Damaged Goods (A Dangerous Passion, part one) Read online

  A Dangerous Passion, part one

  Damaged Goods

  PJ Adams

  Copyright 2012 PJ Adams

  James Grieve Press

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  © PJ Adams 2012

  http://pollyjadams.blogspot.com

  http://www.facebook.com/pollyjadamswriter

  Twitter: @PollyJAdams

  Cover image © Jurgajurga | Dreamstime.com

  Damaged Goods

  They said he was a rock star. They said he was an Arab oil sheik, or a Russian arms dealer. Or maybe a footballer. They said he was all kinds of things but in truth nobody in the village knew much about the enigmatic stranger who had moved into the Hall.

  Holly Colcroft saw him sometimes, out walking in the manicured grounds of his estate with a great big lolloping red setter. The man had chestnut hair, like his dog, although less wavy, and he was tall and slim and liked to wear black, skinny jeans and a tweed coat that came down to his thighs. From a distance, she put him in his mid to late thirties, and he walked with a slight limp, sometimes with a stick.

  He’d moved to the village about a month ago, just as the big beech trees that lined the drive up to the Hall were starting to turn to shades of copper and gold.

  And that was all she knew of him, then. A lonely man with a limp and a big dog. He could have been anybody.

  §

  “Hey, Dad,” she called from the front doorway. “I’m heading up to the Hall to work. Probably all afternoon, okay? Do you need anything?”

  “No, no, love. I’ll be fine.” He was in his armchair, reading the Times, his glasses propped right on the tip of his nose, old before his years.

  She headed out into the chill autumnal air. It was her favorite time of year, something about the crisp chill, and the colors, and the sense of letting out a deep breath you’ve been holding in all summer.

  She’d taken the call only a few minutes earlier. “Hey, Holly, you free this afternoon?”

  It was Kath’s voice, always a welcome sound as it usually meant there was some work in the offing. And right now, much as Holly liked this time of year, it meant that the tourist season was easing off and so work was getting thinner on the ground. She needed to take all the work she could get right now.

  Things hadn’t been easy since her mother had died three years ago – just at the time her father’s independent department store had finally gone out of business. The store had been in the family since 1923, and now Holly and her father were reduced to living in a tiny cottage rented from the estate, scraping from week to week to find the rent and make ends meet.

  Holly’s cousin Kath ran a small cleaning service, looking after holiday lets and local businesses, and other than occasional bar work and waitressing, this was the main source of Holly’s income. “Can you make it up to the Hall pronto? Apparently they had a big party last night and there’s a bit of a mess left over.”

  “Sure, sure,” Holly had said. It was a Monday, and she didn’t have college today. “Who should I ask for?”

  §

  “Mr Blunt?”

  She didn’t think it was, but she couldn’t be sure. She’d only ever seen him from the distance.

  The guy looked too young, and his hair a shade too dark.

  “Eh? No, no. Not me. I’m just working here.” He stepped back from the door and ushered Holly inside. “Come in, come in. You’ll find him out back with Alfie.”

  She stepped inside and then paused. She’d never been inside the Hall before. The entrance lobby was high, with a domed ceiling, and a sweeping, curved staircase led up to a mezzanine level lined with paintings that were all geometrical blocks of color and random paint spatters. The place had clearly been decorated and furnished by someone with a refined taste, but...

  ...on every available surface there were empty bottles, some standing, some on their sides. Beer bottles, wine, champagne, spirits. Plates with the debris of a buffet; scattered cutlery; food and drink spilled and smeared; muddy footprints across the polished wood floor. Plants were toppled, spewing compost over the floor, and over on the righthand wall, one painting was hanging at an improbable angle. Who has a party like this on a Sunday night? Unless, of course, the party had been going on all weekend.

  Holly almost turned and left right then. It would take her a week to clear this up, let alone the rest of the Hall, too.

  But she needed the cash, and the bigger the mess the longer she’d be needed, and the longer she’d be paid for.

  The guy who had let her in had vanished into the depths of the Hall, so she made her way towards the back, finding a heavy door that opened onto a hallway. Suddenly everything was dark and cramped – a servants’ space, she guessed. Sure enough, she came to a kitchen, and from there she found a door that led out into a small courtyard.

  The sunlight was suddenly dazzling as she stepped out, and then as her eyes adjusted she found a path that led around a corner of the building.

  He was there, in the kitchen garden, leaning over a row of broad beans, off in a world of his own.

  Holly looked around, but he was alone, and just then he glanced up and saw her.

  “Mr Blunt?” she said, stepping forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Holly Colcroft. I’ve come to help clear up. Kath Cooper sent me?” With each sentence she felt less certain, so that she finished on a questioning note.

  Blunt just stared at her, his head tipped slightly to one side. Even close up, it was hard to put an age to him. He was tall and slim, and he clearly looked after himself. His face was smooth but somehow craggy and lived in at the same time, and there was not even a hint of silver in his hair. And those eyes... Eyes that were pale gray and somehow loaded with an incredible sadness.

  He nodded, finally, as if snapping out of a reverie. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, ignoring her proffered hand. “Nathan Blunt. Yes. Cleaning. That’s right.” His voice was deep, slightly gravelly, with a faint northern accent.

  Just then there was a thundering of feet on the mud and a big bundle of red setter erupted from behind a hedge, skidding to a U-turn by Blunt’s feet and then dashing off again.

  “Ah,” said Holly. “Alfie?” She’d thought at first that Alfie must be a person, a child, perhaps.

  Blunt nodded.

  There was something about the man, the way he scrutinized her, the slightly aloof manner, as if he hadn’t really wanted to be disturbed... something a little hostile, territorial.

  She made herself dismiss her unease. Nobody had said anything about having to like the people whose mess she cleared up.

  “Looks like I’ll have my work cut out,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone.

  “Eh? Oh no,” he said, glancing towards the house. “Not all that shit.”

  Holly hadn’t had a particularly sheltered up-bringing, but still she was a bit taken aback at Blunt’s language, the casual crudity in front of a young woman he’d only just met.

  “Not the party,” he continued. “I have people for that. It comes as a package: the caterers, the staff, the entertainment, the clearing up afterwards. Hell, for all I know they even supply half the guests... so many strangers at these things nowadays, not that I really care
. I like it, you know? I like people to enjoy themselves.”

  He didn’t exactly have the expression of someone intent on spreading joy to all and sundry, but Holly let that pass.

  Just then, Alfie returned, ears flapping as he ran. For a few seconds he scampered around Mr Blunt’s feet and then he appeared to notice Holly for the first time. Suddenly alert, he stopped in his tracks, looked at her and then jumped up, muddy paws on her sweater, wet nose and tongue stretching up to her face.

  She laughed and patted him and backed off, all at the same time, just as Blunt snapped “Alfie,” at the dog and took a step towards them.

  “It’s fine,” Holly said. “Really. It’s fine.”

  He didn’t look as if he believed her, but said nothing, and finally Holly broke the awkward silence. “So,” she said, “if it’s not the party, then...?”

  §

  Blunt’s living quarters were in the east wing of the Hall. It seemed odd to have bought somewhere like this, the largest home by far in the village, and yet only live in what was little more than a bachelor pad.

  When Holly followed him back into the Hall, the clean-up team had reached the entrance lobby. The place looked like a crime scene, as a squadron of cleaners in white overalls meticulously cleared and cleaned and polished in almost forensic detail.

  She followed Blunt up that sweeping staircase and along a passage to a locked door that led into his private quarters. Beyond the door there was a small lobby area with more doors opening off it.

  “There’s a bedroom – could do with fresh bedding; you’ll find it, well, somewhere – and a living room, a bathroom, a kitchen. Just don’t touch the study, okay? I don’t like my work-space disturbed. In fact, I’ll be in there with my music on, okay?”

  “Is your usual cleaner away?” Holly asked brightly, determined not to let his mood drag her down. She guessed he was hung over; she didn’t like to think that he might always be like this.

  “No,” he said. “I fired the bitch for being too damned nosy, okay?”

  “I...” She swallowed. She wasn’t going to be intimidated. “So does that mean this might be a regular opportunity, then?”

  He paused, eyeing her, and then shrugged and turned away, leaving her in the lobby.

  She tried the first door, which turned out to lead on to the living room. Unlike the rest of the Hall, this room was furnished with what looked like antiques: lots of heavy, dark furniture and oil paintings in big, ornate frames. There was an oriental theme to it, too, with dried grasses and peacock feathers in Chinese vases, and delicate silk prints of storks and stylized pine trees and mountains. She wondered if here before her was Nathan Blunt’s story, or if it was simply the choice of an interior designer charged with a casual “Make it look nice. And make it look old.”

  The place wasn’t in a bad state at all. Clearly the party had been kept away from Blunt’s private quarters. Holly busied herself with tidying, vacuuming and polishing, a bit of Ella Fitzgerald on her iPod. At one point she paused by the window and looked out. There were vans pulled up to take away the remains of the party. Out in the grounds, an old man went back and forth on a mower, cutting the grass in neat strips of green. So many people... it must cost a fortune to look after this place.

  Back out in the lobby, she tried the next door and it opened into a darkened room, blinds pulled closed and the only light coming from a pair of widescreen computer monitors playing a screensaver of abstract, animated shapes.

  Books lined the walls, with a selection of exotic arts and crafts sharing the shelf-space: African masks, pots and vases, little drums, figures carved from wood and stone.

  “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  She jumped. She hadn’t seen him there, stretched out on a chaise longue beyond the desk, heavy earphones now pulled down around his neck, away from his ears.

  The study. He’d said not to disturb the study... “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize this was–”

  “No worries, no worries,” he said, hands held up to placate her. “I’ve a bark worse than Alfie today.”

  “It’s fine,” said Holly. “Really it is.”

  “About what you said,” he went on. “Yes, I need to sort out something longer term. I’ve seen you around the place, heard good things. I asked Mrs Cooper for you specifically. It’d be good if we could come to some kind of arrangement. This place takes a lot of upkeep.”

  He was trying to be nice, she realized, but it didn’t come across that way. He’d ‘seen her about’, he’d asked for her ‘specifically’, he wanted ‘some kind of arrangement’... Creepy.

  She smiled, and said, “That’d be good, thanks.” The money. Nobody cleaned up other people’s mess for the fun of it, after all. Just think of the money.

  “Your old man,” Blunt said now. “He had Colcroft’s, didn’t he?”

  She nodded.

  “Nice old place. We used to visit down here when I was a lad. Family holidays to the Cotswolds. Used to stay in a caravan up by Stow-on-the-Wold every Whitsun half-term holiday.”

  It was hard to picture Nathan Blunt staying in a caravan.

  “I remember Colcroft’s, all right,” he continued. “Cream and jam scones in the café, flying saucers and Refreshers from the sweet counter. So why’d it close down, then?”

  “The place just couldn’t keep up with the big boys,” said Holly. They didn’t really talk about the shop any more. Her father associated its closure with the death of Holly’s mother, although there was no actual connection other than cruel timing. Talk of the shop was like opening an old wound for him. “It was in the family for almost a century, but I guess there’s no space for a family department store that does a bit of everything these days. Debenhams and Dorothy Perkins out-did us on clothes. Tesco and Sainsbury beat us on the food. B&Q on hardware, Ikea on furniture.”

  “Shame,” said Blunt. “Seems wrong that a nobody like me can get a place like this and someone like your old man can lose everything... Me: I’m just an engineer. I have a company that makes kit for laboratories – optics and precision engineering. I hardly see the place now, yet still they keep on paying me... Sorry: that’s crass of me again. Sounded like I’m bragging. I’m not, really I’m not. You know what my firm’s called? BI Incorporated. Short for Blunt Instruments. Some people say the name fits.”

  And then he pushed his headphones up to cover his ears and closed his eyes, the conversation abruptly dismissed.

  §

  He was a strange one, Mr Blunt.

  She’d cleaned his living room, but still didn’t know much about him. The mess was superficial, like cleaning a holiday let rather than somewhere properly lived in. The furnishings and antiques were okay, but very impersonal.

  So far, all she knew was that he was a gruff man who loved his dog and lived alone. A man whose bark was probably worse than his bite, even if his first reaction was always to bark, it seemed.

  A man with connections to the area, so not a complete stranger, then.

  A businessman who didn’t want to have anything to do with his business any more.

  A man who appeared to have lots of barriers around himself to keep people out.

  Gay, she was sure. There was something about him. And also, she had enough gay friends to realize that even in these enlightened times they had to protect themselves from a cruel world with by putting up barriers around their lives, just as Blunt did.

  §

  She hadn’t expected anyone to be in the bedroom, and certainly not a woman wearing only a tiny black thong, lying flat out on the bed like a starfish.

  “Oh, erm... I’m sorry, I...”

  The woman was tall and leggy, her skinny body angular as if someone had drawn out her geometry precisely beforehand. She had jet hair that looked dyed, big dark eyes and something East European about her features beneath the smudged make-up.

  She sat bolt upright on the bed when Holly came in, and then clutched her head in both hands melodramatically. “O
h,” she said. “That hurt.” Then: “No, no, it’s okay. I’m not sticking around.”

  Holly stopped in the doorway, unsure whether to carry on retreating or to simply push the vacuum in before her and start clearing up. There was a champagne bottle in an ice bucket over on a dresser by the window. Champagne flutes on tables to either side of the enormous, canopied bed. Clothes on the floor: black trousers, a white shirt, black shorts, socks; a slinky little black dress that the woman was now pulling over her head and down across that long super-model body.

  All it took was a matter of seconds. How did people like her do it? Instantly, this woman was like a model, a calendar girl. The smudged make-up looked stylish, like something artfully done for a photo shoot; the hair had a choppy cut, so the straight from bed look was like something a stylist would work on for an hour to arrange just so.

  And here was Holly. Ordinary everyday Holly in her faded jeans and pumps, the t-shirt and the little apron with the pockets that held the tools of her trade. No make-up, her ash-blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail. Just Holly.

  “So?” said the woman, and Holly realized she’d been staring.

  Then the hostility melted and the woman leaned closer, tottering on the heels she’d just pulled on. “You listen, okay? You don’t let him touch you, okay? You don’t wanna know what he’s like.”

  “No?” said a man’s voice.

  It was Blunt, standing behind Holly so that suddenly she was caught in the middle.

  She stepped into the room and then sideways, feeling silly as she still pushed the vacuum cleaner before her. Just what she needed: caught in the middle of a domestic.

  “You were leaving, weren’t you?”

  For a moment it wasn’t clear who he was addressing, then the dark-haired woman hissed something Holly couldn’t make out, and stormed out of the room.

  An instant later there was the slam of the door to the private quarters and then she was gone.

  Blunt had turned those cold gray eyes on Holly now. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “Just one of my tarts. Good riddance to her.”