The Payment: Part 1

Book 0: The Payment

by Roberta Kray

Genres: Sagas; Short Stories; Women's Fiction; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

THE FIRST PART IN THE ADDICTIVE NEW 4-PART EBOOK-SERIAL FROM ROBERTA KRAY. NO ONE KNOWS CRIME LIKE KRAY You think you know who I am. Five seconds is all it takes to sum me up and dismiss me. But a man needs company, and I want a woman who's worth the effort. There's no rush, though. I'm not going to make the same mistake twice. As I've found to my cost, bodies are hard to get rid of. Ava Gold is working the late shift as a cabbie when she picks up a passenger, a young woman named Holly, who's worse for wear. Not knowing where to drop her off, Ava ends up letting Holly crash at her place - but she will regret this act of kindness come the morning. Because opening her home up in this way sets Ava on a dangerous path. It's a path that leads to missing women, murder and the one man she's been trying to stay away from: local nightclub owner, Chris Street. And it also brings her to the attention of another man, a man no one is watching but who's been watching Ava for a very long time . . . Part two of The Payment is also available to now! Read what people are saying about Roberta Kray: 'Once you start to read you can't put it down ' ' Full of twists and turns' 'Love this writer, great read ' ' Brilliant and gripping from beginning to end'

Release date: July 3, 2017

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 59

Sample

You think you know who I am. Five seconds is all it takes to sum me up and dismiss me. I’m the moon-faced guy who stands behind the counter, the short one with the stubby fingers and the awkward smile. I’m the one who pours your coffee every day, but you don’t really see me. Your gaze slides straight through me as though I’m not even here. I’m irrelevant, invisible, not worth a second glance. You’ve got more important things on your mind: there’s your phone to attend to, texts and Facebook and Twitter. You bark out your order. Your thanks are perfunctory, if they even come at all.

Now if there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s rudeness. It gets right under my skin. And let’s be honest, I get enough grief at home without having to put up with it at work too. The wife doesn’t open her mouth without one insult or another coming out. Martha is an expert in the art of criticism. She knows how to hit the spot, how to make me feel small. Over the years she’s honed her skills, sharpening the blades of disdain and disapproval until she can slide the knife in with the minimum of effort.

Still, we all have our secrets, don’t we? Mine are hidden up on the top floor where Martha can’t reach them. She’s too fat now to climb the stairs. Day by day she’s piling on the pounds, the flesh growing and spreading and gathering in thick creamy folds. Her massive thighs rustle as she lumbers from the living room to the kitchen in search of food. Bovine and ponderous, she spends her waking hours grazing on the contents of the fridge: sausage rolls and pasties, pizza, ice cream and doughnuts. Gradually the blubber is wrapping around her inner organs and starting to squeeze. I’m waiting for the time when her heart gets swallowed up and I’ll finally be free.

Of course, I’d have cleared off years ago if it wasn’t for the house: a detached, Victorian red-brick property, just on the right side of the nicer half of Kellston. It’s three storeys high with more rooms than we can reasonably use. There’s a front and back garden, even a garage – a luxury in London. It’s what you’d call a prime piece of real estate even if it’s not in the best state of repair.

So you can see why I wouldn’t want to throw it away. Now that the East End is being gentrified, there’s money to be made. Already an overflow from nearby Shoreditch, a wave of middle-class arty types, is starting to push up prices. Kellston is becoming fashionable. We’re sitting on a gold mine, but Martha won’t even think about selling.

The house originally belonged to her grandparents and their influence is still visible in almost every room. The walls are covered in faded flowery paper, and dark furniture sucks up all the light. It’s a homage to the 1940s, drab and depressing, with the sort of décor that makes your spirits sink as soon as you walk through the door. Just to complete the picture, a host of china ornaments, a vile army of twee, covers every available surface. If I had my way I’d throw the whole lot out – dump it in a skip and start again.

But, as Martha never fails to remind me, it’s her house, and what she says goes. The fact I’m her husband and have to live in this gross mausoleum is neither here nor there. Like it or lump it. So I’ve been lumping it for the past thirty years, but there’s only so much any man can take. That’s why I’ve claimed the top floor for my own, my personal sanctuary, the place where only the invited can come.

There are two rooms, one large, the other smaller. I’ve got the big room just how I want it, insulated and soundproofed with the walls painted white. The shelves are lined with books. I like to read, you see, to learn new things. Don’t be fooled by the fact I work in a coffee shop. I’m an educated man, a man with brains. If it hadn’t been for that bit of trouble, I’d still be putting on a suit every day and sitting behind a desk in the City.

Martha never lets me forget my failures. She likes to rub them in at every opportunity. I think she’s secretly pleased that I’ve come down in the world, that I’ve been toppled from my perch. It gives her a bigger stick to beat me with. She brings it up at every opportunity, her small piggy eyes staring accusingly. What she doesn’t understand, can’t even begin to grasp, is that it’s all her fault.

Martha’s deficiencies as a wife are wide and various, too long to list. She isn’t the kind of person you can have a proper conversation with, not unless it’s about EastEnders or Coronation Street. She hasn’t got any interest in the wider world, in politics or art or literature. The sad truth is that I mistook her ignorance for shyness, and by the time I found out what she was really like it was too late to do anything about it. I was trapped. You might say it was a prison of my own making – if I’d been more cautious I wouldn’t have made such a gross misjudgement – but in my defence I was young and naïve. We all do stupid things when desire takes over reason.

Already I can hear you asking how I could ever have lusted after someone like Martha. Looking at her now, I can s. . .