She turned the key in the ignition. Thankfully, the car started this time. Greg revved up his engine and motored past her once she got through the lights. Her hands clenched the steering wheel. Dotty gave out a guttural roar and showed her teeth. Her nostrils flared, but the rage didn’t dissipate. Something inside her wouldn’t let go of this argument and she stayed on Greg’s tail up out of the village. She had things she wanted to get off her chest as they weaved along the country lane.

  Greg made a right turn, and she followed suit. She was on automatic pilot, not responsible for her actions. It was as though her body had made its mind up what it was doing, and she had no control over it. Suddenly, Dotty seemed to come out of her raging trance and looked around her. She was on a council estate and not a very nice one at that.

  The house Greg pulled up outside and now walked up the drive towards, had a mattress in the front garden. She viewed the scene. The front window of the property was boarded up. Dotty quickly closed her window as the pungent smell of cannabis drifted up her nostrils.

  When Greg opened the door with his key, she surmised this must be his home. Then Dotty did something stupid. She had a plastic bag full of rubbish from sweet wrappers and other junk she’d collected in her car over several weeks. She got out of the car and was about to dump it on Greg’s garden, the way he had dumped his load on hers. When she saw that it already looked like a rubbish tip, she didn’t think there was any point. Her small bag wouldn’t make any difference to the mess already there. Call himself a gardener! What a state his place was. There were no flowers, shrubs or plants, only overgrown weeds. She deduced at that point that the man was a moron. She had sunk to his level, but she would not take any more notice of his behaviour.

  Given the surroundings, she decided not to entice him any further into a reaction. She had already unwittingly done that, and it had created no end of trouble. She should quit while she was ahead. Any notion of getting her own back was dismissed. Her bag of rubbish was placed back on the passenger seat. She would make do with sticking pins in an imaginary effigy of him.

  When she got back home, her head pounded after the incident with Greg. She parked up and was about to enter her house when Betty Simpson came out of her home and beckoned her over.

  “Come here, Dotty. Have you heard the news?”

  “What news is that, Betty?”

  “There’s been a murder.”

  Chapter 5

  “I haven’t heard anything about a murder.” This was a quiet part of the country. They weren’t in the big city. Murders weren’t commonplace in the leafy villages around Sussex, so this was big news. “Who’s been murdered, Betty?”

  “The ice cream man.”

  “What? Not Franco?” Franco had been at the patch outside school for years. Dotty remembered him there when she was at school. The thought of him not being there anymore saddened her.

  “No, it’s not Franco. It’s someone else.”

  “Is it that horrible man who was outside the school the other day? He had no ice cream.”

  “It could be. His name was Mikey Malone. It all sounds rather dodgy to me.”

  “What happened? How did he die?”

  “He was shot.”

  “Shot!” The idea of anyone owning a gun around their tiny village seemed preposterous.

  “Have they caught the perpetrator yet?” Dotty shook her head and tutted.

  “I don’t believe so, no.” Betty folded her arms and rubbed them quickly to ward off the cold. “I’ll keep you informed if I hear anymore.” And with that, she turned on her heels and went inside her house.

  Dotty met up with her friends, Rachel and Kylie in the Strawberry tea rooms on Saturday. The only thing that ever changed in their routine was the time. Sometimes they met in the morning and enjoyed brunch there. On other occasions, it would be Saturday afternoon and they would sample some of the cakes or other confections.

  Dotty wasn’t eating today. She was trying a new diet. Well, it was listening to Paul McKenna tapes this time. She wanted to use mind over matter and hoped that she could think herself thin.

  “How about you, Kylie? Have you given up anything this week?”

  “Salt,” her larger-than-life friend said. She pushed the light-blue streak of hair that framed her face out of her eyes. Kylie’s hair changed colour as often as the weather. She kept the back a platinum blonde colour, but the front had been every shade of the rainbow so far with no signs of stopping. If you stereo-typed the people with a similar hairstyle to Kylie, cropped and grungy looking, they all had tattoos and piercings. But Kylie wasn’t a sheep. She didn’t want to follow. She had one small tattoo on her ankle of a boat. It was a reminder of her first love — an Italian waiter called Giuseppe

  Kylie’s intention had been to have a tattoo to remind her of the great loves in her life, but she had rather too many romantic encounters for that. She was too fond of sex and less enamoured with the pain of having a tattoo done, so she stuck with one skin adornment. At this stage in her late twenties, she no longer wanted to be reminded of some of her sexual conquests which included several one-night stands after drunken nights out. Since she left home, she had found herself waking up next to random strangers that she pulled the night before. Each one was uglier than the last and she vowed never to do it again — until the next time she had a few tequila slammers. Cocktails were the worst. She never went home empty-handed. It was probably the fault of necking ‘sex on the beach’ or a ‘comfortable screw against the wall’ that did it. The names of those delicious drinks somehow put her in the mood for a night of passion.

  Dotty watched Kylie sink her teeth into a cream doughnut. She also had a chocolate brownie waiting in the wings. Dotty wondered where her friend put it all. Mind you, stick-thin Rachel could put it away when she wanted. The difference was Rachel would starve herself all week then binge on cake in the café. Being on a diet and watching her friends eat depressed Dotty. Kylie spotted her friend’s sad face.

  “You can always start your diet tomorrow and live a little today. Paul won’t mind.”

  “Paul?” Dotty questioned.

  “I thought Paul McKenna was your new guru,” Kylie smiled, her eyebrows raised.

  “Oh, that’s right, yes.” Dotty sighed. “No, I’ll stick with it. The set of CDs cost me enough.”

  “You must spend a small fortune staying the same weight,” Kylie laughed. “At least, I’ve got something to show for my money.” She grabbed hold of the sides of her torso. “Just feel those love handles, solid fat. You can keep your muscles, girls. This is the stuff of the future, that’s if it doesn’t kill me first.”

  They moved on to chat about the news of the day, the murder in the village.

  “It is disconcerting,” Rachel nodded, “a murder this close to home.”

  “The word on the street is that it’s drug-related.” Kylie munched away at her cake.

  “I hope it’s that and they don’t pick on random strangers. I wouldn’t like to think of some sicko walking around this area with a gun. It makes me shudder.” Dotty took out her lipstick and touched up her lips with the dark red shade that matched her outfit.

  “I don’t want to think about it. Somebody change the subject.” Rachel took a sip of her drink.

  “At least your dad won’t be involved with anything like that anymore, will he Dotty?”

  “No, that’s right. He retires from the police force in three weeks. I hope you’re all going to come to his retirement do?”

  “Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away from all those men in uniform,” Kylie said. The girls’ conversation moved on to what they would wear for the event. They also discussed Dotty’s impending interview and what outfit would look best. They didn’t consider any of the questions she might get asked.

  “In that sort of role, it’s all about making a good first impression. They’re more interested in looks rather than you having a brain,” Kylie said.

  “Are you sure?” Dotty frowned.

  “Yes, trust me. They want good looking chicks to keep the guys at the tables. Wear your bright red jacket with the short black mini-skirt and your low-cut white floral blouse.”

  “I can’t wear that. It’s far too revealing, plus, have you seen the size my thighs lately? They’ve ballooned over the summer.”

  “It’s your own fault. You’ve been baking too many pies and not eaten enough salads, that’s your trouble,” said Kylie who lived on curries and chippy teas.

  “I could wear my cream pleated skirt, that’s a decent respectable length. What do you think, Rachel?”

  “No, knowing you, you’ll spill coffee down it and look a sight going into the interview. Stick with something dark then if you spill your beans, it won’t show.”

  “It’s not good that I can’t be trusted to make a mess down me.”

  “Well, you know what a clumsy oaf you are.”

  “Thanks, Kylie, I love you too.”

  In the end, Dotty wore a pink polka dot dress for the interview. She thought it might look twee, but she felt comfortable in it, and it should ward off the nerves. She laughed. Imagine if pink spotty dresses really stopped nerves. Doctors could write out prescriptions for clothes and throw away the pills. Everyone would be dressed in polka dots and sit looking all calm and collected like Buddha in a dress. No somehow, she didn’t think that would work.

  The casino was in a large plush hotel and Dotty parked on the car park and looked up at the imposing building. If she weren’t successful as a croupier, maybe they might have some other role that would suit her. She didn’t fancy being a chambermaid. They didn’t have the same street cred. Plus, most of them were foreign so she may struggle to fit in. Places like Brighton had lots of foreigners who had taken up home there.

  The interview went well and Penelope, the manager, with her tortoiseshell glasses and blue bodycon minidress, showed Dotty around. Maybe she should have listened to Kylie. She felt frumpy stood next to the glamourous Penelope.

  “I’m sure you’ll fit in well here,” Penelope said, holding out a manicured slim fingered hand to shake Dotty’s. Was that an omen that she’d got the job? She hoped so. She couldn’t take much more of Greg. The way things were going, he may turn even more nasty, especially after she had seen where and how he lived.

  She walked back to her car with a spring in her step. The interview had gone well, and she liked the idea of mixing with some of the rich clientele. She may meet Mr Right here. Talking of which, what was that on the windscreen of her car?

  She got up close and saw it was a plastic rose and pinned next to it was a note.

  You look beautiful. Please give me a chance to get to know you.

  At the bottom of the sheet was a phone number, and it had been signed — Ash. She smiled and screwed it up and threw both the note and the flower in the bin. It was a nice touch, but she wasn’t taking any chances with men she didn’t know and hadn’t vetted.

  A dark-haired handsome stranger watched her from the window and sighed.

  Chapter 6

  A phone call came through to tell Dotty she’d got the job the following day. She had mixed emotions. Should she be happy or worried? She still had a few gardening jobs to finish until the work she had booked in dried up. The journey down to Brighton would take her forty minutes each way, which wasn’t ideal. She hadn’t thought things through when she went for the interview. She’d have fancied a job nearer home but learning something new excited her.

  On the positive side, it would get Greg off her back and she would learn a new skill. She could add croupier to her ever-growing list of jobs she had done. Hopefully, she would last longer at this one than some of the others. She wouldn’t be sorry to see the gardening work go. It played havoc with her nails. She had spent a small fortune in repairs to the broken ones and they never looked clean. Even after a good nightly scrub, the dirt seemed to linger under her cuticles. No, she saw now that gardening was a job for a man. It was back-breaking work, and she envisaged being old before her time with aches and pains if she continued. The croupier training course started the following week, running from early afternoon until the evening each day. That suited Dotty as she could have a lie-in and fit the course around the few straggling gardening customers she had.

  She arrived in the casino’s lobby on her first day and walked through to the office. The ceiling lights were muted allowing the glow of a sea of slot machines to brighten up the room. She nodded to the security guards and strutted towards Penelope’s office, guessing already that hidden cameras would have acknowledged her presence. This place was probably on high alert for tricksters and anyone who stepped out of line.

  The noise of the machines grew into a steady crescendo then lulled and built up some more. Clink, clank, tinkle, chunk. There was something therapeutic about the sounds. No one spoke. The gamblers who were perched on their seats focused on their prize — winning the big one. Dotty was mesmerised by the flashing, glowing, beeps and chirps. Every so often a flurry of change came down like a waterfall. The sound prompted a small cheer from those in the area.

  The course was being run in the boardroom at the hotel. All the candidates had been asked to wander through the casino to get a feel for the place. Penelope had made it sound so attractive during the interview. She mentioned that once trained you could work in Monte Carlo, Gibraltar or on one of the finest cruise ships. It all sounded very exciting. According to the joining instructions that Dotty was sent, there was a lot to learn. Dotty had only ever done the lottery and her winnings to date had comprised of a solitary ten-pound note, so she didn’t think she had a naturally lucky streak. Some of the others on the course may have a head start on her as they may know how to play poker, baccarat, and the like. Once Dotty knew the rules of the games, she would practice on her friends. Kylie liked to go to the races, but that was a different type of gambling and anyway, she only ever went for the all-day drinking sessions.

  Before she left home, Dotty checked through her croupier training manual. She turned over to the first page and looked at the heading — What makes a good croupier — you must be well motivated at all times throughout the training. That meant no late nights and falling asleep in class. A clean criminal record. Thank goodness she got let off with a warning for her escapades. She thought about that time after a raucous night out when she went skinny dipping with friends in the local duck pond. It hadn’t been her idea but seemed a fun thing to do after a plethora of spirits. They all ended up needing tetanus injections because the murky water was so gross. She shuddered when she remembered how close she came to being arrested when she sang Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me to the local bobby. You must have the ability to get on with different types of people. She could manage that if Greg or Ray weren’t there. In fact, you could include all her exes on that list. She had fallen out with most of them. She didn’t take rejection well. A good overall appearance. Well, that went without saying, Dotty was always well turned out. She wouldn’t be seen dead without her red lipstick. She even wore it when she went swimming. You should have a reasonable degree of manual dexterity. She could open a can of beans without using the electric opener, so she felt okay on that score. You should be able to distinguish different colours. Was this for real? Of course, she could tell the difference. Not only that, she was appalled with anyone who wasn’t well colour coordinated. Surely, even people who were colour blind could tell the difference between red and black, couldn’t they? It was the last item on the list that got her worried — you should be good at mental arithmetic. Did people still have to add up themselves these days? There were calculators and tills to do that for you nowadays. Oh dear, that might prove to be a stumbling block. Why had she not paid more attention in her maths classes? She should have guessed it would come back to haunt her.

  Bernie, the course tutor waved her in as she poked her head around the conference room door. There were already six others sat dotted about the room. She wondered if they hadn’t read the line about smart casual dress. The West-Indian woman and the tall lanky guy at the front both wore jeans and a t-shirt. Dotty wore a lemon floral dress with a tiny white shiny belt that kept her waist looking as trim as she could manage without constantly breathing in. She wore a matching lemon cardigan and with the yellow bow in her hair and her white pumps, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a Fifties’ movie. If the Fonz walked in now, she wouldn’t look out of place.

  Two others arrived and after the introductions, a slick fingered Bernie demonstrated card shuffling. His display had the class spellbound. They clapped and cheered. It was an impressive sight. Bernie was a showman. His nimble fingers encased the pack, flicking and tricking the eyes of his audience. This bald-headed man with his few dark strands of hair combed over in a feeble attempt to let the world see he was not as follically challenged as people made out, was an entertainer of the first order. He smiled and bowed.

  “Now, I’m not saying you’ll be able to do that by the time you finish your course. That’s taken thirty years of practising my craft, so it won’t come overnight. However, the more you challenge yourself and break down those self-doubting barriers that you hold, I can guarantee that you will be amazed at your own capabilities by the end of the course.”

  “Show us again, Bernie,” someone shouted from the floor. Bernie provided the group with an encore.

  “They don’t call me Bernie the Bazooka for nothing,” he laughed. The speed at which he could launch a pack of cards from one hand to the other was indeed a sight worth seeing.

  “Now then, we need to get serious for a moment. I am a stickler for timekeeping. My stint in the army taught me the importance of being on time when serving my country. The classes’ eight-hour day starts at 1 pm and finishes at 9 o’clock sharp. Woe betides anyone back from their breaks late.” He pointed a finger at the nervous-looking audience. Dotty grappled with the comparison of being a croupier and working out in a war-torn zone. She couldn’t come up with any similarities. She wondered what might happen if she was late. Bernie might subject her to an hour of his jokes which were quite simply appalling. If that was part of his act then it was the part he should drop, she thought. He wouldn’t even get a job filling Christmas crackers with the one-liners that left everyone groaning.

 

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