Mismatch: A Winning Ace Novel (Book 4) (A Winning Ace Novel) Read online

  “Want a top-up?” she said, nodding at his empty glass.

  “Wow. A second glass? That must move me up the list surely?”

  Jayne swiped the glass from his hand and poured them both refills. “Here. But that’s your lot. And two glasses of wine do not get you an entrance ticket.”

  Rupe laughed and glanced at his watch. “It’s way past my bedtime anyway. You’re a terrible influence on me.”

  “You’ve definitely got that the wrong way around,” Jayne said. A knock on the door interrupted her next thought. She frowned and then rolled her eyes. Only one person would be so self-absorbed as to assume that calling unannounced, when it was past eleven, was acceptable behaviour.

  “Are you expecting someone?” A strange expression crossed Rupert’s face. “Do you want me to go?”

  “No, stay,” Jayne said a little too quickly, causing Rupe scratch his cheek in confusion. “It’ll be Kyle. My soon-to-be ex,” she added by way of explanation.

  His eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. “At this time?”

  Jayne nodded as another knock came at the door, definitely sounding more irritated than the first one. “He doesn’t believe in boundaries.”

  Rupe stood, his posture stiff. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, maybe I’ll have to bloody well point them out.”

  Jayne patted his shoulder on the way to the door. “I appreciate the sentiment, but tone down the alpha, please. You’ll only make things worse. Leave him to me.”

  Jayne drew to a halt in front of the door and took a deep breath. She pressed her eye to the peephole. Yep. Kyle. Red-faced. Just what she didn’t need.

  She opened the door. “What do you want, Kyle?” she said in a bored tone. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  He brushed past her without being invited but came to a hard stop when he saw Rupe. He glanced over his shoulder at Jayne. “Well, well. No wonder it’s inconvenient. Did I interrupt something, Jayne?”

  Jayne shot a warning glare at Rupe as he began to speak. She put herself between the two men. “I’ll ask again. What do you want, Kyle?”

  Kyle planted his hands on his hips—a habit that always made Jayne chuckle because he looked so effeminate, which wasn’t his intention at all.

  “I got your latest offer.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a no, Jayne. You know what I want.”

  “Well, that’s a shame, Kyle, because that’s my best and final offer. The next one will be fifty per cent less, so I’d act quickly if I were you.”

  Jayne didn’t need to see Rupe to know he was bristling behind her. She put a hand behind her back and stuck up her thumb in an attempt to convey that she was fine. Handling Kyle was something she’d become an expert at. It would only make the situation worse if Rupe tried to get involved.

  Kyle made a scoffing noise. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Jayne laughed but made sure the sound was hollow, almost condescending. “If I chose to, I could tie you up in legal knots for years.” It was completely untrue, but he wouldn’t know that. He’d never taken an interest in her career. “Don’t be a dick your whole life, Kyle. Accept the terms, I’ll sign the divorce papers, and you and I can go our separate ways.”

  “You bitch.” Kyle’s hands closed around Jayne’s upper arms, and he shook her so hard that her brain rattled inside her skull. Before she had a chance to react, she found herself free.

  She blinked a couple of times. Rupe had Kyle on the ground, one arm twisted up his back and Rupe’s knee digging right into Kyle’s lower spine. Kyle grunted and tried to wriggle free. Rupe tightened his grip.

  “Apologise to the lady,” Rupe gritted out.

  “Fuck you.”

  Rupe pushed Kyle’s arm farther up his back. Kyle cried out in pain.

  “Apologise, or I’ll break your arm.”

  “Rupe, no,” Jayne said, keeping her tone low and firm in an effort to calm the escalating tension. “It’s what he wants. You’ll get in trouble. Let him go.”

  Rupe met her gaze and nodded but then grabbed Kyle by his hair and slammed his face into the floor. Kyle howled as blood spurted from his nose all over her oak flooring.

  “Goddammit,” she said as Kyle staggered to his feet, clutching his face. “If that stains, Rupert Fox-Whittingham, you’re paying for the cleanup.”

  Rupe burst out laughing. “Cheap at half the price.”

  “I’m going to press charges.” Kyle lurched over to the door, blood oozing through his fingers.

  “You do that, buddy.” Rupe shoved him in the back. He slammed the door behind Kyle and turned to face her. “What a cock.”

  Jayne huffed in frustration. “I told you to leave it.”

  “He put his hands on you,” Rupe said in an incredulous tone. “I’m not going to stand around and let him rough you up.”

  “Haven’t you had enough of being questioned by the police?”

  When Rupe remained silent, Jayne let out a sigh. “Kyle’s a coward. He wouldn’t have done anything. You should have let me handle it. All you’ve done is given him more leverage. He will sue, you know, especially when he finds out who you are.”

  Rupe shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Jayne swept a hand over her face. “Look, I’m tired. Let’s call it a night.”

  Rupe rubbed the back of his neck. “Have I fucked this up?” he said, swinging his hand between the two of them.

  “We don’t have a this.”

  “Yet,” Rupe said with a wolfish grin.

  Despite her irritation, Jayne gave him the briefest of smiles before shoving him in the shoulder. “Go on. Out. I’ve got to clean Kyle’s bodily fluids off my floor before I can get to bed, thanks to you.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  Jayne raised her eyebrows. “When was the last time you scrubbed a floor?”

  Rupe laughed. “Fair point. Can I see you tomorrow?”

  Jayne shook her head. “I’m visiting my grandmother, remember?”

  “Sorry. Of course. Next week, then.”

  “I’ve got a lot on at work.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Fine,” she said, drawing a triumphant look from Rupe. “Now, go.”

  After she’d closed the door, Jayne drifted over to the window. Rupe appeared outside her apartment building, and an uneasy feeling stirred inside her as she watched him climb into his car. This wasn’t good. A funny, smart, good-looking guy who defended a girl’s honour was the stuff dreams were made of. Except none of that mattered, because it couldn’t go anywhere.

  She baulked as she cleaned up Kyle’s blood—the thick, gloopy fluid reminding her of spilled eggs when the liquid wouldn’t absorb into the paper towel. Once her floor was blood-free, she cleared away the wine glasses and put the wine back in the fridge. As she entered her bedroom, the bed seemed to overwhelm the space, almost as though it were mocking her singleton status. Ridiculous really. She’d bought it when she’d thrown Kyle out, almost as a symbolic “screw you”—a super-king-sized bed for a woman who liked to sprawl and now could.

  She changed for bed and flicked off the light, praying for a full night’s sleep free of dreams.

  Jayne woke, not to daylight streaming through her blinds but to the blaring of her phone. Her immediate thought was Ganny. She scrabbled about until her hand closed around it. Her heart thundered in her chest

  “Hello,” she said breathlessly.

  “Jayne.” Rupe’s voice came down the line, tension and a hint of panic in his tone. “Can you come to the police station? They’ve arrested me on suspicion of Nessa’s murder.”

  9

  Rupe tried to stay calm as he waited for Jayne to arrive. This was utterly ridiculous. How could they think he was capable of murder? His leg jiggled up and down. Come on, Jayne. Where was she? It must have been an hour since he’d called, and she didn’t live too far away. Surely, she should have arrived by now.

  What if something’s wrong? Oh God, what if Kyle h
ad turned up again, and she was having to deal with him instead of coming to Rupe’s aid? That would mean he’d have to get another lawyer. He didn’t want another lawyer. He trusted Jayne, even more so since their breakthrough date that night.

  This wasn’t exactly how he’d planned for the evening to end.

  Shit. This was serious. Murder. Dear God, he could go to prison. He saw the funny side of most things in life, but there was nothing funny in this. His money might buy him the best legal representation, but it wouldn’t help when it came to a jury. And what would his father say? Dad was still grieving after the loss of Mum. The last thing Dad needed was to find out his son was being accused of murder.

  Oh, stop rambling, Witters. They’re not going to charge you. Jayne would arrive and sort this mess out. It was all just a stupid misunderstanding.

  He’d fallen into a false sense of security. When the days had passed without the police asking him any more questions, he’d assumed it was all over—that Nessa had died of natural causes, and the police hadn’t thought to tell him.

  But if they thought she’d been murdered, then there had to be evidence to suggest such a thing.

  A sudden urge to run, to hide—to escape from the situation—built within him like an unstoppable avalanche moving down a mountainside. His heart began to beat faster as adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. This was a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

  He made eye contact with the copper who’d been tasked with babysitting him until Jayne arrived. He tried for a bit of solidarity and understanding. Instead, he got a flat stare and a wide yawn.

  The door to the interview room opened, and Jayne walked in. The Jayne of the previous night was gone. In her place stood the super-efficient lawyer, hair swept up and pinned to within an inch of its life, a briefcase clutched tightly in her hand. She wore a smart suit and classy shoes. Relief swept over Rupe.

  “A moment with my client, please,” she said to the babysitter.

  Without a word, the copper stood and left them alone.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Rupe bit out, worry and fear making him snap.

  Jayne shot him a look from the corner of her eye as she took a pad and pen out of her briefcase. She set the briefcase on the floor and carefully laid out writing materials in front of her before fixing him with a stare.

  “You called me forty-five minutes ago. I was in bed. I dressed, gathered my things together, and drove here. That took thirty minutes. Then I had to get through the dick of a desk sergeant downstairs who clearly has a problem with strong, successful women. Anything else?”

  Rupe scrubbed his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m stressing the fuck out.”

  Jayne squeezed his hand, the comforting gesture of a friend, not a lawyer. “Look, I’ll represent you today, but if this does go further, I’m going to pass your case on to my partner.”

  Rupe shook his head violently. “No. If this does go further—and I hope to fuck it doesn’t—I want you.”

  “But I’m not a criminal lawyer. Darren is a terrific defence attorney.”

  “No,” Rupe repeated firmly. “I want you.”

  “Let’s discuss it later,” Jayne said with a tinge of frustration to her tone. “Now remember, stay calm, answer their questions fully, and no smart-arse remarks. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s get this show on the road.”

  Detective Fisher entered the room, along with another detective Rupe hadn’t seen before. Fisher sat opposite Rupe while the other copper faffed about setting up the tape. Once satisfied, he, too, settled back in his chair.

  “I need to inform you that this interview is being recorded. I am Detective Fisher, and this is Detective Armstrong. Can you please identify yourselves for the tape?”

  Rupe and Jayne did as he asked.

  “Thank you. The time is three oh five a.m.”

  Fisher reread Rupe his rights.

  “Mr Fox-Whittingham, if we can just go over your statement once more, please.”

  Rupe refrained from rolling his eyes, Jayne’s warning loud in his ears. He painstakingly answered their questions, one after the other. After more than an hour of questioning, a knock at the door interrupted Fisher’s flow. A female PC put her head inside the interview room and signalled for him to follow her. Fisher stopped the tape and left the room.

  Rupe squirmed in his seat as Jayne scratched her pen over the pad in front of her. Her neat swirls and squiggles could end up amounting to the beginning of a defence against a charge for a crime he hadn’t committed. People were wrongfully arrested, charged, and convicted all the time.

  Nausea churned in his stomach as he waited for Fisher to return. He’d been gone a while, but when the door to the interview room opened and Fisher reentered, something about his demeanour made the hairs on the back of Rupe’s neck stand up. Fisher didn’t walk back to his chair—he swaggered. After sitting down, he started the tape and repeated who was in the room once again.

  “Sorry about that,” Fisher said with a false attempt at camaraderie. “We’ve had the toxicology reports back on Mrs Reynolds.” He paused for effect. “She died of a heroin overdose.”

  Rupe recoiled in his chair. “Heroin? That can’t be right. I’ve never seen Nessa take drugs.”

  “The toxicology reports confirmed it. A lethal dose. She didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Oh God.” A coldness settled over him. Poor Nessa. “But when did she take it? Because I never saw her. She had no needle tracks, no evidence of being a druggie. Something isn’t right.”

  Fisher ignored him. Instead, he passed Rupe a plastic bag that contained a photograph of a guy in his early twenties, maybe younger. The guy looked as rough as they came. He had greasy, lank hair, dirty clothes, an emaciated body, and a wild, almost feral stare as he looked down the camera lens.

  “For the tape, I am showing Mr Fox-Whittingham Exhibit 2a. Do you recognise this person?”

  “No.”

  Fisher pushed the photograph closer. “Look again. Make sure, please.”

  Rupe pressed his lips together, and his face tightened. “I told you, no. I don’t recognise him.”

  “Funny that.” Fisher leaned back in his chair. He lifted his chin and smoothed a hand down the front of his pale-blue shirt before tightening his tie. “Because that young man maintains he sold you a half a kilo of heroin the night before Mrs Reynolds died.”

  Shock rolled through Rupe’s system. “I have never seen that person before in my life, and I did not buy any heroin from him.” He ran a hand over the top of his head. “I wouldn’t even know where to buy heroin. Jesus, I’m a businessman, not a druggie in search of a fix, and I don’t consort with drug addicts either.”

  Fisher looked decidedly unimpressed with Rupe’s vehement defence. The detective wore a condescending smile. Rupe would have given anything to be able to smack it off his face, but as he was in enough trouble, that wouldn’t have been the smartest move.

  Rupe turned to Jayne. Her face was unreadable—she’d be a killer poker player—but she had made several notes. Then she focused her gaze on Fisher, her sharp eyes reading his expression.

  Fisher waited for a few moments as he let the information sink in, and then he cleared his throat and rose from his chair. “Mr Fox-Whittingham, please follow me to the custody suite, where you will be charged with the murder of Mrs Vanessa Reynolds.”

  10

  Rupe sat in the police cell with his head in his hands, overwhelmed by incredulity. Murder? He couldn’t murder someone. Sooner or later, the police would realise their mistake and let him go.

  His arse was numb from sitting on the thin mattress. He stood and paced around the cell, not that proper pacing was possible, given the size of the cage. In the corner, a white toilet with a steel rim emitted a faint stench of faeces mingled with bleach. On top of the mattress was a flat pillow covered in stains and a thin, scratchy blanket that would no doubt make him break out in hives.

 
; He couldn’t stay there.

  As his breathing began to escalate, he forced himself to calm down. Panicking would get him nowhere. He needed to think, to stay focused, to do whatever it took to get out of there as soon as humanly possible.

  The letterbox-sized slit in the heavy metal door opened, and the custody sergeant peeked through before the steel bolts holding the door in place slid back. A jolt of hope shot through Rupe. Maybe they were letting him out after realising they’d fingered the wrong guy.

  Instead, the sergeant stepped through the door, holding a plastic tray aloft. “Breakfast,” he said, placing the tray on the floor.

  Rupe almost laughed. It was like primary school. The food had been placed in individual compartments with overcooked scrambled eggs in one, a slice of bacon in another, and black pudding—disgusting at the best of times—in another. They’d even added a small piece of pineapple coated in congealed yoghurt.

  “And a drink.” He pointed to a Ribena carton with a red straw sticking out of the top.

  The sergeant began to back out of the room, and Rupe had a sudden urge to beg him to stay, but he kept his lips sealed as the heavy steel door was slammed shut.

  He stared at the food tray before kicking it aside. He did drink the Ribena, though. And then he sat on the bed and waited.

  A couple of hours later, the door to his cell opened once more. The custody sergeant entered, holding a pair of handcuffs.

  “Time for court,” he said, indicating for Rupe to hold his wrists out. Rupe did as he was asked, his incredulity rising with each step of this godforsaken process. Things like this didn’t happen to people like him.

  “Where’s my lawyer?”

  “She’ll meet you at court.” With his hand on the small of Rupe’s back, he ushered him through the door. Outside the police station, Rupe was placed in a prison van—the type with tiny windows that made it impossible to see through, although he, like most people, had seen news footage of photographers desperately scrambling to get a partial shot of the latest newsworthy criminal.