Search no further a grip.., p.1
Search No Further: A gripping psychological suspense page-turner, page 1
SEARCH NO FURTHER
AJ CAMPBELL
SEARCH NO FURTHER
by AJ Campbell
Copyright © AJ Campbell 2021
The moral right of AJ Campbell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN 978-1-8381091-2-7
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of quotations in a book review. Nor is it to be otherwise circulated in any form, or binding, or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents portrayed are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Cover design © Tim Barber, Dissect Designs 2021
CONTENTS
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
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Bookclub Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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For Mr C.
ONE
‘Don’t be fooled, my dear child.’ Nonna’s voice rings with contempt. ‘Some would love nothing more than to see me take my last breath.’ She nibbles at a sliver of king prawn from the seafood crudo, one of the many sharing slabs on offer today.
Amused, I turn to my grandma. ‘Nonna! What’s that supposed to mean?’
She has one eyebrow pulled up. ‘I know…’
A horde of screaming children interrupts her reply as Mr Polka Dot and his assistant finally show up: the entertainment duo I’ve arranged for the next hour and Nonna has paid for. The party for the princess is in full swing at De Rosa’s restaurant – a cosy slice of Italian life smack bang in the middle of London’s East End. You are lucky to bag a table unless you book well in advance. The usual crustless sandwiches, cocktail sausages, and bowls of crisps you’d expect at a kid’s birthday party are nowhere in sight. No! Today, as every day, it’s all about the food at my nonna’s restaurant. Cara De Rosa wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sparing no expense, she’s been planning this party for months with the dogged determination that each attendee will never forget the spread on offer. ‘Great-granddaughters are only eight once,’ she repeated when I suggested Lola and her friends would be content with pizza and ice cream. Heightened by the festive cheer of mini rolls exquisitely crafted to resemble reindeer, and Christmas trees formed from folded cucumber shavings and topped with a star cut from a sliced carrot, all held together with a cocktail stick, the spread is mouth-watering.
The usual strategic layout of rustic tables has been changed into three long rows. The birthday girl and her guests occupy the middle row, over which float twenty pink and purple balloons – one for each child to take home with their opulent party bags. More extravagance Nonna ordered without my knowledge. Above these balloons, in the centre of the table, hovers a number-eight-shaped helium balloon bigger than the party girl herself. Two rows of tables for the adults flank an over-excited Lola and her guests – Nonna’s friends, and the selected few who were lucky enough to gain entry because of their association with their child.
Wine flows freely, as the adult guests pick at plates of antipasto. ‘We’re trialling a new menu,’ Nonna proudly informed everyone upon their arrival, her theatrical, radiant voice resonating throughout the restaurant. I love her voice; most people do. It’s tinted with a lush Italian accent that sounds like it could, at any moment, break out into an operatic aria. ‘Be honest and tell me your thoughts,’ she said, the smile on her face affirming her confidence that every guest will adore the latest concoctions. We are opening a new branch of De Rosa’s a few miles away in trendy Islington, and she is keen to go a bit more upmarket to suit the local clientele. I say we, but I should really say they, as it’s my older sister, Milana, who works on that side of the business with Nonna. I’m a waitress. I should add “general dogsbody” to this, as I’m the one who always seems to end up with the tasks no one else has time for. But not for much longer. I have plans. I just need to buckle down to execute them. January will soon be here.
The new menu is a sophisticated display of colourful Italian indulgence Nonna and Milana have been working on for months, along with Papa, who runs the kitchen. I’ve been sampling everything on offer today. I can’t help myself. I pick up my third skewer – an artistic arrangement of tortellini and cubes of white cheddar encased in slices of salami, secured either end with a plump olive. I take a bite, staring at one of the many contemporary canvases for sale, produced by local artists and displayed on the original brick walls. An ardent supporter of the local community, Nonna sells the paintings and gives the artists all the proceeds. “These people earn so little from their beautiful work,” she has always told me.
The produce we sell in the deli that is attached to the side of the restaurant, Nonna sources locally as well. This time of the year, she packages various non-perishable delights and presents them in attractive Christmas hampers, which she decorates herself. It’s a task she starts towards the end of September, when she returns from her annual two-week vacation in Italy. The mounds of goodies take over all of the four spare bedrooms in her and Rik’s house.
‘He’s late,’ Nonna says, irritated, nodding over at Mr Polka Dot.
‘Only five minutes,’ I say. ‘Not an issue.’
She is a striking woman, my nonna. If I look as good as her when I’m her age, I’ll have zero complaints. We held her sixty-fifth birthday party here last year. No expense was spared at that celebration either. I haven’t inherited her looks. Not to my eye, at least. She is light-skinned for an Italian, possessing more of a yellow undertone to her complexion. In contrast, I’ve inherited a darker olive one from my mamma, Bettina, who also works in the restaurant. Nonna tells me that when she was my age, she had an abundance of dark, curly hair like me, but she dyes hers an ash blonde and it’s styled in a long bob. We both have dark, brown eyes, but the only similarity I can see to Nonna is the large beauty spot that protrudes equidistant between our left nostril and our heart-shaped lips. When I was at school, I hated my beauty spot. I wanted to have it removed. I even investigated surgical procedures. Then, on my first day of sixth form, I met Matt in our English Lit class. He told me my beauty spot was what had attracted him to me in the first place, and I stopped investigating.
Matt.
I touch the sore on my left hand. It feels particularly painful today.
‘At least the adults can eat in peace.’ Nonna waves to one of the waitresses. The flushed-faced girl, an agency temp we hire from a local company for occasions like today, rushes over. ‘Time to serve the next course, please,’ Nonna says, tapping the face of her fitness watch. A piece of jewellery out of keeping with her usual attire, but she has a heart condition and likes to keep track of her rhythms.
‘Kitchen said another five minutes,’ the young waitress says, rubbing the palms of her hands together. She is dressed in De Rosa’s standard uniform – jeans and a black T-shirt with De Rosa’s fancy red logo embossed on the front.
‘Not ready! Why ever not?’ Not waiting for an answer, Nonna snatches the white napkin from her lap and slaps it on the Scandinavian snowflake design tablecloth. She stands and pats her partner, Rik, a slim man of Malaysian desce
Rik grins. They have been together for two years or so, and he is used to her fiery nature by now.
I wish the family had all got used to him.
Rik and I exchange looks of mutual amusement. You have to know Nonna to appreciate that an over-generous softer side exists to the acerbic wit and razor-sharpness she will display to people who hack her off. At fifty-six, Rik is ten years her junior, which surprised me when she first told me. His well-lined face that suggests he has many stories to tell if one would care to listen, makes him appear around the same age as her. Distinguished-looking, he is sharply dressed in a gunmetal grey suit. The suit is expensive. You can tell from the high-quality fabric and perfect cut. Nonna bought it for him for his birthday last month, along with an Audi TT to replace the aged Golf he used to drive, much to the repugnance of Papa and his brother Franco.
‘She wasn’t feeling good earlier,’ Rik says. ‘I keep telling her. She’s meant to be relaxing and letting the others run the rest of this show.’
‘She said she will once the food is here.’
‘Pity Zach couldn’t be here today,’ he says.
I shrug. ‘The stag party was booked last year; before we even met. He’s the best man; he couldn’t exactly drop out. I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you have a stag party planned? Nonna said she hasn’t got time for a hen party with the wedding so close.’ I elbow him and laugh. ‘Thanks for giving us plenty of notice, by the way.’
‘You know Cara. When she gets that bee in her bonnet.’
We exchange knowing smiles. Yes, I know Nonna well. She is my best friend. ‘Don’t tell her, but I’ve been organising a few of her friends for a small get together.’
‘When’re you going to fit that in? Cara said this place is booked solid until you close on the twenty-third.’
‘It’s going to be a post-wedding hen party. When you get back from your honeymoon in the New Year.’ I slide my handbag off the back of the wooden chair and dig out my hand cream. The cracks have started to open. God, I hate this time of year.
Mr Polka Dot’s assistant, an enthusiastic young magician, mingles with the adults while Mr Polka Dot continues performing his show for the kids. Lola turns to wave, sharing her excitement with me. I smile at her. She looks cute, I must admit, sitting amid her friends, clothed to leave no doubt in any partygoers’ minds whose birthday we are here to celebrate. The ostentatious bow attached to the back of her eye-wateringly expensive satin dress is almost as big as the number-eight-shaped helium balloon. There’s no party prize for guessing who financed that. I watch my daughter with humble adoration. She’s the type of child who dances through life like an enchanting fairy, sprinkling her magic onto every situation. I’m so blessed to have her.
I turn to a hand tapping my shoulder. ‘Sienna, come with me. I want to show you something.’ Nonna grabs my forearm, allowing me no choice but to obey her order. Glancing over my shoulder, I search for Lola, but she is too preoccupied to notice me leaving. Along with the rest of the party guests, she is engrossed in the magic wand a zealous Mr Polka Dot is tapping against his patent top hat.
Nonna leads me towards the back of the noisy restaurant and into the large kitchen, an overheated sauna of a room, bustling with chefs in the final preparations of a meal for the adults waiting to be fed. Their musical Italian accents sing a song of happiness as they chop and cut, slice and stir. Culinary delights sizzle in pans on the giant burner ovens bordering the back wall, filling the air with the savoury aroma of basil and roasted garlic. Large square plates of sliced spinach torta and hand-painted bowls of citrusy salads line the stainless steel prep stations, along with baskets of seeded flatbread.
Nonna is a woman of considerable panache, favouring flowing dresses and matching head scarfs worn in different styles depending on her mood. Today her dress is silver. It shimmers like fish skin, and the skirt sashays around her legs as she flows around the kitchen, instructing people to hurry along. ‘How long, Don? People are waiting.’ My red-faced papa is busy arranging creamy ricotta on the top of a giant bed of roasted pumpkin. He tosses an empty baking tray towards a pile of washing-up by the sink. It whangs against the stacked dirty pots. ‘Soon, Mamma, soon, relax,’ Papa replies, dabbing his forehead in the crook of his arm. Picking up a plastic container, he sprinkles the cheese with pomegranate and pumpkin seeds, while ordering his staff to get a bloody move on.
I walk over to use the hand-washing sink. As I’m dabbing my hands dry on a paper towel, Cara diverts me to a worktop at the back of the kitchen. ‘Voila. This is what I wanted to show you.’ Her sweeping hand, jangling the collection of silver bangles circling her wrist, presents a cake. I gasp. I can’t help myself. This isn’t the unicorn one Lola saw in Tesco and told us she wanted. This is more like an offering for a Hollywood star than a birthday cake for an eight-year-old schoolgirl from East London. Three stacked tiers, approaching a metre high, are topped with a pair of fondant ballerina shoes so delicately crafted they look real. The intricate ribbons of the shoes entwine and trail to the bottom tier. ‘You think she’ll like it?’ Nonna asks. Her eyes sparkle in answer to her question, as does her new diamond ring. I want to ask her what happened to the cake Lola chose and tell her there was no need for such extravagance. But lost for words, I pull a face to express I love it, and so will her granddaughter.
‘I saw a picture of this one in a magazine and knew Lola would prefer it, so I popped into Katie’s Cakes. You know Katie? She often pops in here for a morning coffee. She has set up a new business making cakes from home. I showed her a picture and gave her a deposit. It’s always good to help out new businesses.’ She spins around and shouts at Papa. ‘We need to get moving, Don. People are waiting for food.’ Poor Papa is sweating in the heat of the kitchen despite the back door being ajar.
‘Nearly there, Mamma. Chill. Go sip wine. Five. I need five more minutes.’ Papa darts from one work surface to another like a busy ant. He strides over to the back door and pushes it fully open before returning to his team and hurrying them to bring the banquet together.
A waft of cigarette smoke sends Nonna into a fit of uncontrollable coughing. She storms towards the door clutching her chest. A set of fairy lights illuminates the courtyard garden. ‘Milana De Rosa, you disappoint me,’ she shouts at her granddaughter sitting alone outside. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’
I’m as surprised as Nonna to see my sister smoking. Unlike me, Milana has never been one to light up alone. More the sort to accept a cigarette from a group of friends during a Friday night out if everyone else is having one. She runs a hand through her mane of long, lustrous hair. The kind that could be used in an advert for the best ever conditioner. Lucky for her, she was blessed with straight hair; as opposed to my wild curls, which not even said conditioner could tame. She turns to face us. ‘Sorry, Nonna.’ Milana bends towards an ashtray in the centre of the table, her slight frame shivering in the winter chill.
‘You allow this, Don?’ Cara throws her arms up to her son.
