PRE-ORDER: Swipe Right for a Bit of Murder (Vigilauntie Justice #3) ebook

Swipe Right for a Bit of Murder

Chapter 1: In which an unfortunate event befalls our heroine

Baz still got palpitations every time she crossed here. After checking to make sure no one was turning south onto Brookmill Road, she steered her mobility scooter into the road, heading towards the café for her daily get-together with the girls.

Nine months earlier, she’d injured her left knee crossing this very road. It was a hard lesson to learn, but she knew better than to set out without looking to make sure that the drivers turning left knew they had a delayed signal.

It was a lovely summer morning. The sun was at her back and she was on her way to meet her friends.

Her right knee was doing well too. She could probably walk to the café without the scooter now. In fact, she might try just that one morning. But then – what would happen if she made it halfway and then ran out of steam? Or if the pain became unbearable?

No, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

It had been fifteen months since the surgery to repair her right knee – and more than a year and a half since the life-changing injury that had ended her career with the RCMP. She’d taken early retirement as a result and accepted the generous compensation won for her by the excellent solicitor at her husband’s – sorry, ex-husband’s – firm.

No, she wasn’t going to start thinking about Hari or their life back in Canada. That wouldn’t do. He’d made his feelings clear. He was happy for her. He understood that transitioning was right for her. But he was a gay man – Hari could never be with a woman.

And besides, she had Paul now. Didn’t she?

Paul, who was so sweet and kind. They’d been seeing each other for four months – though they were still taking things slowly.

But Baz had been with Hari for thirty years. The idea of starting over with someone new still felt utterly alien to her.

Something slammed into her side. An involuntary scream tore out of her. Wind whipped her hair. Fabric flapped in front of her face.

The whole thing was over in a flash, leaving her panting as she waited for her heart rate to fall back to normal levels. But she had no idea what had actually happened.

She hadn’t even realised she’d stopped moving – though of course she had as soon as she let go of the scooter’s accelerator – until a young man spoke. ‘You all right, miss? Did they get anything?’ He was holding her shoulder, propping her up on her left side.

His words weren’t making any sense. Nothing made any sense.

She’d nearly fallen out of her scooter.

Clutching her throat, Baz tried to catch enough breath to respond. And to right herself so she was sitting upright without his support. ‘Thank you, I’m fine, I think. They… What? Who?’

The young man – who was he? He stretched an arm out, pointing down New Cross Road, towards central London. ‘The thieves?’

Baz looked where he was indicating. Horns blared and people shouted at a motorbike as it squeezed between cars and ran the red at the bottom of Tanner’s Hill. ‘What?’

‘Did they?’ he repeated. He was tall and muscular, with long locs hanging over his deep brown skin. His bright blue polo shirt was tucked into his trousers, giving him access to the tool belt at his waist.

Baz’s heart was still in her throat. ‘Did who what, dear?’

‘Did they get anything?’ The young man bent and looked into her eyes, like he was trying to gauge her mental fitness – which she supposed he was.

‘No, no,’ she reassured him. ‘I’m completely fine.’ She made to lift her handbag to demonstrate her point … only it wasn’t there. ‘Oh. Oh, no.’

He cocked his head sympathetically. ‘Phone?’

She frowned. ‘Afraid so. They grabbed my handbag – which had my phone and my wallet in it. And everything else. Oh dear.’ She wasn’t going to cry. Not here. Not now.

The man smiled kindly. ‘Sorry, auntie. Can I ring somebody for you?’

Baz realised she was still clenching her fists and made a concerted effort to relax them. ‘My friends.’

The young man pulled a phone from his pocket.

‘No, sorry, dear. I mean, I’m on my way to meet them. At the café just ahead.’ Baz waved a hand in the direction she’d been heading.

‘Mrs Dixon’s place – is that what you mean?’

Baz breathed slowly. Of course he knew Madge. Everyone knew Madge. ‘Yes, Wellbeloved – that’s the one.’

He nodded. ‘C’mon. I’ll walk you there. Make sure you’re all right.’

‘Thank you.’ Baz turned the speed knob down then wrapped her fingers around the scooter’s accelerator. She began to inch forwards. ‘I appreciate your help. I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.’

‘Nah, fam. My work can live without me for five minutes.’ He walked alongside her as they made their way to the café.

‘Oh? Where do you work?’ It still took effort to prevent her voice from shaking.

He waved at the logo on his chest. ‘Just over at the Wickes on Blackheath Road – you know it?’

‘Oh dear.’ Bile rose in Baz’s throat as she realised her mistake. ‘I’ve got you going the wrong direction.’ Her emotions were all over the shop.

He flashed a thousand-watt grin at her. ‘Nah, we’re cool. It won’t take long. Need to make sure you’re a’right, innit? My mum would never forgive me if I didn’t deliver you safely into the hands of your friends.’

‘Here we are.’ Baz steered her mobility scooter into its usual spot between the public car park and the outdoor tables at Wellbeloved Café. She switched the engine off and went to drop the keys into her handbag – before realising her error.

‘Y’aright?’ Her new friend had a concerned look on his face. He held out his elbow for her to take.

Baz smiled as she accepted his arm. ‘I will be. Thank you.’

As she dismounted the scooter, a cheerful voice startled the pair.

‘Morning, pickle!’ Carole had come out of the café to join them. She was a cheerful White woman a few years older than Baz. Her frilly, grandmotherly clothes – you never knew what Carole might wear on any given day – disguised a body honed by hours spent in the gym every day.

The young man looked at Carole. ‘Good morning. Mrs Ballard, innit?’

‘Ballard sounds like bollard and everyone knows those are just architectural nuisances.’

Baz smiled at her friend. ‘Good morning, Carole. How are you?’ She deposited her keys into the pocket of her cardigan. They weighed her down in a strange and lopsided way. She hoped they wouldn’t rip a hole in the flimsy fabric.

‘Peggy sent me out here to make sure you’re aware of the chemtrails. It’s Napoleon and Tony Blair at it again – of course it is. Always going to war with one another over control of the Hittite race, you see. And if the chemtrails make contact with your skin, the consequences will be dire.’

Carole prattled on like this as the three of them walked the few metres to the café’s entrance. As they passed the front window, Baz spied a woman wearing a beautiful chiffon skirt and floral cardigan.

Oh, that’s me! That’s my reflection. She fingered the gauzy fabric. Inside the café, the customary scents of coffee and sugar and pastries enveloped her, allowing her lingering panic to ebb.

Baz turned to her new friend. ‘I should get you a coffee too. Or whatever you want. To thank you for coming to my rescue.’ And then she remembered. ‘Oh, drat.’

The young man placed a gentle hand on her arm. ‘It’s fine, auntie. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’

‘Thank you.’ Baz looked at Carole. ‘Would you be so kind as to place my order for me? I’m afraid I don’t have my wallet.’

Carole chuckled. ‘Orders? Good gravy, no! They wouldn’t let someone like me take orders. Have you not listened to a single one of my stories?’ She booped Baz on the nose before turning and heading into the coffee shop’s second room. ‘Baz wants me to take holy orders! Can you even imagine?’ She dropped heavily onto her seat on the small sofa, giggling gleefully.

A full-figured Black woman wearing a very smart yet comfortable-looking red dress looked up. ‘Jerome Evans, is that you? How do you know our Ms Spencer?’ Madge always seemed to know everyone in the neighbourhood. She was the most social person Baz knew. And heaven knew Madge’s people skills had frequently come in handy.

The young man, Jerome, guided Baz into the second room. ‘Morning, Mrs Dixon.’ He nodded at Peggy. ‘Auntie. Your friend was mugged. I walked her the rest of the way here to make sure she was safe.’

‘Thank you, Jerome.’ Baz settled herself into her usual chair. She made to pick up her teacup before realising she didn’t have one. Cookie, Peggy’s enormous Alsatian, crawled out from under the low table and came to sit on Baz’s feet, tickling her toes through her sandals. He arched his back and pressed his face into her armpit. She buried her fingers into his fur, letting his calm nature flow into her.

Peggy looked up from her laptop, her fingers still perched on the keys. Her short, spiky hair was freshly dyed – not just its usual hot pink but a whole rainbow of colours. ‘I hope you got a good look at the culprits.’ Her hair was stunning. Baz thought she looked radiant – despite her seventy-some years.

‘I’ll send Harvey Junior to deal with the bastards,’ added Carole.

Jerome rubbed his hand over his face. He looked as though he were trying to erase himself. ‘Sorry. I shoulda tried to get a pic of the number plate.’

‘Number plate?’ Madge repeated it back as a question. ‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Jerome?’ Madge had also changed her hair since Friday. Today, she sported a very sleek and stylish chin-length bob.

‘His hands were otherwise occupied.’ Several eyebrows raised at that. ‘If not for his lightning reflexes, I would have fallen off my scooter.’ Baz thought she was seeing spots – though it could have been her eyes struggling to adapt to the lower levels of light indoors. ‘He caught me,’ she clarified. Well, tried to clarify. She wasn’t sure if it helped.

‘The thief was on a moped,’ Jerome said.

Baz leant forwards to pick up her tea once more – before remembering there still wasn’t any to pick up. Her hands were shaking.

‘I see.’ Madge lowered her glasses so she could peer directly at the young man. ‘Jerome, would you be so kind as to go ask Sarah to bring Ms Spencer her usual order and to place it on my tab? Tell her to make haste. And you can get yourself a coffee as well.’ Her hands were still busy with her knitting – a lovely teal jumper.

Jerome nodded, relief washing over his features. ‘Of course, auntie.’ He escaped back into the other room.

Madge gave a quick nod before turning to Baz. ‘Now what’s all this about being mugged?’

Clasping a hand to her chest, Baz took a slow, deep breath. ‘I’m fine. I’ll be fine.’

Madge and Peggy shared one of their looks – born from years of friendship. Carole waved at a pigeon outside on the road.

After a few moments, Peggy made a rolling motion with her hand. Her short fingernails were due for a repaint – most of the black polish had flaked off. ‘We know you will be fine, Baz. But you’re clearly not fine now. What happened?’

Her heart rate was finally drifting back down to its normal pace. ‘I was on my way here, when I felt a sudden crash. I was lucky Jerome was there to assist. I didn’t even realise what had hit me, but someone on a moped grabbed my handbag. By the time I looked up, they were crossing the lights at the bottom of the high street. Running a red, in fact. They got my phone, my wallet – everything.’

Madge kissed her teeth. ‘What’s becoming of this neighbourhood? A woman can’t go for a stroll in broad daylight.’

Peggy nodded. ‘Disgraceful!’

Without letting go of her knitting, Madge reached over and tapped Peggy on the knee. ‘It’s just like what happened with your laptop.’

Peggy cast her eyes down to Madge’s hand and looked up at the woman herself until she withdrew her hand. ‘I am very well aware of my missing device. We’ve spoken about it countless times over the last few months. I’m bored of talking about it.’

Madge’s needles returned to their rapid click-clacking. ‘You were burgled in the middle of the aftern—’

‘We know all this.’ Peggy rolled her eyes. ‘Everyone here knows what happened. Our flat was burgled three months ago while Carole and I had lunch with her daughter. And I’ll grant you it was an interesting topic … for the first week or so. But I’m seventy-six years old and I don’t wish to spend my remaining decades covering the same topic over and over again.’

Baz suspected Peggy was still processing the trauma of having her home – her personal space – invaded. But Peggy was a woman of analysis and action – she wasn’t one for talking about her feelings.

Madge frowned at Peggy. ‘There’s no cause for interrupting me.’

Peggy focused her gaze on the screen of her replacement device. ‘And there’s no cause for laying hands on me.’

Madge harrumphed. ‘Oh, please. I touched your knee. Don’t be so dramatic.’

Peggy and Madge’s verbal sparring matches used to make Baz uncomfortable. But, these days, the pair’s spats only gave her mild butterflies in her tummy – they no longer left her clenching every muscle. She knew it was all bluff and bluster; there was no venom in it. The two women clearly loved one another a great deal.

Platonic love, naturally. Peggy was madly in love with Carole. And Madge was straight. But the love was real all the same.

Sarah, Madge’s youngest daughter, bustled through the door. ‘Ms Spencer!’ She laid a tray on the table in front of the women and placed one hand on Baz’s shoulder and another on Cookie’s head. ‘Jerome just told me what happened. Are you okay?’

While Sarah spoke, Madge bent forwards and poured Baz’s tea. She added oat milk from the little pot and a spoonful of sugar, then slid the cup towards her friend. Baz didn’t normally take sugar – though somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that was something you did for shock.

‘Ta.’ Baz reached out and picked up the tea, clutching it to herself and breathing in the vapours. ‘I’m fine, Sarah. Thank you. Or, at least, I will be.’

Sarah stood. ‘You sure? Have you called the police already or do you need someone to do that for you?’

Having taken a long sip of the life-infusing beverage, Baz lowered her mug to her lap. ‘I’ll be all right. Thank you. I’ll ring them from home this afternoon once I’m feeling more myself.’

Sarah gave Baz’s shoulder a quick squeeze before ducking back through to the main room.

Jerome poked his head through the doorway and lifted his coffee in thanks. ‘You ladies all right? Only I’m already late to work.’

‘Thank you, Jerome.’ Baz nodded at the young man who’d come to her rescue.

‘We’ve got it from here,’ Peggy added.

Jerome looked at Baz. ‘I’m glad I was able to help – even in a small way.’ With a wave, he turned and headed out.

‘What did these ruffians get?’ Madge peered closely at her knitting before resuming.

‘My whole bag.’ Baz fingered the soft, gauzy fabric of her scarf. ‘It had my phone, my wallet, some lipstick, my sunglasses – everything.’ She bit down on her lips to keep herself from crying. ‘Oh! My embroidery. I hadn’t even considered that.’

She took another sip of her tea, trying to think of all the good things in her life. ‘I shouldn’t be such a ninny. I have my health. I have Daisy and wonderful friends.’ She waved a hand at the women around her. ‘I have my flat. I’ve been able to retire relatively young. My life is good. I shouldn’t—’ She pressed her knuckles to her lips and focused on her breathing.

‘Your life is good.’ Madge peered over her glasses at Baz. ‘That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be affected by this.’

Peggy nodded. ‘You’ve had a traumatic experience. Give yourself five minutes to recover, eh?’

Carole, who had seemed to be a million miles away, got up and sidled over to Baz. ‘I haven’t got my knitting with me today, but if you need me to pop home and get my needles, just say the word.’ She pa ted Baz’s arm.

Baz fought the tears that were threatening to fall. ‘Sorry, I don’t know how to knit.’

Carole laughed uproariously. ‘You silly mongoose. I meant my special needles. You know, for dealing with wrong ’uns.’

Baz thanked her strange friend with a smile. She was touched by Carole’s kind – if slightly murderous – offer.

Carole patted her arm once more then returned to her seat.

Unable to put words to what she was feeling, Baz focused on drinking her tea. It hadn’t really been strong enough when Madge poured it – but that was beside the point. It was tea. It possessed almost magical restorative powers. She finished the contents of the cup, then leant forwards and poured another from the lovely floral teapot. Once she’d added a splash of oat milk, she picked up the cup and leant back in her chair.

After a few minutes, she felt like she was almost back to herself. With a quiet sigh, she set the cup down and then bent to pick up her— ‘Oh, drat! My embroidery. I was nearly finished with that piece. You know, the one with the picture of Cookie?’ She wrapped her arms around the dog in question, hugging him close.

Peggy cocked her head. ‘I’m sorry, Baz.’

Still clutching Cookie to herself, Baz let the tears flow. ‘I can’t even pay for my tea. What am I going to do?’

When I published my first book in January 2020, someone at work laughed and asked me when I was going to quit my job.

There’s this perception out there that authors are wealthy people. And I’m sure the big names (e.g. Richard Osman, Stephen King, John Scalzi, etc.) are doing just fine.

But it’s not like that for indie authors. It’s tough out there. There are great, amazing things about being an indie author. But most of us aren’t making bank.

You know who is making money out of books? Jeff Bezos, CEO of Amazon.

You may have noticed a move in recent years of indie authors selling their books directly to you. There’s a reason for that.

If you buy a book for 0.99 from Amazon, the author gets to keep maybe 0.26 of that. Maybe. It depends on the file size. And they won’t even get that for around 3 months. But if you buy a book from an author for 0.99, the author gets to keep around 0.83. And we get that money within days.

Because that first book I mentioned? Four years later, it hasn’t come close to paying for itself.

If you can’t buy direct, libraries are a great way to get books for free while still helping authors get their fair share.