The Business: A Cumbria Crime Novella by Rachel McLean and Joel Hames, book 2.5 in the Cumbria Crime series - Chapter 1

Ella Hanley took a sip from her drink, then checked her watch again.

Samira, you’re forty minutes late.

They’d arranged to meet at the Bees Knees for a few cheeky cocktails. Just a few: it was a work night, and however undemanding their jobs, they’d have to be there in the morning if they wanted to keep them. But a few wouldn’t hurt, and this place was fast becoming their favourite hangout.

Ella slid the slice of passion fruit to the side with her little finger and took another sip. She’d managed to bag a table: not easy, even this early on a weeknight. A group of girls stood nearby, watching her, narrowed eyes on painted faces.

They looked ridiculous. Were they even eighteen? She took another sip, looked at her watch again, and checked her phone.

Half seven, they’d said. Now it was twenty past eight, and Samira hadn’t messaged, hadn’t replied to the message Ella had sent twenty minutes ago. Hadn’t even read it.

She tapped the number and watched as it went to voicemail. She sighed. No point leaving a message. It was too loud in here anyway.

She shook her head, took a long gulp, and stood up. She wasn’t about to sit here drinking cocktails by herself all night. The eye candy wasn’t up to the usual standard, and the evils she was getting from the teenagers were putting her off her pornstar martini.

They were surrounding the table before she’d grabbed her coat, sitting down before she’d taken a step.

It was cold outside. Icy. Wasn’t it supposed to be spring soon? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not in March.

Shivering, Ella dialled Samira’s number again, and listened as it rang out.

Where the hell was she? Her friend was notoriously chaotic, but it wasn’t like her to not answer the phone.

“Fuck it,” she muttered, and started walking.

Samira’s place was only a ten-minute walk away, but with her heels on the slippery pavement it was closer to twenty before she climbed the short hill up Northumberland Street.

The lights were on downstairs.

Samira had forgotten. She’d be sitting there watching TV and drinking wine with her phone on silent.

Typical Samira.

“Fuck it,” said Ella, louder this time. She banged on the door.

She heard Samira’s footsteps. Heavier than usual, and coming from upstairs. Ella glanced to her side, at the bay window, but she couldn’t see more than a sliver of light past the thick velvet curtain.

The door opened and there, standing in front of her, was a man.

“Oh,” he said.

She took a step back and stared at him.

“Gary?”

He nodded.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought you were Samira,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” she repeated.

He turned to look behind him. She followed his gaze. The kitchen door was open.

Among the usual detritus, there were two wine glasses on the kitchen table.

Oh, Samira…

Gary turned back to Ella then glanced towards the stairs. “I was getting some of my stuff.”

“Where is she?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Is she here?”

“No. I told her I’d be over, she said she’d be in, but she wasn’t, so…” Another shrug.

Ella opened her mouth to speak, then stopped.

What was Gary Furman doing in Samira’s house? Their relationship had run its course ages ago. Hadn’t it?

“Did you…” he said, then looked down at her heels, and back up. “Were you meeting her here?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Out.”

“Typical Samira.” He smiled.

Ella didn’t like that smile.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“She’s stood us both up, hasn’t she? Samira Hasan, Agent of Chaos.”

He smiled again. Ella tried to smile back.

“Are you sure she’s not here?” She looked beyond him, towards the kitchen. When her gaze returned to him, he was watching her.

Samira had kicked him out months ago. He’d done something bad, something Samira refused to talk about. Even with her best friend.

“You’re welcome to come in and take a look,” he said.

Ella shook her head. “It’s OK. I’ll – I’ll see her at work tomorrow.”

She forced herself to give him a final smile, turned, then started to walk away, focusing on every step, desperate not to fall, but equally desperate to put distance between herself and Gary Furman.

After thirty seconds, she stopped and turned back. Gary was still standing there, by the open front door. Watching her.

She turned and continued walking. It wasn’t until she was round the corner that she stopped, breathing hard, pulled out her phone and dialled.

“Police,” she said. “I think my friend’s gone missing.”