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“So you’re looking out for Davina now?” Andy said. “Two days ago she was a drug dealer and now you’re worried about her. Interesting.”
Jack frowned at his feet.
“A good landlord takes care of his tenants,” he said.
“Yeah, especially the ones who rub all over you like a kitten and look like a walking wet dream.”
“Hey, don’t talk about her like that.” It was okay for him to think these things, but he didn’t like it when they came out of Andy’s mouth.
There was a whistling noise in his ear.
“Jackie boy, are you in lurve?”
Moron.
“I need that info,” he said coldly. “I’m worried about her. Can you make it fast?”
“For you, lover boy, anything.”
Jack shared a few choice words with his best friend before hanging up. Love. Ha. That’ll be the day. What he needed was to go home, unwind, watch some football and put the craziness surrounding Davina out of his mind.
But not until he saw Ken Doll’s car drive away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
5 DAYS TO MAKE A MOVIE...
JACK WAS ON HIS TINY balcony, running on his treadmill and watching the waves on the sea while his female neighbour over the road watched him. Although it was a little uncomfortable, he ignored her. Years earlier he’d waved at another woman who’d watched him run and then spent hours trying to explain to her why it wasn’t a come-on. Once burned. Still, it was a bit unnerving being eye candy for the local bored housewives. Or maybe he was just being egocentric? Maybe it was the treadmill getting the attention and not him?
The doorbell broke his rhythm. He grabbed a towel and a bottle of water and went to see who was bothering him. Andy stood grinning in the hallway.
“Hello, lover boy,” he said.
“Don’t make me hurt you.” Jack threw the door wide so Andy could saunter in.
“Got your background check.” He waved a folder before helping himself to a coffee.
“And?”
“Have a look.” Andy leaned against the pale blue kitchen counter and crossed his ankles. “I wouldn’t trust this guy near my girl, either.”
“She’s not my girl.”
“Whatever.” Andy rummaged in the cupboard and came up with a pack of Garibaldi biscuits that Jack had forgotten about. “Anyway, there have been two complaints signed against him. Both women. One said he wouldn’t leave her alone, he followed her everywhere. The other said he’d park outside her house and watch her through binoculars. Both say the same thing – that he’d seemed nice, they’d accepted one invitation to dinner, discovered he wasn’t that nice after all and then he’d gone mental on them.”
Jack’s fingers clenched on the folder. He’d been right to worry.
“When he was questioned,” Andy said, “he said that they were ex-girlfriends with axes to grind. He insisted that the whole thing was blown out of proportion. He was ordered to keep away from the women and he did, no more complaints. But—” Andy flipped through the pages for him. “Check this out.” He pointed to the paper and Jack felt a cold fury seep through him. It said he’d been questioned about two assaults on other women. He was never charged. The women backed down and the whole thing went away.
“All of this,” Andy said, motioning to the folder, “happened a long time ago. He was in his late teens, early twenties at the time. His father is a big noise in TV, we think that’s why the complaints disappeared. We can’t say for sure but we think money may have changed hands.”
“Yeah, and now he’s in his thirties. And I suppose there haven’t been any complaints since this?”
“Nothing reported,” Andy said.
They shared a solemn look. The meaning was clear. Once a scumbag, always a scumbag. In Jack’s experience guys like this didn’t change, they just got better at covering up their behaviour.
“Are you going to tell Davina?” Andy said. He’d polished off the whole pack of biscuits, which was pretty impressive considering they had to have been at least a year out of date.
