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  Philip Cox is married with two children and lives near London. He pursued a career in banking and financial services until 2009, when he took a break to become a stay-at-home father. In between numerous school runs, Philip wrote After the Rain, which appeared in 2011. Dark Eyes of London and She’s Not Coming Home followed in 2012. A Secret To Die For, which introduced the maverick LAPD detective Sam Leroy, was published in 2013. The Value of Nothing is his fifth novel.

  Also by Philip Cox

  Dark Eyes of London

  She’s Not Coming Home

  A Secret to Die For

  Don’t Go Out in the Dark

  Wrong Time to Die

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Version 3.1

  www.philipcox.moonfruit.com

  AFTER THE RAIN

  PHILIP COX

  © Philip Cox 2011

  Front cover picture credits:

  Brett Levin Photo

  www.brettlevin.com

  Thanks to Anne Poole for her help with the text

  For ALISON

  Sorry I was out so much

  Prologue

  ARMS AROUND EACH other, and oblivious to everything and everyone around them, the couple walked out of the Electric Cinema in London’s Portobello Road. He was heavily tanned, probably of Mediterranean origins, six foot tall, maybe a few inches more. His black hair, reaching down to just above his shirt collar was combed back over his ears. His swarthy skin was in marked contrast to the white of his shirt, open down to the third or fourth button. As he walked, the gold medallion on a matching chain swung in the breeze. Both medallion and chain matched the earring in his right lobe. The shirt was tucked into a pair of very tight black corduroy trousers, rounded off by a pair of black shoes, with pointed toes.

  His left arm was wound around the shoulders of a girl, also in her early twenties, who stood some two feet at least shorter than him. She appeared of European descent: her pale skin in contrast to his complexion. Her hair was cut into a bob, and was auburn with red highlights. She wore a heavy layer of eye shadow, and her lips were painted bright red, almost the same shade as the tight fitting top she wore. Her black miniskirt was just as tight fitting. Her outfit was rounded off by black tights and bright red shoes.

  The man was looking intently down at her, and she in turn was gazing as they walked up at his face. They were chatting and laughing.

  They were so wrapped in each other that when they stepped into the road they did not see the cyclist ten or twelve feet away. The cyclist rang his bell and shouted at them. The man noticed the cyclist first, and jumped back onto the pavement, pulling the girl with him. The cyclist carried on by, swerving slightly, but shouting at them.

  On the other side of the road, Ben Rook looked up from the newspaper he was reading. It was one of London’s many free newspapers; this one he had picked up from his tube train. He couldn’t understand what the cyclist shouted – it sounded Turkish or something – but Ben and the couple seemed to get the drift. He shook his head and returned to the paper, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the couple cross the road and sit down at one of the other tables situated on the pavement outside the coffee shop. After a few moments a waiter came out and walked over to the couple’s table. The waiter had his back to Ben, preventing him from hearing what they were ordering. Dressed in a long white apron, the waiter took their order and walked over to Ben’s table. He was carrying a jug of coffee and offered Ben a refill. Ben nodded and held his cup out for a refill. He put the newspaper down and sat back in his chrome chair and took a sip of the strong black coffee. That was what he liked about this coffee shop: he was always offered a refill, sometimes two. He would not get that if he had chosen to stop at the Starbucks on the next corner. This place, with an Italian name he could never pronounce, always offered a refill, which was why whenever he was coming past he would invariably stop here for a while, even though for the past three months, he lived only five minutes’ walk away.

  After an eventful year, he had sold the third floor flat he had occupied in South West London and had moved to a mews house in Notting Hill, just off the Portobello Road. It was early summer when he moved in, and he had come to enjoy sitting at one of the many pavement tables in the locale, having coffee and watching the world go by. This particular weekend, a girl he had met a few weeks back had joined him for a drink and lunch in one of his old Wimbledon haunts the day before. Lunch seemed to last until the early evening, and was rounded off by a visit to a Vue cinema. He let her choose the film: it was a romantic comedy, not his choice, but she seemed to enjoy it. So much so, that he managed to persuade her to return to Notting Hill with him and stay over. Sitting back in his chair, he smiled as he reflected on how energetic she had been the night before. With a promise to keep in touch and maybe see each other the next weekend, he had travelled down to Hammersmith with her, saw her onto her District Line train, and then caught a Circle Line back to Ladbroke Grove.

  Ben drank some more coffee and sat back in his chair, enjoying the warm sun on this late Sunday afternoon. He watched the couples coming out of the cinema, and made a mental note to take Christine – no, Christina, must get that right – there one day. Maybe try out those sofa type seats there.

  By now, the couple seemed to have finished their coffee, and, leaving some money on the chrome table, walked off, still arm in arm, still staring intensely into each other’s eyes, still not looking where they were going. The waiter came out to clear up their cups, picked up the change they had left and grunted in disgust. Ben looked up at him.

  ‘Kids,’ the waiter muttered. ‘Always lousy tippers.’

  Ben shrugged his shoulders at the waiter. ‘I think they’re in love.’

  ‘In love mio culo,’ the waiter retorted and went back inside, still muttering.

  Ben was about to reply but felt his phone vibrate. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked the screen. He had a voicemail; must have had the phone on silent mode. He dialled his voicemail number and listened to the message.

  ‘Hi Ben, it’s Craig. Hope you’re okay. Just thought I’d call, see how you were getting on. Give us a call back when you can; would be good to chat. Cheers.’

  Ben hung up. It had been a while since he had spoken to Craig. In fact - he checked the date on his phone - it was almost a year to the day that Craig called on him. Maybe that was why he was phoning him now.

  He leaned back in his chair and sat holding his coffee. That’s right; it was a year ago, almost to the day. He sat there considering how different things would have been now if Craig hadn’t called on him that night.

  Very different.

  ONE YEAR EARLIER

  Chapter One

  BEN ROOK WAS slumped on his sofa in front of his television. The 42 inch plasma flat screen was showing a quiz show. He had the set on mute.

  On the low coffee table by his knees was a bottle of pain killers. Ben picked up the bottle and looked at the label. Take one or two every four hours, it said. He shook his head briefly, put the bottle down and picked up the small glass which was standing next to the bottle of scotch. The quarter full bottle of scotch. Or the three quarters used bottle of scotch depe
nding on your point of view.

  He emptied the glass, and then slumped back on the sofa, eyes fixed on the bottle of pills. ‘How many should I take?’ he muttered. Do I take the whole bottle, or do I figure out how many I need to do the job? Will they work, will I just go to sleep and never wake up, never feel anything again? He had read accounts of other people overdosing, had read of them not just drifting away, but having convulsions, prolonged pain if their body had a resistance to the drug. What if he changed his mind halfway through? Would he call someone – 999, or his parents, or even Helen? Then off to hospital, the stomach pump, and all sorts of unpleasant stuff. Then how could he look his mother in the eye and tell her why he had done it? How would she feel? What about Helen? It was she who ended it after all, so this was her fault in a way. If he went through with it, would he be hurting her? If he ended up in hospital, would she come back to him?

  He recalled the last conversation they had had, outside some country pub they had both driven to, so they could get away from things. Helen, her eyes utterly tearless, saying she was sorry but after their five years together she felt things had run their course. Could he be out of the flat they shared together for the last four years on Tuesday so she could collect all their things? He silently nodding, fighting back the tears. Then, without a word, both of them climbing into their separate cars, him driving home, her driving God knows where.

  Ben looked at the clock on the wall: 10 past midnight. He could no longer hear the traffic going past; normal people were at home in bed, he thought.

  He sniffed, and poured the contents of the bottle out onto the coffee table. Leaned forward to scoop up a handful, then stopped as his phone started ringing. He froze, letting it ring and ring. It rang for about a minute, though seemed much longer before it stopped. Ben remained frozen. Then it rang again, but longer this time before it went to voicemail.

  He sat back and stared over to the chair where the phone was lying, almost willing it to ring again. It didn’t. But somebody had rung and left a message for him. Was it Helen? Unlikely. He considered whether to check the phone, but it was too late: he had passed the point of no return.

  He slumped back again, staring vacantly at the corner of the room, a tear running down his left cheek. Which way to go? Ignore the phone and finish the pills and scotch, or get the phone? If it hadn’t rung, or if he had switched it off, it could be all over by now. But could he do it not knowing who had rung?

  The tear running down his left cheek was now several tears running slowly down both cheeks. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Then leaned over and grabbed the phone.

  Chapter Two

  BEN CHECKED THE missed calls menu. The number which called seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it. There was a message waiting.

  ‘Hi Ben, this is Craig – Craig Williams. Look - sorry to bother you so late…..don’t know if you’re in or not……..just wondered if I could talk to you. Give me a call back if you can.’

  Puzzled, Ben pressed the key to dial the number. It was answered after one ring.

  ‘Hi Ben, thanks for calling back.’

  Ben sniffed. ‘That’s okay, Craig, what’s up?’

  ‘Look, I’m around your way. Is it all right if I called round? Rather than talking like this. Anyhow, my phone’s almost dead.’

  Ben was taken aback by this, particularly as it sounded as if Craig had been drinking. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’re on Queens Road, that right?’

  ‘Yeah. Number 52, flat 5, third floor. Just ring the bell, and I’ll get the entry phone.’

  ‘See you ten minutes then.’ Craig hung up.

  Ben quickly moved the jacket and tie he had left on the chair into the bedroom. He put the bottle and glass of scotch in the kitchen, then scooped up the tablets in his hand and put them back in the bottle. The intercom rang just as he put the bottle on the kitchen worktop.

  ‘Is that you, Craig?’ he spoke into the intercom, and then pressed the buzzer to unlock the front door downstairs. He left his own front door ajar, went into his bathroom to splash some cold water on his face and to check his eyes were not still red. He switched the TV off, and then sat back on the sofa, listening to Craig coming up the stairs.

  Moments later, Craig peered in. ‘Is that you, sitting alone in the dark?’ He was slurring slightly, had obviously been drinking, as he half walked, half staggered into the room, and then slumped on the armchair opposite Ben. ‘Not disturbing you, am I? Not got you out of bed? Not interrupting anything, I hope?’ He nodded over to Ben’s bedroom door.

  ‘No, you’re not interrupting anything. Was just sitting here. Anyway, what the hell’s up with you? I thought you were sick. That’s what they told us all. Anyway, haven’t seen you for a week or so.’

  Craig yawned, rubbing his forehead. ‘Did you say you were making coffee? I could use one. Very black, lots of sugar. Think I drank too much this evening.’

  Ben sniffed again, and then blew his nose.

  Craig noticed. ‘Are you sure I didn’t disturb you? You know -’ He made a knowing gesture with his fingers and nose.

  ‘No, nothing like that. Allergy or something. And you didn’t disturb me,’ Ben lied. ‘I’ll get some coffee.’

  ‘Do you mind if I take a piss first?’ asked Craig.

  Ben indicated to the bathroom door. ‘Be my guest.’

  Five minutes later, they were both sitting down. ‘Well,’ asked Ben, ‘what’s up? Like I said, they told us you were sick.’

  ‘So they did. Look, I know it’s late. I couldn’t get hold of anyone else. I – I just need someone to talk to. Is that OK?’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’

  ‘Thanks. Okay, so here we go. Yes, they would have told you I was sick.’ He paused. ‘Ben, how long have we been working together? Two years? Three?’

  Ben sipped his coffee. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Three, I think. But you don’t know me that well, do you?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘Well...’

  ‘When was the last time you remember me being off sick? For more than a day or so?’

  Ben shrugged his shoulders again.

  ‘Thing is, I’m on – compassionate leave, they called it. It’s to do with my family. My brother, to be precise. Did you know I had a brother?’

  ‘Didn’t know either way, to be honest.’

  ‘Well, I have a brother. And two sisters. The sisters are younger than me, my brother, Adam, is almost thirty, a couple of years older than me. And Adam is the reason I’ve been off.’

  ‘Why, what’s he done?’ asked Ben.

  Craig put his mug down on the coffee table and sat back. ‘He’s disappeared.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘HOW DO YOU mean, disappeared?’ Ben sounded incredulous.

  ‘I mean exactly what I say. Disappeared.’

  ‘But – when, where was this?’

  ‘It was a couple of weeks ago. In Florida.’

  ‘Florida?’

  ‘Yes. Look,’ Craig glanced up at the clock. ‘You do have time for all this, don’t you? It’s nearly one. You’ve got to go to work tomorrow.’

  ‘In seven hours, actually. No, go on – tell me.’

  ‘All right, thanks. I’ll tell you what happened.’ Craig took a large swig from his coffee. ‘Have you ever been to Florida?’

  ‘Years ago. We had a family holiday, two weeks in Orlando.’

  ‘It’s Orlando I’m talking about -’

  ‘And we – my ex and I – had a shopping trip to New York last year.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not Florida, mate.’

  ‘No. Sorry, carry on.’

  ‘Well, when you had your trip to Orlando, did you come across a place called Davenport?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘No, doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘Well it’s a small town over there, about ten, fifteen minutes’ drive from Orlando itself.’

  ‘Is that where he disappeared?’ asked
Ben. ‘What happened? How do you mean disappeared anyway? Was he on holiday over there? On his own?’

  ‘Sort of,’ answered Craig. ‘I don’t know how much you know about me.’

  ‘Not an awful lot,’ said Ben. ‘Around the same age as me. Single as far as I know.’

  ‘Kind of single,’ Craig said. ‘But anyhow, my mother and father are – shall we say – not short of a few pounds, and some years ago, like you, we all had a family holiday over there. You know, the usual stuff, all the parks, Wet and Wild and so on.’

  Ben sipped his coffee. ‘Yeah, I know, go on.’

  ‘Well, we liked it there, obviously. In fact we all went I think it was three years in succession. But my father got fed up forking out all that money on hotels, so they bought an apartment out there, in Davenport.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Hm. Very nice.’

  ‘It was. It is. Nothing spectacular. It sleeps up to six at a push, four is best. It’s on a sort of holiday complex, you know, concierge service, communal pool. My dad said it was also an investment, as when the family wasn’t using it – and that was most of the year to be honest – he could rent it out.’

  Ben asked, ‘Is that where your brother – Adam?’ - Craig nodded to confirm – ‘disappeared?’

  ‘Yes. He was over there with a group of friends. He liked staying over there, and taking friends out there. Showing off a bit, I guess. I don’t think he went over there to see Mickey Mouse, but they could get some sun and then go to a bar in the evening.

  ‘Like I said, the place can sleep six, so if he took two friends out there, and they went bar hopping… Three guys, three times two is six, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘You didn’t go?’

  ‘No.’ Craig hesitated. ‘Not my scene, to be honest. I went out there sometimes, though.’

  He paused for a minute as if to compose himself. ‘Well, the beginning of last week, on the Monday evening, Adam and a couple of the others were in a bar in town. They had met up with another group who were also staying in town. And at about half eleven or so, one of this group, a girl called Stacey, I think, said she was tired, and wanted to go back to where she was staying. So Adam offered to walk her back.’