50 comments/ 109208 views/ 12 favorites No Welcome Home Ch. 01 By: The Wanderer Chapter 01: Sandra's Story Author's note. This was going to be the part one of a two or three part story. But as I had just finished this part and was starting on the second; the wife called to tell me that our oldest pony was down in the stable. After five hours of pushing and shoving and a vets bill that is going to make my eyes water. I had lost the inclination to carry on writing the second story; which I had intending to call "No Welcome Home- Dave's Story." It's shame because I was enjoying writing some sex scenes for that part, but I can always use them elsewhere. Anyway I figured that it might be fun to follow the lead of a couple of my favourite authors, and challenge everyone to see what you can make of part two. I have cut out some sections that forced the story to go the way I was intending and I invite everyone who feels inclined, to see what he or she can do. I only ask you please use "No Welcome Home" in your tittle, but not "Dave's Story" because you never know the inspiration may return. The Wanderer. Sandra's Story "Hello there, I'm Sandra Laurence, it looks like we're going to be rooming together for a while." "Oh, you've heard of me. You know you mustn't believe all you hear. Look; let me tell you what really happened. Well, all I know of it anyway." I first got the nasty feeling that something wasn't quite right as the train pulled into the station and my husband was not waiting on the platform for me. Dave was always there to collect me when I came home from my seminars. It was the same procedure four or five times a year, I would be away for five days. Well actually the seminars only lasted two days but I would stay over for an extra day in the city and do some shopping and things, then travel home on the Friday. David always insisted on driving me to the station, as he didn't like the idea of my car being left in the station car park all that time. But for some reason Dave hadn't made his usual evening call to me on the Thursday night and when I had tried to call him I could get no answer from the home phone and his mobile was apparently turned off. I found this a bit disconcerting as Dave was a creature of habit and had never failed to call me on time before. After checking around the car park, to make sure Dave wasn't there; I had to get a taxi home. The house was very quiet and dark when I got inside and there was no answer when I called out for him. After putting my bags down, I did a quick search of the house. I didn't know what I was expecting to find; maybe Dave had fallen and hurt him self or something. He wasn't anywhere inside and I had to use a torch to search the garden; but there was no sign of him there either. When I checked the garage I found both Dave's and my cars were in there. I was getting really concerned now. The house was immaculate unlike it usually was, when I got home after being away. You see Dave's a writer, well an author really and when he gets into one of his books, nothing gets in the way. If I'm not at home he tends to eat Chinese or pizza's that he has delivered and he has the annoying habit of leaving the packaging all over the place, usually on the kitchen table. Well you know what men are like. The sink should have had a stack of Dave's used coffee cups in it, but that day it was empty and the Coffee maker was cold. I can never remember it ever being cold before when Dave was around, I think he lives on the stuff. So something was definitely not right. I phoned the near neighbours to see if Dave had gone to call on any of them. Then the local Pub as Dave sometimes walks down there. No one appeared to have seen him since the previous Sunday. But that didn't make sense as I had spoken to him on the Wednesday and I was sure he told me he was at home. I'm was getting really worried by now and got the idea of calling the takeaways that Dave normally uses. None of them could remember delivering to our house that week. I Just didn't know what the hell was going on? I called Dave's agent John Andrews, if Dave had gone off on a research trip John would know about it. But John hadn't spoken to Dave for a fortnight and he didn't know of any trips Dave had planned. By now I was getting desperate and called the police. Well Paul Johnson anyway, he's a Detective Inspector who lives just up the road from us. He's a good friend of ours and Dave gets advice from him on police maters. Paul came right over and had me check if any of Dave's clothes were missing, as I hadn't thought of doing that. But all his clothes appeared to be there. He took a quick look at our computer and said that no files appeared to have been changed since the previous weekend and Dave's e-mails apparently hadn't been down loaded for a week either. Paul said besides checking the local hospitals, which he would do for me; we couldn't do anything more that night. I didn't sleep that well and on Saturday morning Paul came back He said Dave wasn't in any of the local hospitals and asked me for the precise details as to when I had last seen and spoken to him. I told him Dave dropped me off at the station early on Monday morning. And he had called me at my hotel every evening at 6.30 until Wednesday. I had been expecting him to call me again on Thursday. When he hadn't called me by 7 o'clock I had tried to call Dave, as I had a table booked for dinner. But I had not got an answer. Paul asked if I knew from were Dave had called me and I told him our home phone. But Paul then told me that no calls had been made on our home phone between the Sunday evening and when I got had home on Friday evening. Paul asked if anyone had seen Dave drop me at the Station, but I said I didn't think so, as it had been very early; I had caught the first train. Then he wanted to know were I had been staying. I noticed that Paul was taking notes now and asked him why. "In this job, you have to take note of everything. Now I am going to need access to Dave's computer if you don't mind?" I told him, to go ahead. But he then surprised me by taking the computer away with him, saying he would drop it back to me in a couple of days. By Sunday afternoon I had called everyone I could think of, but no one had seen or heard from Dave. I was beginning to really worry that something might have happened to him. Monday morning I went to work as usual. I wasn't really in the mood for it, but I had to try and get my mind off worrying about Dave. The morning dragged on very slowly. Some of the girls in my office said I should go home because I was so upset. Around ten A.M. on the Monday morning my life took a frightening turn. Two police officers came to my office and asked me to accompany them to the police station. I asked them if it was about Dave and had they found him. They said no they hadn't found him and yes it was about my husband's disappearance. At the police station Paul came over and suggested that it might be a good idea for me to get a solicitor. I found this strange but did as he advised. Once my solicitor had arrived, we were taken into an interview room and another police inspector introduced him self and told me he would like me to repeat everything that I had told Paul. So for the next hour or so I went back over everything. When I had finished, he asked if I was sure that Dave's calls were made at exactly 6.30 and I told him that Dave was a creature of habit. When I was away from home he would have the computer set up to remind him to stop working to do things. That included eating and calling me. He took me by surprise and asked if I knew a man called Andrew Swingfield. I told him, he was a man who I knew was at the same seminar as me. He asked me how well I knew this Andrew Swingfield. I told him I had met him a few times, but I didn't know him very well. He then informed me, the calls I had received at the hotel; that I claimed came from Dave at our home. Were in fact made from a mobile phone that was registered in the name of Andrew Swingfield, and they had all originated through cell-phone antenna that was located across the road from the hotel. I was flabbergasted and didn't know what to say to that. Then my solicitor interrupted and requested that we take a break at this point; as he had things he wished to discuss with me. The police turned off they're tape recorders and left the room, but before they did, they told me they had obtained a search warrant for my house, its grounds and my car and they asked for all my keys. I suddenly realised that they appeared to think that Dave could well be the victim of foul play and it appeared they were looking at me as the culprit. When we were alone my solicitor asked me what my connection with Andrew Swingfield was. I thought it best to admit that Andrew and I had been in the habit of getting together at the seminars. "So you're having an affair with him?" He asked. "No, not an affair, we just enjoy having sex together when were away from home." "Well to most people, that's called having an affair. How long has this affair been going on for?" "Two and half, nearly three years." "Does your husband know about it?" "Don't be silly! He would divorce me in a moment if he found out. Christ, he might even kill me, Dave's very possessive." "Mrs Laurence I have to ask you this and I would advise you that it is in your best interest to tell me the truth. Did you have anything to do with, or do you know anything you haven't told me about your husbands disappearance?" "Don't be silly. Of course I didn't! I love my husband, I wouldn't do anything to hurt him." "You don't think sleeping with another man would hurt him them?" "Only if he found...... Oh God! You don't think he found out, do you?" What I think doesn't mater. But I'm convinced the police believe you, probably with the help of Andrew Swingfield, have disposed of your husband so the two of you can get together." "But I haven't, I love my husband." Well you've got a very strange way of showing it Sandra. Now our problem is damage control and staying ahead of the game. The police are searching your house now. I want you to think! Are they going to find anything there?" "No, nothing I can think of." "No diaries of yours, or letters to you from this Swingfield fellow or anything? "Oh shit! They've got the bloody computer. It's got Andrews e-mails to me on it, and my replies." "Please! Don't tell me they are very graphic?" "Some of them are a bit over the top. Yes"" "Well we had better hope that your husband turns up in the very near future, hadn't we?" ----------------------- Well you've probably read the rest of it in the newspapers and seen it on TV. From then on my life has gone down hill. Look! It's the truth; I honestly haven't got the faintest idea what has happened to Dave or were he is. All I know is, he has never used his credit cards or taken any money from our bank accounts. Inexplicably the police found traces of Dave's blood in the house and in the boot of my car and a camera booked my car for speeding on the motorway at three in the morning on Monday before the seminar; when I know I was in bed with Dave beside me. They even claimed that they found DNA evidence that appeared to prove Andrew had been in our house. I swear to you, to my knowledge Andrew has never been anywhere near the place. But the thing we just couldn't explain was how the hell Andrew's garden spade came to turn up in my garden shed. Oh yes, and that bloody cell-phone Dave was supposed to have used to call me at the hotel; it was found in Andrew's Locker at his golf club. Andrew and I are both due to be sentenced next week; they found us guilty of Dave's manslaughter. My brief thinks we're going to throw the book at us, but he say's we can try an appeal. I'm convinced Dave is alive and out there somewhere. I'm sure he found out about Andrew and me. He's always been a bloody good author of crime novels, and he knew just how to set us up. He's surely got his revenge on me for cheating on him. I'm wondering just how vindictive he is going to be. Is he going to make me serve the full term? But then, who would blame him if he did? The end. Thanks for taking the time to read my ramblings. As usual, I welcome comments both good and bad. But I can't understand anonymous ones; to me they serve little purpose. Leave your tag. No Welcome Home Ch. 02 Chapter 02: Andrew's Story As always my thanks go to LadyCibelle and Techsan for their patience, proof reading, editing skills and of course encouragement This is the second short story of the "No Welcome Home" mystery. At this time I have no idea how many stories there will be in the series, or when I will get around to writing them. Sometimes getting the idea for a tale is one thing, writing it in a manner that does give the game away too early is a whole different ball game. But I can say that all the tales will be written from a different character's perspective. She certainly was a good-looking woman. A bit dumb, but then aren't most women pretty thick when you get down to basics. But then in her favour was the fact that she had one hell of a figure on her and, boy... was she good in bed! To be honest though, the most important point that Sandra had going for her was that her old man was bloody loaded; I'd kind-a sussed that out before I ever approached her in the first place. You see, that's how I used to operate at the time. I suppose some people would describe me as a kind of gigolo and con man all rolled into one. My usual MO was to pick up rich women - preferably widows - and make them believe that I loved them, sometimes even marrying the bitches. But beggars - and clever con men - can't always be choosers. So if there was a husband around, then providing he didn't catch on to what I was up to, who gave a shit; I know I didn't. Anyway the way it worked, I'd relieve the ladies of all their ready cash as quickly and efficiently as I could, and then move on to pastures new. Yeah, all right, one or two of the widows I'd married regrettably had to meet with untimely deaths, much to my good fortune. But -- not just by my good fortune, if you understand me - every one of them had to be put down to natural causes or as unfortunate accidents. To be honest, by that time in my life, I was of the opinion that it was far better if they did die, because at least I didn't have the authorities chasing me around looking for a con man when I did my runner bit. Changing my identity all the time was becoming a bit of a pain in the arse by then. Anyway, I'd just established myself as Andrew Swingfield again, after making a hasty exit from the States, my usual hunting ground. The USA is a big place, and it is pretty easy to disappear over there if you know what you're doing. But it stands to reason that eventually I was going to run out of new places to hide in the country, so I'd returned to England for a while to lie low. Back in the UK again, I'd become Andrew Swingfield and set about living a respectable life and just maybe looking for my next target. I was actually beginning to think about retiring, you know, settling down and maybe even going straight; well for a few years at least. The Dallas police had nearly caught me after my last wife's accident, so I figured it was time to lay low, for a while. I found myself a cushy number working in the sales department of a pretty big company. I've always had the gift of the gab and the money wasn't bad; not that I needed the cash, but I needed a good cover story for how I managed to survive. I'd only been with the firm for a few months when I ran into Sandra Laurence for the first time at a sales seminar. Sandra was lot younger than my usual targets, but she was one good-looking bird. Married yeah, but my first intention was to have nothing more than a little fling with her. Well, yeah I had become aware that cash wasn't a problem to her, so I figured I'd milk her for all I could whilst I was at it; old habits die-hard. Of course I didn't know at the time that she was married to a quite successful author, who was pretty well rolling in dough, what with all those royalty cheques coming in every couple of months. I found that out after I bedded her for the first time. Getting Sandra into bed was a walkover next to some of my previous conquests. God, she was as naive as they come. I worked on her -- very subtly - for most of the seminar, pretending to be the nice guy and then I only had to slip her something to loosen up her inhibitions a little on the last night; then later in the evening I added a tab of E to really get her turned on. Well, then it was bingo - I had her just where I wanted her. Of course I was all apologies when we woke up in bed together the following morning; she was more than a little upset that she'd cheated on her old man. But a little more of my magic brew in the coffee I made her, and she quietened down a little. I knew that she'd enjoyed herself in bed that night - no matter how much she claimed otherwise - and I knew that it would be a few months before we got together again. Experience had taught me that by then, the old "I wasn't caught last time" mindset would have cut in. Sure enough three months later I ran into her at one of the trade shows. We were on the company stand together most of the day and, well... I made sure that Sandra got all the coffee she could drink during the afternoon. By the time we'd had dinner - and a couple of glasses of wine - with the rest of the group that evening, Sandy was feeling no pain. When we woke up in bed the next morning her inhibitions were almost completely gone. Although she did say, "We must never let this happen again. I'm a happily married woman." Well, they all say that, but she didn't stop me from shagging her again before breakfast. Funny how some women react when you go down on them, especially if no one's ever gone down on them before. For the rest of the trade show we shared the same bed every night. Although Sandra did keep going on about her husband Dave. That's really when I found out about the bugger; I'm not into reading novels so I'd never heard of him before. But once Sandra started talking about him, maybe her conscience was bugging her some, because she kept talking about the bugger. Anyway my ears pricked up when she told me about those bleeding great royalty cheques that came rolling in every month or so. The months went past and every time I ran into Sandra at a trade show or company seminar etc., we got together. By that time she could hardly wait to get to my room, or hers. Anyway by the time eighteen months had passed, I had the bitch hooked good and proper... and maybe because she couldn't seem to get enough of me, an idea crept into my head. I had to admit that Sandra was a bleeding good lay. She was good looking and about the right age. She also -- if hubby was no longer around -- had the potential of a very good regular income, long into the future from his book royalties. The plan was simple: dispose of Sandra's old man! Then when a suitable period of time had passed, marry the silly tart. The money she would have coming in from her deceased hubby's books would quite nicely hide the cash I had stashed away from my previous wives, etc. I was not really envisaging disposing of Sandra in a hurry. I think I was thinking along the lines of really settling down and maybe even having a family. You know, the idea of having a couple of sprogs' kind of tickled my fancy. I'm not daft though. Before I could do anything I had to research Dave Laurence and his family; I needed to know if anyone was going to ask too many stupid questions or get nosy if he did meet with an untimely end. Somewhat surprisingly I found that Dave Laurence appeared to have appeared out of thin air about eight years previous. Whether the guy had spent all of his youth abroad or what, I could not find out. As far as I could make out, there seemed to be no record of him living in the UK before he bought the house that he now shared with Sandra. That really should have been a warning to me, for if anyone tried to research my past they would find the same brick wall. However I'd had a very successful life as a con artist by then, maybe too successful and I must have gotten overconfident. I stupidly assumed that as I couldn't find any of Dave Laurence's family, then there was no one around to ask those questions; I didn't ask myself why. Hearsay I know, but I picked up that he'd met Sandra soon after moving into the village and after a whirlwind romance they'd got married nine months later. The general opinion around the village they lived in was that they were a devoted couple. But as I said, no one seemed to have any information about Dave Laurence's past. It didn't take long after I stood next to him in his local pub one night to discover - from the faint trace of an accent he had that he still had - that he originally had to have come from the London area somewhere. London is a big city; I come from there myself. So big in fact, and with a pretty diverse population, that if you've grown up there, you can learn a hell of a lot from the way people speak, the actual words and references they use. I had to fall into casual conversation with the guy to discover that he most likely came from the Lambeth area. His referring to the Elephant in conversation, instead of the Elephant and Castle, informed that he most likely had grown up in the area. My gentle hints about Canada, Australia and New Zealand didn't draw any reaction from him, so I figured he hadn't been living abroad as I'd first surmised. You know at that time I really should have walked away, but thoughts of shagging that beautiful wife of his every night instead of just now and again got the better of my judgement. And, okay, maybe his cash had a hand in things. I hunted around the Lambeth area, but I couldn't find anyone who ever claimed to have known the guy, or any of his relatives. I'd managed to take a snapshot of Dave Laurence -- he seemed to shun overt publicity, his books only ever carrying a silhouette of him on their back cover -- anyway I showed it around the Lambeth area but no bugger appeared to recognise him. I even searched their house one time, whilst he and Sandra were off on a trip somewhere, but I couldn't find anything that pointed to his history at all. Maybe that's why I got so careless; he'd hidden his history so well, no bugger from way back when was ever going to miss him. Well, that's how my mind was working at the time. I'd begun to make some plans on bumping the bugger off. A road accident I thought, he did have a habit of driving pretty fast. Sandra was always complaining about how quickly he dashed around the country lanes in his car; and on that motorbike of his. I did a lot of scouting around during that summer, keeping well out of Sandra's sight by the way. The silly bitch might have been happy to let me bed her, but she loved the guy; well, she claimed she did. Whatever I'm pretty sure she would never have gone for the idea of bumping her old man off. Anyway, I even got as far as working out exactly how I was going to dispose of Dave Laurence. Early on Sunday mornings during the summer, he was in the habit of taking a ride on his Norton motorcycle. It didn't matter where he went on any particular Sunday, because he always finished up at his golf club where he played a round. Usually alone, but sometimes with a neighbour of his who was a policeman; they started early and then usually took a drink or two in the bar, before Laurence rode the bike home to have lunch with Sandra. Now Dave Laurence's route to the golf club on his motorbike, almost without exception took in Cold Harbour hill. The road over which was quite steep and had many twists and turns, I gather motorcyclists enjoy taking those bends as fast as they can. More importantly from my perspective, one section of the road took a very sharp turn as it ran beside a disused and flooded quarry. There were crash barriers beside the road where it overlooked the quarry but they weren't in the best of condition. And what's more Laurence was in the habit of taking that particular bend pretty fast on his motorbike. My plan was simple. A gallon of water mixed with a generous quantity of diesel oil; liberally spread over the road surface just on the bend, should suffice to cause Dave Laurence to skid into the crash barrier at speed. With just a smidgen of luck, he'd finish up at the bottom of the water filled Quarry. With a little further luck the early morning sun should dry the water from the road, long before anyone else came across the scene and just leave a thin film of diesel on the road, which would be mistaken for an accidental spillage. Job done, an unfortunate accident would have put pay to Dave Laurence for good. I even had the date of Dave Laurence's accident planned; I figured for two weeks after our company's autumn seminar that was always held in late August. Yeah, of course that's still in the summer but it was the seminar where the company's winter lines were rolled out to us mugs, who were supposed to sell them to the retailers. I figured that Sandra might not attend the seminar if her husband met with a tragic accident a couple of weeks before it. Anyway I thought everything went swimmingly. Sandra shared my bed every night; boy when I got that girl going, nothing seemed to stop her. She'd developed into a right kinky little bitch by then. That was until the Thursday evening when something went awry; Sandra usually arrived at my hotel room door about seven. Her husband would call her religiously at six thirty so they could have a chat before she theoretically went down for dinner. Of course in the last couple of years Sandra would come to my room after he'd called, for hors d'oeuvres, before we went down to eat together. But that Thursday evening, Sandra had not arrived at my room by half seven. So I went down to her room to investigate why, and she told me that Dave hadn't called. What's more, she had not been able to get an answer from the house, or his mobile phone, which appeared to be switched off. Sandra appeared to be very worried about him and to be honest the rest of the evening was pretty much a disaster as far as nooky went. Sandra spent most of the evening trying to call her husband either on her mobile or the telephone in her room. You know, that was the first night we'd spent together, since I'd first laid the bitch, that I didn't get any from her. Bit of a let down, I can tell you. To say our relationship was a bit rocky by the time I dropped her at the station on the Friday morning would have been putting it mildly. All night I was telling her that she shouldn't worry; Dave was probably out on the town or something, but she insisted that something serious must be wrong. Sandra had gone as far as to order me from her room just after midnight. I was to discover during the following week that Sandra had been right and something was wrong; exactly how wrong, I could never have imagined. It was the Sunday afternoon when a policeman knocked on my door and questioned me at length about Sandra and my relationship with her. I thought that I had nothing to hide, so after at first denying that there was any kind of a relationship between us, I let on that we'd had a thing going when we were at the seminars. Then the officer shook me completely and told me that they'd been tipped off that Dave Laurence was dead and that his wife and her lover were responsible. Now that was a complete shock to the system. I had planned to bump the guy off, but I hadn't had the chance to put my plan into motion. To be honest I wondered whether Sandra had another guy tucked away somewhere and she'd planned to murder her husband with him. Worse still, had Sandra and her other guy somehow set me up as the patsy? Shit, that would have been irony, wouldn't it? Whatever someone had done a really great job of stitching Sandra and me up, good and proper. I won't go into all the evidence the cops turned up that put not only me, but also Sandra well and truly in the frame. Stuff like the garden shovel from the shed at my house was found in hers, along with my prints and DNA. Yeah, well, I might have left the prints behind when I searched the place, but I'm pretty sure that I never took off my gloves whist I was in the house. Ah, shit, whatever, the two of us went down for manslaughter. Sandra and I got sixteen years each; with luck I'll be out in half that time though. Because of the way the bastards had us stitched up, in the end I had no choice but to plead guilty. The cops wanted to know where I buried the guy's body though, but I told them I couldn't remember. You've got to understand how these legal buggers' minds work; by pleading guilty I got a shorter sentence and they'll be much more likely to parole me early. Sandra, who has insisted that she is innocent to this day, probably would have got away with about ten years and most likely have been out in five or six, had she pleaded guilty. Because she's still insisting that she's innocent she'll be lucky if she doesn't have to do the full whack. There's only one question on my mind now, who the fuck did kill the bastard and why did they set Sandra and me up to take the fall. Sandy seems to think that the guy ain't even dead, but I can't see that somehow. After all, you need money to live and my legal eagles tell me that he hasn't touched one of his bank accounts or a penny of the money he had stashed in the Cayman Islands. I wonder if there's anyway I can get my hands on some of that cash, when I eventually get out of here? Life Goes On.