask Luca to take it. You’re the only two with room in your schedules this week.”

That should please him, Grant knew. When they’d set up White Knight Security after leaving the army, Grant had worried work might be too thin on the ground to keep the four of them fed. Rescuing Amelie Croft two days before Christmas had brought their nascent business a grant from the LightSpiel Foundation, Amelie’s expertise in setting up the legal and financial side of White Knight Security, and recommendations to her and her husband’s friends and clients. On top of that, they’d had Fritz’s power of persuasion. Fritz—whose aunt had lived in the area for generations and had known absolutely everyone—had worked through Isabel Knight’s huge list of contacts, offered help and asked for referrals. Half a dozen small jobs later, they’d been up and running, and their firm grew busier by the week. They offered private investigations, surveillance, and close protection. They’d even done a couple of jobs in tandem with the local police force. Grant loved it, but he preferred to be up and doing. Close protection, where he needed to stick to his target like glue even if they spent their day in an office, was his least favourite job.

“What is it this time?” He opened the folder, and his jaw dropped when he saw the photo on the first page. “Fuck me!”

The image showed a man leaning against a railing. The grin on his face—half sultry, half mischievous—tightened every muscle in Grant’s body. He was a sucker for dark eyes and golden hair. So what?

“Stunning, right? He’s a trauma surgeon at Stoke Mandeville. Excellent credentials.”

“And he needs us because?”

“He has a stalker.”

Grant’s gaze was glued to the photo. He sensed the focus and dedication behind the cheeky grin, and he didn’t want to imagine fear on those enticing features. “Why doesn’t he go to the police?”

“Precisely what I’m going to ask him,” Fritz replied. “Are you in, or shall I talk to Luca?”

“No. I’m in.” Grant’s voice came out scratchy and rough. When was the last time he’d reacted like this to a mere photo? Fucking never. He closed the folder and stood. Cold water. That was what he needed. Cold water, and then coffee and half a dozen Danish pastries. “I’ll get set up next door.”

“You do that.” Fritz didn’t look up. Grant imagined he was smirking. And wasn’t that annoying?

Spencer found the offices of White Knight Security in a tiny village halfway between London and Oxford. From an arched gate, the drive led to a square-set manor house built from brick and timber. It stood on the edge of a lake, which Spencer hadn’t spotted through the thick stand of ash and beech trees shielding the house from the road. He wondered whether it had started life as a moat.

A peaceful place to work, and an even better place to live. Spencer imagined himself sitting at the end of the short jetty, glass of wine in hand and feet dangling in the water, watching the sunset without a care in the world.
Dreams and make-believe, of course. Worries were omnipresent, even for people who owned a gorgeous house beside a lake.
He turned off his engine and checked his watch.

Fifteen minutes early. Damn! His mind was uneasy enough without spare time to second-guess his decision to consult a security company. He needed to move. Stretch his legs. Walk to the lake or up the drive to admire the house.

A knock on his side window made him jump. Damn, he was nervous! He got out of the car. “Sorry. You startled me.”

“Dr Corel?”

“Yes. No. Mister, please. I’m a surgeon. And I … I’m early.”

“Not a problem. I’m Fritz Bronnley.”

“Oh.” Spencer had made an appointment with the head of a private security firm, not a man who looked like an investment banker. Fritz Bronnley’s deep blue silk shirt brought out the touch of silver in his dark hair, and his relaxed demeanour suggested that the day’s biggest challenge was his golf handicap.

“Would you like to come inside?” Bronnley offered a reassuring smile. “We have coffee.”

“Oh yes, please. You’d be saving my life.”

“Really now?”

“Night shift,” Spencer explained. “An uneventful one—which I normally don’t complain about. Only…”

“It leaves you too much time to think.”

Now here’s a man with an excellent bedside manner. Spencer followed Bronnley into the house. Maybe this wouldn’t be as embarrassing as the police interview had been. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee calmed him further, as did the murmur of conversation from somewhere nearby.

“How do you like your caffeine?”

“Black with three sugars.” Spencer grinned at the startled once-over Bronnley bestowed on him. He was too thin and knew it. “I have a hectic job.”

“Obviously.” Bronnley took his coffee black with no adornment. “If you’d like to come this way?”

In his office, Bronnley bypassed the desk and made a beeline for the walnut and cream leather sofa by the French doors.

“That’s a lovely view.”

“Seconded. I sit here for hours and dream of fishing.”

“Right.” First impressions aside, Spencer couldn’t see Bronnley sitting and daydreaming. Be up and organising, yes. Though he appreciated how neatly Bronnley had settled his unease. And the man’s choice in sofas was flawless.
Spencer sank into the soft leather and sighed. This mess with Carlo exhausted him more than a double shift in the A&E department. He took a sip of coffee and let his gaze roam the water. Bronnley waited for the caffeine to do its work, and Spencer appreciated that, too.

“Thank you for giving me the chance to collect myself.”

“No need to thank me. We’re prepared for tough conversations.”

“And used to them?”

“Certainly. Our clients come to us because they have a problem they cannot handle alone. We have the specialist skills they need, but that doesn’t mean they feel comfortable asking. Much like your work, no?”

“That’s an excellent analogy.” Spencer relaxed a touch more. He’d worried about appearing helpless, but Bronnley had nipped that idea in the bud. “Definitely not like taking my car for repair. There, at least, I have a vague idea how it’s done, even if I don’t want to do it myself.” He took another sip of coffee and squared his shoulders. “What is your intake process? Do I talk or do you ask questions?”

“Could you start by summarising the problem for me? Then I’ll ask questions to tease out details.”
Spencer clutched his mug, letting the last of the warmth seep into his hands. “I’m a trauma surgeon, working mainly at Stoke Mandeville, though I fill in elsewhere if I’m needed. And for the last… maybe eight weeks… someone’s been following me.”
Bronnley raised a hand, and Spencer paused.

“Why the qualifier? You said maybe eight weeks?”

“That’s when I began to notice it. Doesn’t mean that’s when it started. At first, I wasn’t sure it was real. I’d been working long shifts and thought it was just exhaustion. Then I found my letterbox vandalised. Filled with paint. Someone broke into my office at the hospital. I received… bizarre gifts. A car swerved and almost hit me as I was shopping in Aylesbury. And now I can’t shake this crawling sensation, as if someone’s watching me. Even when I’m operating.” Spencer’s hands trembled, and he set the mug down.

This is why you’re here, he told himself. Because you can’t have it affect your work. He met Bronnley’s eyes. “Individually, none of these things are significant. But one after the other, and over weeks—”

“An excess of coincidences. Has something like this happened to you before?”

“No.”

“And you think you know the culprit?”

“I thought it was my ex, but the facts don’t fit. Not all of them.” Spencer felt himself grow agitated once more.

“Nasty breakup?” Bronnley asked, reading between the lines. “How long were you in a relationship?”

“Nine months, and I should have left him sooner.” Bronnley didn’t blink at the pronoun, and Spencer’s opinion of the man’s bedside manner rose another notch.

“He was violent?”

“Not physically, not yet. Controlling, undermining, and eventually verbally abusive. Interspersed with the usual apologies, declarations of affection, and promises to mend his behaviour.”

“Which you recognised and didn’t fall for.”

“I gave him the benefit of the doubt for longer than I probably should have.”

“But it’s difficult to deceive a professional who recognises the patterns, right? Tell me which of the events you attributed to him. What’s his name, by the way?”

“Carlo Sigismund. He’s a stockbroker with an office in High Wycombe. I thought he was sending the flowers, and that he was following me when I was driving home after work.”

“What doesn’t fit?”

“He has no reason to break into my office or wreck my letterbox. I can’t see him hanging around in the hospital to spy on me—he has a busy job of his own. If he wanted us back together, why would he try to run me over? And why wait for seven months before making the attempt, anyway?”

“Quite,” Bronnley said, not an ounce of judgement in his tone. “You said you went to the police. How did that go?”

“As if I was a hysterical twelve-year-old afraid of clowns. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned feeling watched. Or reported it closer to home instead of going to High Wycombe.”

“Why did you? Because you thought Carlo Sigismund was involved?”

“Partly, yes. But also … I was there, if that makes sense. I walked past the police station and suddenly thought I should make a report. It was stupid.”

“I disagree with you there. Tell me what they said.”

“The most likely culprits for the vandalised letterbox were bored kids. A cleaner who’d lost their keys could have broken into my office.”

“Why a cleaner?”

Spencer shrugged. “Because nothing was stolen? Did I mention that?”

“What about the car that tried to hit you? Did they offer a clever explanation for that?”

“Of course. It was a swerve my mind amplified into danger. The officer I spoke to was kind enough to suggest I take a holiday.” Spencer wrapped his arms around himself, not caring it signalled how upset he was. He was here to hire private security precisely because he couldn’t cope with the situation. “The police prefer the reports from a reputable businessman with a reasonable story to the ravings of a high-strung, overworked doctor.” The words tasted bitter. Spencer said them anyway. “Carlo has friends in the police.”

Bronnley’s smile held a tiny, feral edge. “So do we, Mr Corel. So do we.”

***