Swindled (The Sandlin PI Series Book 1) Read online

  Swindled

  S.E. Shepherd

  This edition produced in Great Britain in 2021

  by Hobeck Books Limited, Unit 14, Sugnall Business Centre, Sugnall, Stafford, Staffordshire, ST21 6NF

  www.hobeck.net

  Copyright © S.E. Shepherd 2021

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this novel are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  S.E. Shepherd has asserted her right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-37-1 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-36-4 (ebook)

  Cover design by Jayne Mapp Design

  Printed and bound in Great Britain

  Created with Vellum

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  To D, W, M, F & S – my little world

  Contents

  1. Lottie and Vincent – 2018

  2. Vincent – 2013

  3. Lottie – 2019

  4. Hannah – 2019

  5. Vincent – 2013

  6. Lottie – 2014

  7. Lottie – 2019

  8. Hannah – 2019

  9. Vincent – 2013

  10. Lottie – 2014

  11. Hannah – 2019

  12. Vincent – 2013

  13. Lottie – 2014

  14. Lottie – 2019

  15. Hannah – 2018

  16. Vincent – 2014

  17. Lottie – 2014

  18. Hannah – 2018

  19. Vincent – 2014

  20. Lottie – 2019

  21. Hannah – 2018

  22. Vincent – 2014

  23. Lottie – 2014

  24. Hannah – 2019

  25. Vincent – 2014

  26. Lottie – 2014

  27. Hannah – 2018

  28. Vincent – 2014

  29. Lottie – 2019

  30. Hannah – 2019

  31. Vincent – 2015

  32. Lottie – 2019

  33. Hannah – 2019

  34. Vincent – 2015

  35. Lottie – 2015

  36. Lottie – 2018

  37. Hannah – 2019

  38. Vincent – 2018

  39. Lottie – 2018

  40. Hannah – 2019

  41. Hannah – 2018

  42. Vincent – 2019

  43. Lottie – 2019

  44. Hannah – 2018

  45. Hannah – 2019

  46. Vincent – 2019

  47. Lottie – 2019

  48. Hannah – 2019

  49. Vincent – 2019

  50. Lottie – 2018

  51. Hannah – 2019

  52. Vincent – 2019

  53. Lottie – 2019

  54. Hannah – 2019

  55. Vincent – 2019

  56. Lottie – 2019

  57. Hannah – 2019

  58. Vincent – 2019

  59. Lottie – 2019

  60. Hannah – 2019

  61. Vincent – 2019

  62. Lottie – 2019

  63. Hannah – 2019

  64. Vincent – 2019

  65. Lottie – 2019

  66. Hannah – 2019

  67. Vincent – 2019

  68. Lottie – 2019

  69. Hannah – 2019

  70. Vincent – 2019

  71. Lottie – 2019

  72. Hannah – 2019

  73. Vincent – 2019

  74. Lottie – 2019

  75. Hannah – 2019

  76. Vincent – 2019

  77. Lottie – 2019

  78. Hannah – 2019

  79. Vincent – 2019

  80. Abbie – 2020

  81. Hannah – 2020

  82. Lottie – 2021

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Hobeck Books – the home of great stories

  Lottie and Vincent – 2018

  Mulberry House

  Lottie had never known a rage like it. Launching herself at Vincent, she pounded at his body with her fists. When that seemed to have no effect, she turned her attention to his hair, pulling it hard, all the time screaming that she would kill him. Vincent fought back. Trying his hardest to remove her hands from his hair, he repeatedly shouted, ‘Don’t make me hurt you!’

  ‘You couldn’t hurt me any more than you already have.’ Lottie dug her fingernails into his right cheek, leaving deep ridges that swiftly filled with blood.

  ‘Get off me. You’re crazy. I’ll have you committed if you don’t stop.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ Lottie’s hands fought their way back to his hair. With a yank, she almost removed an entire clump.

  He cried out in pain. ‘You little bitch. How dare you!’

  Even with her slight deafness, the commotion was enough to rouse Dixie from her slumber; leaving the comfort of her basket, the little dog crept into the entrance hall to investigate, and attempted to warn Vincent off with her usual high-pitched barks.

  Vincent was shorter than Lottie, but he was stocky, and despite her years spent horse riding, he ultimately had more upper body strength. With a loud shout of, ‘I said get off me!’ he threw her to the floor.

  Lottie landed in a heap. Drawing Dixie to her, she continued crying and screaming hysterically. She honestly thought it might be better to simply die right there on the floor. This man, this utter bastard of a man had somehow taken everything from her. How had she allowed this to happen? Had she been totally blind? Exhausted, she remained on the floor and heard him walk away, his footsteps loud on the hard wood flooring.

  Wiping his bloodied face with the back of his hand, Vincent called back, dismissively, ‘Forget the week’s notice. I want you gone today, and take that fucking yappy dog with you.’

  2

  Vincent – 2013

  These old biddies made it too easy. Every time he promised himself he was going to quit, another one of them would come crawling out of the woodwork, and he’d be forced to do it all again.

  ‘I’m so glad Mavis recommended you, Mr Rocchino. It’s impossible to know who to trust these days.’

  ‘Bless your heart, pet. I’m glad you’re glad.’ Vincent tried to sound British, with just a touch of Italian. He found they liked that best. He sipped his milky tea. Baby tea, that’s what these old dears drank. He couldn’t stand it. As far as he was concerned, if you were going to make a hot drink, you made it strong – strong enough to stand the spoon up in. And preferably coffee.

  ‘So, how does it work? How do I get the money to you?’

  ‘To be honest, cash is best.’ He nibbled on her home-made shortbread. Very dry!

  ‘Really? Now, that does surprise me. I expected you to do all sorts of fancy bank transfers and things.’


  ‘No, no, that’s not necessary. I can come to the bank with you if you like; I’ll wait outside whilst you withdraw it,’ Vincent offered. ‘And I’ll escort you home. You get your very own bodyguard. Free of charge.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Before you know it, your money will be making money. No more worrying about the future.’

  ‘How lovely.’

  They always fell for it. Vincent knew that you don’t sell the twig – you sell the blossom. And right now, this old bag couldn’t wait to get her hands on the blossom. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

  ‘Mavis said you made her some money. Not a lot, but …’

  ‘It’s like I explained to her; the more you invest, the more you profit. Your friend Mavis has realised that for herself. She’s making a much bigger deposit next week. It should coincide nicely with your investment.’

  ‘We’ll both be rich at the same time.’

  ‘Indeed, you will.’ Vincent forced down the rest of his ‘baby tea’ and replaced the china cup in the saucer. ‘I’ll be off now. Plenty to do.’ He left the shortbread.

  ‘The devil makes work for idle hands.’ The elderly lady smiled.

  ‘So he does, my dear, so he does.’ He decided not to go for the kiss on the back of the hand. Some of them lapped it up, but he sensed that on this occasion it would be too much.

  As he walked away from the neat bungalow, he couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. Today’s old lady thought she was clever; she’d checked him out, asked for references. Vincent could produce plenty, all written by him!

  Mavis had thought she was smart too, testing him. ‘I’ll just try a small investment first. I’m cautious.’

  Well, what do you know, her investment worked out. What were the odds? It was worth the slight loss. It’d given her the false impression that Vincent was a good businessman, that he knew the market, and that he could be trusted.

  After paying for a private dance from Candy, Vincent made his way back home. Except … home wasn’t the best word to describe the place where he lived. Home suggested comfort, warmth, family. His rented, stark, one-bedroom flat provided none of these things.

  Maybe if he’d married and had children, then he’d be on his way to a proper home. But, no, Vincent had never married. No one had presented themselves as a possible bride. All his girlfriends when he was younger had been too modern. Little bitches, every last one of them. They’d expected him to help around the house. They’d demanded equal satisfaction in the bedroom, every single time! They’d exhausted him. He wanted a submissive little wife who would do as he asked, and not answer back. But it was impossible to find one. Particularly since he’d moved to the UK. Perhaps if he had a time machine, he could have popped to the fifties and nabbed himself a good one. But not now, not these days. Bloody feminism had a lot to answer for.

  In some ways, Candy was the closest thing he had to a regular girlfriend. Not long after he’d stumbled upon her place of work, they’d swapped phone numbers to allow for easier negotiation when it came to cash-in-hand sessions. Pretty much the only messages his phone received that were not related to his latest scam were selfies from Candy, which often included a shot of her tits. She was nice enough, and she served her purpose well, but she was nowhere near good enough to qualify as his significant other.

  He just kept getting older, and still no one came into his life who seemed to truly want to selflessly care for him. So Candy took care of his needs in one department, and the microwave kept him from starvation. It wasn’t an enviable life, but it was the only one he had, for now.

  Vincent’s family were all back in Italy. They no longer spoke to him. Not since that day almost a year after Nonna’s funeral, sixteen years ago. He often dreamed of that last meeting.

  His nonna was the nicest, kindest person in the whole of Italy. She used to make him chestnut cake. She served it warm, accompanied by creamy hot chocolate. He would climb up onto her lap and savour every mouthful.

  Nonna adored Vincent. He was her only grandson. There were other grandchildren, many others. Ten, in fact. But they were all girls. Nonna had three daughters, and each of them gave birth to girls. Until, surprisingly, Vincent’s mother discovered at the ripe old age of forty-six that she was expecting another baby. No one thought it would be a boy. It was beyond any of them to hope for it. She gave birth, assisted as always by her own mother. With the final push, her surprise child made its way into the world, and Nonna lifted up the baby and gave a shriek. ‘Thank you, God. A boy. A reward for all our troubles.’

  Vincent was small, with delicate hands and feet, and the face of a cherub. As he started school, it caused him immense concern that he was the shortest boy in his class. He was dark and handsome, but never tall. This didn’t stop all his family from being mesmerised by him. So many women, he never had to do a thing for himself.

  Vincent had become the one and only male Rocchino when he was less than a year old. His father had died of a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-five. Vincent barely noticed the absence. But losing Nonna … that was indescribable. As he watched her die, old and exhausted in her bed, Vincent knew true grief.

  It wasn’t his fault that she’d chosen him. He never asked her to do it. His mother and sisters and all the aunts and cousins should’ve realised that. In many ways they were his first victims, but it wasn’t his fault. It was all down to Nonna. She just loved him so much. She had done from the start. As he’d popped pieces of chestnut cake into his mouth with his dainty hands, she’d rocked him on her lap and whispered, ‘My darling Vinnie, my handsome little boy.’

  Vincent forced the memory of his grandmother from his mind. He had to. If he allowed himself to think about her, he wouldn’t be able to do what he did. When he thought too much about Nonna, every old lady he ripped off would become her. Their faces swirled in front of his eyes, and eventually they all resembled her.

  Nonna would hate what he did for money. Dead or not, she’d still be mad as hell. He’d seen disappointment on her face. Not often. But often enough to know he couldn’t stomach it. Nonna knew right from wrong. She had strong morals. She would be—

  He stopped himself there. He mustn’t think about her, not if he wanted to pull this off.

  3

  Lottie – 2019

  Lottie Thorogood swirled the toilet brush around the bowl, holding her breath, as she always did when completing this task. A quick squirt of bleach, and it was onto the next one. She didn’t hang around; there were three floors to do.

  She could hear Aleesha watching videos on Facebook on her phone in one of the cubicles. ‘Get off that phone. We both know you can’t scroll and clean at the same time.’

  Aleesha’s head appeared round the door. ‘All right, keep your knickers on. I’m working.’

  ‘The expression is “keep your hair on”, or “don’t get your knickers in a twist”. You can’t amalgamate the two.’

  Aleesha laughed. ‘Whatever!’

  ‘Seriously though, your friends post some bloody stupid things on there.’

  ‘Can we have a little less chatting and a little more cleaning please, girls?’ Mr Bale had somehow managed to sneak up on them again. For a large man, he was remarkably light on his feet.

  ‘We’ve done ground and one. We’ve just got this floor to go,’ Aleesha assured him.

  ‘Right. It isn’t going to get done with you two gasbagging about Facebook though, is it?’

  ‘No, Mr Bale.’ Aleesha did a kind of curtsey.

  Oblivious to the fact that Aleesha was clearly taking the piss, Mr Bale appeared pleased with her performance. ‘As soon as these toilets are finished, get the offices sorted. Remember the order: bins, desks, carpets, mugs …’

  Lottie tuned him out. It was bad enough that she had to get up at 5.30 in the morning to do this poxy cleaning job, never mind the added insult of having to listen to him waffle on. He was supposed to be their supervisor. What a joke. They could do the job blindfolded. He ear
ned more per hour than them, and he did nothing. Nothing! Unless you counted sneaking up, catching them unawares, and listing all the jobs they already knew off by heart.

  She examined him as he continued with his instructions. His skin wasn’t a healthy pink like hers, or a warm brown like Aleesha’s. Mr Bale’s face had a waxy grey pastiness, mixed with a hint of saffron yellow. He smoked too much, and his diet was obviously so far from good that it made Lottie gag to think of it. She’d seen him in town, coming out of various takeaway places, always with a burger or a kebab in his hand.