They Call Him Levity by Davidson King
Summary:Welcome Boulevard #1
Levity works the streets of Welcome Boulevard, begging people for money. It keeps food in his belly, a leaky roof over his head, and he gets to do it with his best friend, Clove. No, it’s not the ideal life, but he does what he must to survive.
Salvatore Grillo is a man who is used to getting what he wants. He’s a loyal brother to his autistic sister, runs numerous business empires, and knows how to make people to bend to his will. It’s not often someone comes along and shakes things up. And then Levity smiles at him.
Levity’s idea to pull in more money draws Salvatore’s attention, and while being the focus of a crime boss should be terrifying, Levity is intrigued by the man. Not to mention, Sal is as gorgeous as he is powerful. The two gravitate toward one another and soon are wrapped up tightly in each other’s worlds. When enemies try to break through their doors and their lives, Salvatore has to do everything in his power to save not just himself but Levity too.
Not knowing who is behind all the chaos or when they will strike makes their happily ever after almost impossible. Time’s running out for Sal and Levity. Will they survive, or will their story end before it’s even begun?
WOWZER! WOWZER! WOWZER! OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD! HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! and a hundred other phrases and exclamation points that say one thing: HOLY CRAP KING'S DONE IT AGAIN!!!
Okay, now that I got my blood pumping under control I'll continue.
Being a member of the author's Facebook group I've seen her talking and posting about They Call Him Levity for awhile now but I'll be honest, I never actually read any of her Tuesday Teaser posts because I knew it would make the wait for release that much harder. Davidson King did not disappoint. My anticipation may have been high which can be a little scary as there is always a chance of not standing up to one's hopes but I was 99% sure that wouldn't be the case as King has quickly become one of my absolute favorite authors and her knack for storytelling has always outshined my imagination.
Salvatore and Levity are wonderful together, from their first meet you know it's going to be a bumpy ride but also an incredibly entertaining journey. Levity just has a way about him that you know people gravitate towards him and in doing so he'll never be completely alone. Salvatore's love for his sister lets you know that he'll do whatever he needs to to keep those he loves safe. When you put that kind of devotion together, it's never going to be unwelcomed or boring. That level of chemistry, not only for each other but those around them is what makes this story burrow in to your heart.
They Call Him Levity has pretty much everything but science fiction, post-apocalypse, and the kitchen sink. There is drama, romance, friendship, heat, mystery, love, action, passion, and of course plenty of heart. Will Welcome Boulevard replace Haven Hart at the top of my Davidson King shelf in my reading psyche? Time will tell, personally I can't see it quite quenching that level of storytelling hunger within me although if I'm being honest it most likely be so close that it will come down to the fact that Haven Hart came first and nothing can quite top your original introduction to an author's work. But boy do I look forward to the trials and tribulations of those on Welcome Boulevard and I got a feeling there will be lots of mayhem lurking on every corner.
RATING:
Jury of One by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:Lindenshaw Mysteries #2
Inspector Robin Bright is enjoying a quiet Saturday with his lover, Adam Matthews, when murder strikes in nearby Abbotston, and he’s called in to investigate. He hopes for a quick resolution, but as the case builds, he’s drawn into a tangled web of crimes, new and old, that threatens to ensnare him and destroy his fledgling relationship.
Adam is enjoying his final term teaching at Lindenshaw School, and is also delighted to be settling down with Robin at last. Only Robin doesn’t seem so thrilled. Then an old crush of Adam’s shows up in the murder investigation, and suddenly Adam is yet again fighting to stay out of one of Robin’s cases, to say nothing of trying to keep their relationship from falling apart.
Between murder, stabbings, robberies, and a suspect with a charming smile, the case threatens to ruin everything both Robin and Adam hold dear. What does it take to realise where your heart really lies, and can a big, black dog hold the key?
Can't believe it's been 6 years since I read Jury of One. 6 YEARS?!?!?! How is that possible? Where does the time go? Well, let's be honest, time and life go by faster and faster with each year😉😉. In regard to Jury of One, I can't believe it's been 6 years because 1. I love this series so much and 2. I remember the culprit like it was yesterday. As for the whys, that was sort of hazy which actually was a plus because that helped bring back a little of the adrenaline rush I got the first time around.
I really love the balance of mystery and romance the author brings to this series. Lindenshaw Mysteries is definitely a mystery-centric story but Robin and Adam's romantic journey is strong but not overshadowing. Of course as it is with mystery romances the two paths cross no matter how hard Adam tries to stay away the mayhem powers-that-be have other plans. As with my original review, this is as much of the plot that I'm going to give😉😉.
As for the narration, David Maxwell once again brings life to Charlie Cochrane's characters perfectly. Could someone else done as good a job? Sure but for me his take on Robin, Adam, and the whole Lindenshaw cast is spot-on. The combination of voice and words is a delightfully entertaining gem and leaves no doubt in my mind that life in an English village is one of the most dangerous places to find yourself.
Original Review March 2016:
Once again Charlie Cochrane reminds me why I love English murder mysteries so much. The relationship between Robin and Anderson, his sergeant is reminiscent of Barnaby and Troy/Scott/Jones(Midsomer Murders), Morse and Lewis(Inspector Morse), and many more. I enjoyed seeing how Robin and Adam have grown since The Best Corpse for the Job and Adam may not be at the center of this mystery but he is drawn into it and not just because he is living with Robin. As for the mystery, it may not have been as heart pounding as book one but it still managed to keep me on my toes guessing the outcome. A true gem that is well deserving of the English murder mystery genre that has left me hungry for further adventures from the apparently dangerous Lindenshaw countryside.
RATING:
Body at Buccaneer's Bay by Josh Lanyon
Summary:Secrets and Scrabble #5
Dead Men Tell No Tales
Mystery Bookshop owner Ellery Page and Police Chief Jack Carson are diving for the legendary sunken pirate galleon Blood Red Rose when they discover an old fashioned diver's suit, water-damaged and encrusted with barnacles. Further examination reveals the 19th Century suit contains a 21st Century body.
Who is the mysterious diver? No one seems to be missing from the quaint and cozy town of Pirate's Cove. Was he really diving for pirate's gold? And if not, what exactly did he do to earn that bullet hole in his skull?
Original Review May 2022:
Some authors can write in multiple genres and excel at every one, Josh Lanyon falls into that category but there is just something special about her mystery-telling talent. Secrets and Scrabble series furthers the proof of that.
No matter how much mayhem lurks in the pages, there is almost always an element of lightheartedness when it comes to amateur sleuths. Ellery Page is the epitome of amateur sleuthing but he's not alone which is another element about this series that I love, he is joined by the Silver Sleuths reading group, or at least they try to work their way into the investigations, and though they may not always get as much sleuthing in as they'd like, they almost always manage to offer information to Ellery. Now sometimes that info isn't always the answer, sometimes it leads Ellery in the opposite direction which in itself is also helpful(just not quite how they planned😉).
Pirate's Cove is filled with an eclectic cast of characters, most are so wicky wacky there's minimal to no chance we'd ever meet someone like them in our communities and yet Lanyon has a way of making them very real, very . . . well not "next door" but definitely "pass by and nod to in the toilet paper aisle". It's the ability to create unique yet familiar characters that lets the reader get lost within the story. By "lost" I don't mean "completely befuddled swearing to oneself 'WTF is going on?'" I mean getting so absorbed into the story you become a customer in Ellery's bookstore that has to be forcibly pushed out the door at closing time.
This is sounding more like an overall series review so let me talk about Body at Buccaneer's Bay for a minute(and it will be brief as I refuse to spoil any aspect of the mystery). Ellery and Jack are growing closer and closer but once again outside forces, mainly Ellery's acceptance of an amateur sleuthing job, find a way to sneak a wedge into the relationship. And that's all I'm going to say about the mystery part of this entry, yes I know that is very vague indeed but let me just add it's deliciously fun. Nora continues to help, Watson is still an attention junkie, and Ellery's folks arrive. So many treats to gobble up.
One scene I will talk about and that is Nora signs Crow's Nest up as a stop on Kit Holmes' upcoming book tour. Love it when authors throw little cameo mentions of characters from their other series' into the mix, it just connects it all into one big world. Not sure if we will get to see Kit actually on his book tour in a future entry but if we do, even if just a one page scene, I can see Nora filling Kit in on all the intrigue that happens in Pirate's Cove and then seeing Kit pull Ellery aside and telling him what not to do when bodies start piling up at his feet. The potential for them to "work a case" together has my Lanyon-loving brain going into overdrive, what a pure fun romp of mayhem-ry that would be😉😉.
Back to Buccaneer, there is just so many good things about this entry and despite the potential(I won't spoil the whats, wheres, or what ifs) for death and danger, I was smiling from beginning to end. Ellery Page and Jack Carson(and my old movie loving brain still chuckles when I picture the actor Jack Carson's portrayal as the beat cop in Arsenic and Old Lace even though Lanyon's Jack is much better at his job) just keep getting better, both as a growing couple and in their investigations with all the trials and tribulations the criminals of Pirate's Cove throw at them. Chock up another winning gem for Josh Lanyon.
The Mystery of the Spirits by CS Poe
Summary:Snow & Winter #5
Antique dealer Sebastian Snow and Homicide detective Calvin Winter have been happily married for a year and a half. In that time, there’s been nary a mystery in sight, and for a recovering sleuth like Sebastian, an uneventful life is exactly what he needs.
That is, until Calvin’s lieutenant enters the Emporium and demands insight on a bizarre object known as a spiritoscope, hailing from the early days of the Spiritualism movement. Sebastian’s extensive knowledge of Victorian curiosities leads him to consulting for the NYPD—putting him at odds with his husband. And as the bodies begin to stack up, so do the seemingly dead-end clues, which if Sebastian can’t make sense of, might result in a whole lot more death.
Mystery, murder, and marriage… Sebastian’s back.
Original Review July Book of the Month 2022:
Snow and Winter are back!
Sebastian and Calvin never get old, I will never tire of their journey. CS Poe has done it again with her incredibly well balanced blend of mystery, romance, danger, and humor. It's that blend that made me stop a few chapters from the end of The Mystery of the Spirits when I realized just how much this couple reminds me of Nick and Nora Charles, Dashiell Hammett's mystery solving duo of The Thin Man.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying the author copied the "formula", Snow and Winter are very much their own characters with their own brand of pros and cons, strengths and weaknesses, but that blend I mentioned is what drives the chemistry between them and that chemistry is what reminds me of Nick and Nora. Nick's a "retired" detective and she's his rich wife who is intrigued by mystery and wants to help. Okay, so Calvin is definitely not retired and Seb is definitely not rich but very much finds himself sucked into the investigations(sometimes by choice and sometimes by fate). That pull, that driving force is what makes them so amazing, so likeable, so unique and yet the couple next door all at the same time. So when I say they are very Nick and Nora, I'm not comparing the fictional couples but complimenting the author for bringing to life an unforgettable couple full of sass and snuggle.
Now, back to The Mystery of the Spirits. I'm so not giving anything away because everything, and I do mean EVERYTHING plays a factor, has a role in this case. I will say that I was questioning the who and why until about a page before the reveal. Even when it came to me I still found myself going "Is it really ???" and keeping the reader guessing that close to the reveal is everything I want in a who done it?. So kudos to CS Poe for keeping my brain percolating.
I think one of the things that really grabs my attention with the author's Snow and Winter series is the antiques, the element of history added to a very contemporary mystery. I'm not really up on antiques but I am a history lover and a lover of unknown tidbits that most history teachers/professors gloss over or neglect all together because in my opinion its the minute details that make history interesting. Some might call them "useless facts" but for me they are very much useful and 200% intriguing. So yet another kudos to CS Poe for her attention to detail and her love of history, or the very least her respect for all things in the past.
You can never go wrong with Snow and Winter and whether she brings more cases to Seb's Emporium in the future, time will tell but I know I'll be revisiting their journeys, their cases, their love story for years to come.
One last note: if you are wondering about reading order, asking if you can start with Spirits or start a the beginning with Nevermore? My answer: start with Nevermore. I'm a series-read-in-order kind of gal so it's obvious to start at the beginning for me. Will you be lost if you don't start with number 1? No, the author gives us any "needed" past info to keep you in the loop but Calvin and Sebastian meet in Nevermore so it is only natural to start there and experience all the ups and downs, highs and lows, of their journey as it happened. However you want to tackle it, you won't be sorry because Snow and Winter are a brilliant, winning duo that will make you smile. What more can a reader ask for?
Secret Simon by Davidson King
Summary:Haven Hart Universe
Simon
Being the nephew of one of the most infamous mob bosses in the world isn’t easy. Our family has enemies everywhere, and no one is safe without protection. Here I am at college with a fresh start, a new last name, and secrets hidden from those around me—life is going according to plan. Then one day on campus, I see him…and I want him to strip me bare…in more ways than one.
Rush
Abernathy is more than just the university I attend. It’s my destiny, my namesake. Singing and entertaining are who I am, but my father wants me to major in something more appropriate for the name I carry. I’ve resigned myself to being who my father wants, doing what he wants. Then Simon comes into my life…and turns everything upside down. Now I have a reason to fight for what I want.
Who knew our love story would lead to secrets revealed, murderous plots, and finding our forever buried under so many lies? Hopefully we’ll live long enough to see it.
(While Secret Simon is a Haven Hart Novel it is not linked to the 7 book story arc)
*Warning: Violence and mention of suicide*
How in the world has it taken me so long to listen to Secret Simon?!?!?!?! The audiobook was released last October and here it is nearly May, again HOW? Oh well, no matter how long it took for me to listen, I've listened and once again I fell even further for Haven Hart. Having recently read book 2, Head Rush, everything was fresh in my mind but that didn't lessen the depths I fell again for Simon and Rush. Truth is, there's not much more I can say to the story itself or the storytelling genius that also goes by the name of Davidson King.
What I will say is this: I never listened to a dual narration before King's audios and was leery going in but loved it instantly. I'm not sure why I had any hesitancy because I love the old radio shows of the 30s and 40s and a good audio portrayal always reminded me of the classic radio platform. Truth is John Solo and Alexander Cendese bring so much passion and strength to the characters that I can almost hear Harlow Wilcox breaking in with the ad for spark plugs he pitched on Suspense all those years ago. Not only do they bring Simon, Rush, and all the characters to life, I can hear the sound effects, I can hear the studio audience gasping with "oohs" and "ahhs" with each new revelation.
Another winning combination of author's words and narrators' voices to heighten the enjoyment of Secret Simon, the new Haven Hart-connected journey.
Original Review June Book of the Month 2021:
RATING:
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! OMG! The Force is with us all! We have a new Haven Hart book by Davidson King!!!!!!
Okay, I got that out of my system, lets continue.
I should start by pointing out as the author mentions at the end of the blurb, Secret Simon is not linked to the original 7 book arc, story-wise at least. We see a few of the characters and of course "Simon" is Eight all grown up(he's still Eight to Snow but I have a feeling Snow will still be calling him Eight when he's 60). So if you haven't read Davidson King's Haven Hart universe you can start here although I don't know that I would want to, you won't be lost in any way, shape, or form. To be honest, I am a series-read-in-order kinda gal and Haven Hart is one of my all time favorite series of all genres.
Secret Simon. Flat out brilliant! This story has it all(okay there's no sci-fi or apocalyptic end of the world stuff although going after Christopher Manos' family probably won't end well for anyone) romance, mystery, heat, action, friendship, danger, love, family, and it wouldn't be Haven Hart without mayhem and plenty of well . . . heart(see what I did there😉😉).
Lets talk characters. Simon has become as wonderful an adult as he was when we first met him at 8. He may be blood to Christopher but Snow has made a lasting impression on him as well, which will only enhance his future role in the Manos family. Now, in case you haven't read Haven Hart's original 7 book arc, I won't go into too much detail for the I'm-a-spoiler-free-zone kinda gal but I will say there is a very important reason the book is titled Secret Simon. Don't worry, just because I won't spoil anything, the author doesn't leave you up in the air with a hundred questions of "why? what? who? or where?", King makes sure you got a feel for what's going on. As for Rush? He has a future written for him but is it the future he wants to write for himself? Yeah, you know what's coming: you have to read for yourself to find out. Trust me you will enjoy every minute of finding out. Put the two together and the chemistry just screams out at you.
What more can I say? I could say a lot but I'm going to end here or I'm afraid the longer I go on the more chance I'll get loose lipped(or loose fingers) and reveal more than I want. So I will just say this: Secret Simon has reinforced my love of Haven Hart and proven to me that it is an author's universe that belongs on my short list of "Whether they write a 4 paragraph holiday coda or 100 full length novels I'll be first in line to gobble them up". Davidson King once again provides her readers with an unforgettable tale that entertains and captures their attention from beginning to end, further cementing her place in the world as a topnotch storyteller.
They Call Him Levity by Davidson King
One
Salvatore
“What do we have here?” The small box, wrapped in glittery purple paper and a gaudy bow, was placed on my desk. My sister, Jacquelyn, beamed at me, her slender teenage body vibrating with anticipation.
“It’s your birthday, Sal! I got you something. Open it, pleeeeeease?” She jumped, her wavy brown hair bouncing.
A quick glance at my watch told me I had twenty minutes before Marcel would arrive to take me to my meeting. “Of course, I’ll open it.”
The second my butt hit the chair, Jacquelyn squealed with delight, picked up the present, showering my blotter with glitter, and handed it to me.
“I’ll be cleaning glitter out of my suit all day.” I made sure to smile brightly so she knew I wasn’t upset, just joking around.
Jacquelyn was my younger half sister. My father, Agostino, married her mother, Belinda, eighteen years ago, and shortly after that, Jacquelyn was born. At the age of four, we were told she was on the autism spectrum, and while I don’t mean to toot my own horn, if it wasn’t for me, she’d likely have been thrown into a facility by Belinda. The woman had no patience or love for her daughter, and my father didn’t have the time.
“I made it.” Jacquelyn took the seat across from me, her grin never wavering.
“You know how I love when you make me things, Jac.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “I do. it’s why I decided to make you a gift instead of buying you one.”
I tore open the wrapping, glitter spraying everywhere, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t have stopped the smile that spread across my face if I’d tried. Jacquelyn had made an acrylic photo cube, and on each side was a picture of her and me at some point in our lives. The first was when she was born, then her at five when she’d ridden her first pony; another side was when our father had handed the businesses over to me and we’d all gone to dinner. Each picture showed her and me and the bond we’d forged in her seventeen years.
“Wow, Jac, this is the best present I’ve ever gotten.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “You say that every year.” She darted over to me and kissed my cheek. “Are we going to celebrate tonight?”
Originally, Belinda had wanted to have a big party at the house for my birthday, but if she couldn’t acknowledge Jacquelyn’s achievements and milestones, she could fuck off when it came to mine.
“Yep, you and me, kid. I made reservations at Luciano’s, where we will eat until our buttons fly off our pants.” Gripping her hand, I stood and pulled her into a strong hug. She hated light touches, and every embrace had to be a bearlike grip.
“I’ll be ready!”
No sooner had she left my office, did Marcel enter.
“Ready to go, Boss?” His eyes flickered to the gift Jacquelyn made me, and a small smile played on his mouth. “Nice gift.”
“Right?” I tossed the wrapping-paper glitter bomb into the trash and placed the cube next to my blotter, where I’d always see it.
“Can’t wait to see what I get this year.”
I smacked his shoulder as I exited my office. “You love her for her craftiness.”
“Seriously, she could sell her creations.” Marcel and I walked across the foyer and out the front door to the car.
“She’s insanely talented.” We got in, Marcel taking the driver’s seat and I the passenger’s.
Marcel slipped something out of his jacket pocket. “I still have the money clip she made me four years ago.” It was made from three kinds of metal and had a looping M on it.
“I’ll have to talk to her. Maybe it’s something she’d be interested in doing.”
We were quiet as Marcel pulled the car onto the highway, he concentrated on the road, a smirk in place indicating he was deep in thought.
Marcel was an attractive man. Flawless dark skin, bald in the way so few could get away with, and occasionally a perfectly sculpted beard. But he was clean-shaven today. We were close to the same height and build, but he was my second-in-command and always made sure every place I went to was safe. I trusted him like a brother.
“What’s on the agenda today? I know we have to see Grit this morning, what else? I have a dinner date with Jacquelyn this evening; I can’t miss it.”
“No worries, you won’t. Grit this morning, and you’ll be done by three, promise.”
Nodding, I moved my gaze to the window. The huge mansions shifted, and smaller houses came into view. The longer we drove, the more dilapidated the scenery became, until we were pulling up to our meeting place.
“There he is,” Marcel said as he got out of the car.
I followed, seeing Grit seated on the bench outside Stella’s Diner. Where Marcel’s baldness was hot, Grit’s wasn’t. But he was a different kind of man, too.
“Ahh, sir, hey!” As Grit stood and walked over, a wave of body odor engulfed us, and I tried not to wince. It wasn’t his fault he was homeless or that getting a shower was hard to come by. I paid him, but I wasn’t in charge of how he spent his money. I was aware of some who worked for me who used their cash to keep clean, fed, and housed based on what I’d been told. What Grit did was a mystery.
“Good morning, Grit. Hungry?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I could eat.”
“I’m on it.” Marcel hopped into the diner, and I stayed with Grit on the bench.
“All right, Grit, how’s the week looking?” I sat with my foot resting on my knee and far enough away to avoid Grit’s waving hands.
“Right, so, the MVs, they did pretty good last week, and this week looks even better.” His yellow and black teeth made an appearance when he grinned.
MV stood for Misfit Vagabonds, a name coined years ago by my father. “That’s not telling me much, Grit. There are ten of you working along Welcome Boulevard. How much are each of you bringing in?”
He shrugged and scratched behind his neck. “We got about three grand last week.”
That wasn’t ideal. Others were pulling five, but Welcome Boulevard was a hard strip. Cops were on that area a hell of a lot more than the others.
“And this week, you said it will be even better?” “Yeah, we got another guy, Clove’s friend. Might help to have a new face.”
I never okayed anyone new. It worried me that an undercover cop might try and infiltrate to take down the whole panhandling operation my father and I had spent years trying to perfect.
“This guy, I dunno. Grit, new faces make me worry.”
He was already shaking his head before I could finish. “Nah, I know him. Just been busy with other things for a while. But he’s legit. I swear.”
Marcel came out of the diner with a to-go bag and handed it to Grit. “Here you are.”
Grit took the bag, inhaling the aroma. “Thanks, Marcel.”
“No prob. Any good news?”
“I’ll tell you in the car. Grit, I’ll see you next week. Let’s see if this new individual can raise your numbers. Collection will be the same time and place.”
Grit stood, his to-go bag held close to his chest. “You got it.”
“Be safe.” Marcel walked over to the car and I followed. “Someone new?” he asked once we were settled and driving to our next stop.
“Someone Clove knows.” As soon as I said Clove, Marcel’s face lit up. I wondered if he realized how obvious his adoration for that guy was; he certainly couldn’t keep it a secret from me.
“I’m sure if Clove knows him, he’s good.”
“We’ll see how the week goes.”
Jury of One by Charlie Cochrane
Chapter One
Robin Bright wiped the residual shaving cream from his face and grinned at his reflection in the mirror. Life tasted good, better than it had in a long time. Work was going well, with a promotion to detective chief inspector on the cards, but that wasn’t the only thing making him so happy. He had plenty of blessings in his private life, and if he was counting them, the number one was at present down in the kitchen, clattering about. And Robin’s second-best blessing was probably sitting in his basket, chewing on dog biscuits and hoping somebody might throw the end of a sausage in his direction.
Was it only a year ago that he’d have woken on a Saturday morning with nothing more to look forward to than the delights of washing and ironing, accompanied by the radio commentary of Spurs getting thrashed by the Arsenal? He used to hope the phone would go, calling him in to work because a gang of little scrotes had misbehaved on Friday night. How things had changed.
“Are you going to be in there forever?” Adam Matthews’s voice sounded from downstairs. “Your tea’s going to get cold.”
“I’ll be down soon. Got to get my shirt on.”
“Yeah. You don’t want to scare the postwoman again.” The sound of footsteps and the thud of the kitchen door indicated that Adam had gone back to making breakfast.
Robin took a final glance at the mirror, decided he’d do, and went off to find his favourite T-shirt. Hopefully his phone would keep silent today so a proper shirt and tie wouldn’t be needed; surely a man deserved his relaxation time? In the meantime he should get his backside downstairs before Adam sent Campbell, the huge black Newfoundland that shared their lives—when he couldn’t share their bed—to fetch him.
“Smells good.” Robin soaked up the delicious aromas as he came into the kitchen.
“Me or the crepes?” Adam expertly flipped a pancake. “Can you let himself into the garden? I suspect he’s bursting.”
“He probably doesn’t want to go out in case he misses a crumb falling on the floor.” Robin opened the back door and eased the dog outside, with a promise that they’d keep him some of their breakfast.
The radio was on, the relentlessly cheerful tones of the Monkees forming a standard part of Radio 2’s Saturday morning fodder. Adam’s well-nigh tuneless tones competed with Davy Jones’s much more melodious ones as they encouraged Sleepy Jean to cheer up.
“Just as well you didn’t sing for those kids.” Robin let Campbell back in. “You’d never have got the job.”
Adam had recently been interviewed—successfully—for a deputy headship that he’d be taking up at the start of the next term. The recruitment ordeal had included being grilled by the school council, who’d insisted that each candidate sing them a song. Adam, being a smart cookie, had managed to persuade the kids to do the singing instead, and they’d loved him for it.
“Look at me ignoring that.” Adam produced a stack of pancakes from the oven, where they’d obviously been keeping warm. “Get some of those inside you. Busy day.”
More than busy. Lunch with Adam’s mum, followed by a bit of shopping, trying to navigate the tricky issue of what Robin’s mother might want for her birthday. What do you get for the woman who insists that all she wants is for you not to be at work so you can share her birthday dinner?
“I just hope the bloody phone doesn’t go.”
“So do I. Can’t you put it onto divert and make the call go through to Anderson?”
“He’d kill me if I did.” There was another blessing, Anderson still being on Robin’s team, making snarky remarks and useful leaps of deduction. “Or at least put laxative in my coffee.”
Adam sniggered. “You need to make the most of him. He won’t be with you forever.”
“True.” Anderson’s promotion was on the horizon, as well. He’d proved himself a bloody good copper, as Robin had.
“Even Campbell likes him, and that dog’s no fool.”
“He’s an excellent judge of character.” Robin stirred his tea. “I wish there were more like Anderson in the force. People who don’t think themselves above being civil and pleasant to the old salts who’ll be walking the beat until their retirement.”
“More clones of you, then?”
“Why not?” Robin didn’t like to boast, but he knew he did his job well. He’d won plenty of friends on the way up, and when they neared retirement, he’d be on his way to becoming superintendent. “It’s not hard to do the job. Keep nicking people, keep your nose clean, and keep your paperwork up to date.”
“Yes, sah!” Adam saluted, then tucked in to his breakfast.
Robin had put away his third pancake and was eyeing a fourth when his mobile phone sounded. Adam made his eye-rolling “I hope that’s not work” face, although the bloke was getting used to being at the beck and call of Stanebridge police headquarters. You couldn’t expect anything else when you’d hitched up to a rozzer.
Robin grabbed the phone. “Robin Bright speaking.”
“Cowdrey here.” His boss’s not-so-dulcet tones came down the line. “Sorry to interrupt your Saturday morning, Robin, but we’ve got a tricky one. Bloke got killed last night, a stone’s throw from the Florentine restaurant, in Abbotston. Bit off our patch, but the local superintendent’s a friend of mine and wants us to handle things. His team’s tied up with those attacks.”
Abbotston, fifteen miles away, was twice the size of Stanebridge, with a crime rate four times as high, and its very own ongoing crisis. “The Abbotston Slasher,” the papers had christened whoever was making the knife attacks, although that title smacked more of Carry On films than the terrifying reality: three young women stabbed these last three months, each on the eve of the new moon, and one of them had died of her wounds. The moon would be new again tonight; Robin guessed leave had been cancelled and any unexplained death not related to the case would be an unwelcome distraction.
“Never rains but it pours, does it, sir?”
“Pours? It’s bloody torrential. There’s the cup tie, as well.”
“Oh hell, I’d forgotten about that.” Millwall hitting the town, to play non-league Abbotston Alexandra. Even their cleaning lady was going to the match. Robin mouthed Sorry at Adam, then grabbed a pen and notepad.
“What do we know about the murder, sir?”
“It happened about three o’clock this morning. A couple of passers-by found the victim alive, just, although unconscious, and they called an ambulance. He didn’t make it beyond the operating theatre. Died at six o’clock. ” Cowdrey sounded short of breath; he was corpulent, asthmatic but as hard as nails. “Stabbed four times at least.”
“Any leads?” Robin, while making notes, was already building up a picture. The Florentine was an upmarket kind of a restaurant to get stabbed near, the sort nominally run by an up-and-coming television personality chef. It attracted punters from across the Home Counties. Perhaps, he thought—irreverently and guiltily—the dead man was one of the waiters and the murderer had been a customer incensed at the size of the bill?
Whatever was going on, there was a guarded edge to the chief superintendent’s voice as he continued. “The men who found him reckoned he’d been drinking at a local bar earlier, and got himself into a fight there in the process. We got called in with the ambulance and managed to start taking statements at the club concerned. One of these all-night-opening places.” The slight hesitation in Cowdrey’s voice made Robin stiffen; he could guess what was coming.
“Which bar was this, sir?”
“The Desdemona.”
The Desdemona. Robin had been there once or twice, back when he was single; it wasn’t a bad sort of a place. It was on the pricey side, but the decor was tasteful, and there were neither slot machines nor TV screens to ruin the atmosphere. It was about two hundred yards from the Florentine, both of them in the posh part of Abbotston. And the bar flew a rainbow flag outside, which was presumably one of the reasons why he was being put onto the case when the local boys needed a hand.
“Homophobic element, sir?” Might as well ask the obvious.
“Too early to say.” Cowdrey exhaled, loudly. “Sorry, but I think your Saturday’s ruined. I’ll call Anderson and get him to meet you at the scene.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there in half an hour or so. Less if the traffic’s kind.” Robin ended the call, looked longingly at the fourth pancake, and decided to snaffle it now. It could be a while before he got anything else to eat today. At least Lindenshaw, where Adam lived, was the right side of Stanebridge for getting to Abbotston quickly.
“A case?” Adam said in the supportive tones—supportive but with an edge of resignation—he used on these occasions.
“Yeah. A bloke’s been murdered. Stabbing,” Robin said between mouthfuls.
“Blimey. It’s getting like Morse’s Oxford round here.” Adam half filled Robin’s mug. “Here, wash those pancakes down.”
“Thanks. And this is hardly Morse country. It’s only the second murder investigation I’ve led on.”
“That’s two too many.” Adam patted Robin’s hand. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be so tetchy.”
“I should be the one apologising. For buggering up the weekend.”
“It’s not your fault, it’s your job. Like marking a ton of books is mine.” Adam smiled. “And it’s best part of a year since the last one, so I shouldn’t complain, even though I probably will. Where did it happen?”
“It’s not our patch, thank goodness. Abbotston.” Robin let his guilt subside under the details of the case. “Near that posh restaurant with the Michelin star.”
“The one we could never afford to eat at?” Adam’s eyebrows shot up.
“That’s the one. Don’t think the victim ate there either. He’d been at the Desdemona, earlier.”
“The Desdemona? Did they bring you in because . . .?” Adam finished the question with another lift of his eyebrows.
“Because I’m a bloody good copper?” Robin grinned, then swigged down the tea before going over to give Adam a kiss. “No. My boss is bosom buddies with the local detective superintendent, so it was a case of helping out an old mate. The local guys are up to their eyeballs with these attacks on women, and if whoever’s doing it plays to form, there’s likely to be another tonight.”
“I know. Sally at the school lives over there, and she won’t go out after dark.” Adam gave Robin’s cheek a squeeze. “You look after yourself, right? I don’t want you getting stabbed.”
“Yes, Mother.” Robin swiped an apple from the fruit bowl, on the principle that it might be as much lunch as he’d get, then legged it upstairs to put on that bloody shirt and tie.
Abbotston wasn’t the kind of place Robin could warm to. The posh parts were much posher than anything Stanebridge had to offer, but it lacked character, except in some of the outlying areas where villages had been absorbed. The centre had been bombed during the war, and the rebuilding programme had been typically 1950s: utilitarian and horribly ugly. Part of it had seen recent redevelopment, and the Florentine was located there.
The telltale blue-and-white police tape surrounded a piece of concreted hardstanding behind an estate agent’s office next to the restaurant—probably where he or she parked their big, swanky car. The area was partially hidden from the street and not likely to be well lit at night, so you’d avoid it if you were female and the new moon was about to appear. Within its boundaries, a solitary crime scene investigator was finishing off his painstaking task.
Robin noted the groups of people gathered on the pavement, who stood for a while watching, then went about their normal Saturday morning business with the added bonus of a mystery to speculate about. Who, why, when? The word would soon get around. The local news was probably already carrying it, and people would watch, wonder, and just as soon forget. Robin wouldn’t be able to do that until the culprit had been brought to book.
According to Cowdrey, who’d briefed Robin on arrival at the scene, the victim had left the Desdemona, turned east, and headed up the main road, towards the smart new block of flats about a mile away, which, according to the business cards the CSI had found on his body, was the contact address he gave. It also turned out to be where the man lived. That was a mystery in itself, not because it was so unusual to work from home, but because he’d have had to double back to get to this end of town.
Thomas Hatton, Tax Consultant.
They’d found the victim’s wallet seemingly intact, so robbery didn’t appear to have been the motive. Hatton’s keys had been in his pocket too, and, once the CSI had finished at the scene, the police were going to have to work through the dead man’s flat, trying to build up a picture of him.
Four stab wounds indicated to Robin that hatred or some other deep passion had been involved. Though the police couldn’t rule out a random attack from somebody who was so drunk or drugged up that they didn’t know what they were doing.
He looked up and down the road. If Hatton had initially been heading home, why had he taken a detour and ended up here? Had he met someone en route and been walking with them? The early reports were that he’d left the club alone.
“Surprised nobody saw him being attacked, sir.” Sergeant Anderson’s voice at his shoulder made Robin jump.
“Must you creep up on people?”
Anderson grinned. “Reconstruction. I’ve proved the victim could have been crept up on. Assuming he hadn’t come along here voluntarily with his killer. Into a dark car park for a bit of slap and tickle, perhaps?”
“I’m not sure why anybody would have come up here.” Robin shrugged. It might be as simple as a few minutes of fun gone horribly wrong. “Hardly Lovers’ Lane.”
“Some people appreciate the sleazy aspect. I wonder why he wasn’t heard, either. Did he shout out? Or did he know whoever killed him, and get taken off guard?”
Robin nodded. Certainly children were most at risk from people they knew and trusted, family and friends being more dangerous statistically than strangers were. The same applied, if to a lesser extent, to adults. “Does it get that busy round here in the middle of the night? That you’d not be seen or heard?”
“Fridays and Saturdays, yes, or so my mates say. Clubs and bars turning out. The men who found him had been drinking not far from here. Not one of your haunts?”
“No,” Robin replied, coldly. “I can’t help wondering if these local drinkers are so universally sloshed that they wouldn’t notice somebody running away covered in blood? This would have got messy for the killer.”
“Some of the people who roll out of clubs are so far gone they wouldn’t notice if aliens invaded.” Anderson rolled his eyes. “Point taken, though.”
“I suppose if you had a big enough coat, one that you discarded for the attack and then put on again, you could have hidden a multitude of sins.” Especially under street lighting that would have been hazy at best. “If the killer made his or her way off into the residential area, they could have easily gone to ground. That’s supposed to be a complete rabbit warren.”
“You don’t like Abbotston, do you?”
“No.”
“Not even the football team?” Anderson didn’t wait for a response. “I wouldn’t have minded getting called in for cup tie duty.”
“You enjoy aggro?” Abbotston Alexandra’s stunning progress through the early rounds of the FA Cup was about to be put to an end by a Millwall team who were having a great league run and whose supporters had a nasty reputation. All in all, Abbotston wasn’t a nice place to be at present.
Anderson made a face. “It would make more sense to escape up by the apartment blocks than to go along the main road. Unless you had a car waiting for you, then you’d slip in and Bob’s your uncle.” And a car wouldn’t have necessarily attracted attention at chucking-out time if things did get that busy, because there’d have been taxis milling around and people getting lifts home.
“That lack of noise bothers me. Even if Hatton was attacked suddenly by somebody he knew, he was stabbed time and again, so why didn’t he call out?”
“Maybe he did and the noise got swallowed up among the traffic. Or it coincided with some rowdy mob coming out of the Indian restaurant.” Anderson gestured vaguely along the road.
“Or, if he knew his attacker, that line of thought may be irrelevant because he could have let them get close enough to put a hand over his mouth.” Robin shook his head. Too much speculation and no proper evidence to go on, yet.
Robin glanced towards the pavement, the other side of the tape, where Cowdrey was talking to Wendy May, a young, tired-looking WPC, who’d been called the previous night to help take statements from the people at the Desdemona. Whose idea had it been to send a female, black officer into the club to accompany the white, male, local officers? Had someone seen the rainbow flag—or known of the establishment’s clientele—and decided that if they couldn’t find a gay officer, then some other minority member would have to do?
He wasn’t being fair, and he shouldn’t make snap judgements. WPC May was described as an excellent copper, but he’d always been sensitive to outbreaks of political correctness. It was a weakness he found hard to overcome. People said a gay copper would have opportunities galore to get on the force if he displayed any talent. And possibly if he didn’t; the powers that be wanted minority officers to hold up as examples of the constabulary’s open-mindedness.
It grated. Somehow being condescended to in such a way was as bad as coming up against rampant discrimination. Adam felt the same.
“Inspector Bright. Sergeant Anderson.” Cowdrey called them over. “WPC May has been updating me on the statements she took with Inspector Root. He’s gone to get a couple of hours’ sleep before this evening.” They all nodded.
“Is there anything to follow up, sir?” Robin liked presenting the superintendent with opportunities to show off his knowledge. It made the man happy and by some reverse psychology seemed to give Cowdrey the impression that Robin was a particularly bright spark.
“Hatton was involved in a scuffle inside the Desdemona club. He and the other man were ejected at about twelve forty-five. The doorman made sure they went off in opposite directions.”
Twelve forty-five. That left the best part of two hours unaccounted for.
“Do we know who the other man was?” Anderson asked the superintendent.
Cowdrey shook his head. “Seems like no one had seen him there before. Someone called him Radar, but that wound him up, so it’s not a lot of use.”
Radar? That was a character in a show they ran on the classic-comedy channel; maybe he was a fan? Or an air traffic controller, or one of a hundred other things. “I suppose it would have been easy enough for this ‘Radar’ to double back or go around the block and meet up with the victim again? How long would that take, May?”
“To get here? About four times as much as going direct. It wouldn’t take two hours, though.” The constable stifled a yawn.
Cowdrey adopted a paternally encouraging expression. “You’ve done a good job here, given us a start. Before you get some rest, can we pick your brains? Who would you follow up first out of the people you spoke to? You met them; we didn’t.”
May nodded. “As I said previously, sir, there was only one I think needs further questioning at the moment, and I’ve put his statement at the top of the pile. Max Worsley. I know it’s only a gut feeling, but I’m certain he knew more than he was saying.”
“Thank you. Go and put your feet up.” Cowdrey turned to Robin, handing him a dossier stuffed with paper. “There you are, Bright. Not often you get a murder to keep you two out of mischief.”
“Thank God for that, sir.”
“Think of it as good for your careers.” Cowdrey nodded at Anderson, then left, ushering May with him.
“Good for our careers?” Anderson snorted. “Only if we don’t make a pig’s ear of it.”
“Too true.” Robin looked at the dossier, glanced at where the murder had happened, then puffed out his cheeks. “I’m assuming we rule out a link to the Slasher?”
“Don’t you always tell me never to assume?” Anderson flashed his cheeky grin. “Can’t make an obvious connection, though. Victim’s the wrong sex; wounds aren’t in the same places.”
“That’s what I thought.” It would, however, be unwise to dismiss a connection entirely; last night had seen the appropriate phase of the moon. He noted the address on the statement. “Right. Get your phone and find out where Sandy Street is. Let’s see if this Worsley bloke has surfaced this morning.”
Sandy Street was in the part of Abbotston that had been developed back in Victorian times, when the railway arrived, best part of a mile from where Hatton had been found. The quality of the properties shot up a notch as they turned the corner in Worsley’s road.
“Number twenty-one will be on the left side.” Robin peered at the numbers. “Looks like you should be lucky with a parking space.”
They drew up outside an elegant town house; the column of names and bell pushes showed it had been divided into flats, though the facade was well maintained and there wasn’t the air of seediness there usually was about such conversions. They rang, gave their names and purpose over the intercom, were let in, and went up to the top floor. Worsley—a muscular bloke with two days of stubble and a gorgeous smile—was waiting for them at the turn of the stairs.
“It’s about last night.” Anderson dutifully flashed his warrant card. “One or two things we need to clarify.”
“Come in, I was just making myself some coffee. Bit of a late night. Want some?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” Anderson looked at Robin hopefully.
“Count me in as well.”
Worsley ushered them into a little dining area, set in a corner of the lounge, with a view of the local rooftops. A vase of flowers on the table and another on the bookshelves helped fill the place with colour. Worsley soon appeared, bearing coffee-filled china mugs, leaving the policemen to juggle with drinks, notebooks, and pens.
“Did you see either of the men who were in the scuffle at any other part of the evening?”
“Not really. I was too busy drinking and chatting with friends.”
Drinking with friends? Robin was trying to find a subtle way to phrase the natural follow-up question when Anderson cut in with, “Do you go to the Desdemona a lot?”
“As often as I can. Even my straight pals hang out at the place. I assume the question actually meant ‘am I gay?’” Worsley grinned.
“Not at all.” Anderson, if he’d been wrong-footed, made a swift recovery. “I was trying to establish if you were a regular there, in case you could tell us whether Hatton or the man he fought with had been at the club before.”
“My apologies. And no, I’ve never seen them there before. Not that I remember, anyway.”
Robin took a swig of coffee, earning some thinking time. What had May picked up that made her think Worsley had more to say? They couldn’t ignore the fact that he lived relatively close to the scene of the crime, and it was possible that he could have left the club, done the deed, run home to clean himself up, and returned to the Desdemona later, bold as brass.
“Have there ever been similar incidents near the Desdemona? Or the Florentine?” Anderson—eyes darting about—was clearly taking in the flat, maybe searching for clues. “Not necessarily stabbings, but trouble of any sort.”
“Not that I remember. The Desdemona’s a pretty staid place. Matches the area. Very quiet part of Abbotston. Safe.” Worsley shrugged and drank his coffee.
“And is there anything else, however small or insignificant it might seem, that you can add to what you told WPC May last night?” Robin was on the verge of closing his notebook and leaving.
Worsley’s face became guarded, as if he was weighing his options. “What do you know about Hatton? Come to think of it, what do you know about me?”
Well spotted, WPC May. Looks like you were right about him knowing more than he’d let on. Adam would be giving you a house point if you were in his class.
Robin shared a wary glance with his sergeant before replying. “Very little. Hatton’s business card says he was a tax consultant . . .”
“Tax consultant? I suppose he might have been by now, assuming he’d left GCHQ.”
“GCHQ?” Alarm bells started to go off in Robin’s head. “Do you mean Hatton was involved with the secret services? How on earth do you know that?”
“The answers to those are, in order, ‘yes,’ ‘he used to be,’ and ‘I did some computer work for them and saw him there.’” Worsley grinned again, the sort of grin that made Robin uncomfortable around the collar. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was being flirted with.
You’re not my type, dear. And anyway, I’m already spoken for.
“Let me get this right,” Anderson said. “You saw him there? How long ago was that?”
“Oh . . .” Worsley wrinkled his brow. “Three years?”
“Three years and you remembered him?”
“Yes. I have a photographic memory for faces, especially handsome ones, and he was a real silver fox. How I hadn’t clocked him in the bar before the fight, I don’t know. Maybe because it was crazy busy.”
Maybe. If he was telling the truth.
“I’m bloody useless with names, unfortunately.” Worsley carried on, oblivious. “I must have seen him around and about GCHQ perhaps half a dozen times over the course of a month, even though I wasn’t working in his department.”
“I suppose you can’t tell us what you were doing there?” Anderson asked.
“Afraid not. Official Secrets Act and all that, although I’m sure you can verify my security clearance and the like, if you need to make sure I’m a good, reliable boy.”
“We will, believe me.” Anderson had clearly taken a dislike to this particular witness. “Did you notice anybody else you recognised from GCHQ while you were at the club?”
“No. Should I have?” Worsley appeared to be equally disenchanted with the sergeant.
“Please. We’re only trying to find out who killed Hatton,” Robin reminded them both. “You work in computing?”
“Yeah, part of a consultancy. Helping to put in new systems or troubleshooting old ones.” Worsley ran his finger round the rim of his mug. “And in answer to an earlier question, I have no idea if he was gay. He certainly didn’t give the impression of being on the pull last night.”
Robin nodded, but he’d keep an open mind on that point for the moment. “You said you saw Hatton half a dozen times. Ever speak to him?”
“Not back at GCHQ.”
“Last night?”
Worsley shrugged. “No.”
“What about the other guy in the fight?” Anderson asked. “Did you interact with him? You said you’d ‘not really’ seen either of them. Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a qualified no. Unless you count me saying ‘thank you’ when he held the door to the men’s toilets open. And for the record,” he added, with a sharp glance at Anderson, “nothing goes on in those toilets.”
“I never said anything.” Anderson raised his hands in a gesture of innocence that clearly fooled nobody. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in us trying the old ‘do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Hatton’ question? Or whether you’ve got any further bombshells to drop?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Worsley’s regret sounded genuine enough. “Although if that changes, I’ll get back to you. Have you a contact number?”
Robin produced a card with the relevant details on it. “This is the Stanebridge police station number, but someone there can make sure I get any message; I’ll ring you back.”
“Okie dokie.” Worsley took the card, studied it, then put it in his wallet. “Just as well I’ve got this, because I’ll never remember your names.”
“Don’t put yourself out remembering mine.” Anderson pushed back his chair, signalling that the interview was finished.
Robin made an apologetic face, smoothing over the awkwardness with some platitudes, before getting Anderson through the door. They were halfway down the stairs and out of earshot before he asked, “What rattled your cage?”
“Him. He put my back up.” Anderson made a face, as though even referring to Worsley left a bad taste in his mouth. “We should keep an eye on him.”
“And is that based on anything other than the fact he narked you?”
Anderson grinned. “Call it instinct. Anyway, if Hatton was still involved with GCHQ when he died, this is likely to get messy.”
Robin nodded. Murder wasn’t something he had a broad experience of, with the exception—the wonderful exception—of the case that had brought Adam across his path. Terrorism was outside his experience entirely. Of course, Hatton might have been acting as nothing more than a tax consultant at the time of his death, or that could be a cover story; they’d have to wait for further information.
“We’ll get back to the station and plough through the rest of the statements first.” They’d reached the car, although Robin stopped and took a deep breath before getting in. “And we’ll get Davis to work her usual magic on the background stuff.”
“Sounds good. She’ll love you for spoiling her weekend.” Anderson grimaced.
“She can join the club. Your Helen won’t have been happy at you getting called in.”
Anderson shrugged. “She’s got a hen do tonight, so she’s glad to have me out from under her feet.”
“I’ll volunteer you for more Saturday jobs, then.” Adam wouldn’t be so glad. He accepted the long hours as part of a policeman’s lot, in the same way he worked every hour God sent at times, but they’d got used to having their weekends together. Robin was ready to go, but Anderson seemed to be lost in thought. “Are you thinking about the earache you’ll get if I keep screwing up your weekends?”
“No. I’m trying to work out why he bugs me.” Anderson jerked his thumb towards the house. “He’ll be trouble. Mark my words.”
“I will.” Robin started up the engine. Trouble? Robin couldn’t work out how. But the nagging voice in his head reminded him that Anderson had been right about this kind of thing before.
Robin Bright wiped the residual shaving cream from his face and grinned at his reflection in the mirror. Life tasted good, better than it had in a long time. Work was going well, with a promotion to detective chief inspector on the cards, but that wasn’t the only thing making him so happy. He had plenty of blessings in his private life, and if he was counting them, the number one was at present down in the kitchen, clattering about. And Robin’s second-best blessing was probably sitting in his basket, chewing on dog biscuits and hoping somebody might throw the end of a sausage in his direction.
Was it only a year ago that he’d have woken on a Saturday morning with nothing more to look forward to than the delights of washing and ironing, accompanied by the radio commentary of Spurs getting thrashed by the Arsenal? He used to hope the phone would go, calling him in to work because a gang of little scrotes had misbehaved on Friday night. How things had changed.
“Are you going to be in there forever?” Adam Matthews’s voice sounded from downstairs. “Your tea’s going to get cold.”
“I’ll be down soon. Got to get my shirt on.”
“Yeah. You don’t want to scare the postwoman again.” The sound of footsteps and the thud of the kitchen door indicated that Adam had gone back to making breakfast.
Robin took a final glance at the mirror, decided he’d do, and went off to find his favourite T-shirt. Hopefully his phone would keep silent today so a proper shirt and tie wouldn’t be needed; surely a man deserved his relaxation time? In the meantime he should get his backside downstairs before Adam sent Campbell, the huge black Newfoundland that shared their lives—when he couldn’t share their bed—to fetch him.
“Smells good.” Robin soaked up the delicious aromas as he came into the kitchen.
“Me or the crepes?” Adam expertly flipped a pancake. “Can you let himself into the garden? I suspect he’s bursting.”
“He probably doesn’t want to go out in case he misses a crumb falling on the floor.” Robin opened the back door and eased the dog outside, with a promise that they’d keep him some of their breakfast.
The radio was on, the relentlessly cheerful tones of the Monkees forming a standard part of Radio 2’s Saturday morning fodder. Adam’s well-nigh tuneless tones competed with Davy Jones’s much more melodious ones as they encouraged Sleepy Jean to cheer up.
“Just as well you didn’t sing for those kids.” Robin let Campbell back in. “You’d never have got the job.”
Adam had recently been interviewed—successfully—for a deputy headship that he’d be taking up at the start of the next term. The recruitment ordeal had included being grilled by the school council, who’d insisted that each candidate sing them a song. Adam, being a smart cookie, had managed to persuade the kids to do the singing instead, and they’d loved him for it.
“Look at me ignoring that.” Adam produced a stack of pancakes from the oven, where they’d obviously been keeping warm. “Get some of those inside you. Busy day.”
More than busy. Lunch with Adam’s mum, followed by a bit of shopping, trying to navigate the tricky issue of what Robin’s mother might want for her birthday. What do you get for the woman who insists that all she wants is for you not to be at work so you can share her birthday dinner?
“I just hope the bloody phone doesn’t go.”
“So do I. Can’t you put it onto divert and make the call go through to Anderson?”
“He’d kill me if I did.” There was another blessing, Anderson still being on Robin’s team, making snarky remarks and useful leaps of deduction. “Or at least put laxative in my coffee.”
Adam sniggered. “You need to make the most of him. He won’t be with you forever.”
“True.” Anderson’s promotion was on the horizon, as well. He’d proved himself a bloody good copper, as Robin had.
“Even Campbell likes him, and that dog’s no fool.”
“He’s an excellent judge of character.” Robin stirred his tea. “I wish there were more like Anderson in the force. People who don’t think themselves above being civil and pleasant to the old salts who’ll be walking the beat until their retirement.”
“More clones of you, then?”
“Why not?” Robin didn’t like to boast, but he knew he did his job well. He’d won plenty of friends on the way up, and when they neared retirement, he’d be on his way to becoming superintendent. “It’s not hard to do the job. Keep nicking people, keep your nose clean, and keep your paperwork up to date.”
“Yes, sah!” Adam saluted, then tucked in to his breakfast.
Robin had put away his third pancake and was eyeing a fourth when his mobile phone sounded. Adam made his eye-rolling “I hope that’s not work” face, although the bloke was getting used to being at the beck and call of Stanebridge police headquarters. You couldn’t expect anything else when you’d hitched up to a rozzer.
Robin grabbed the phone. “Robin Bright speaking.”
“Cowdrey here.” His boss’s not-so-dulcet tones came down the line. “Sorry to interrupt your Saturday morning, Robin, but we’ve got a tricky one. Bloke got killed last night, a stone’s throw from the Florentine restaurant, in Abbotston. Bit off our patch, but the local superintendent’s a friend of mine and wants us to handle things. His team’s tied up with those attacks.”
Abbotston, fifteen miles away, was twice the size of Stanebridge, with a crime rate four times as high, and its very own ongoing crisis. “The Abbotston Slasher,” the papers had christened whoever was making the knife attacks, although that title smacked more of Carry On films than the terrifying reality: three young women stabbed these last three months, each on the eve of the new moon, and one of them had died of her wounds. The moon would be new again tonight; Robin guessed leave had been cancelled and any unexplained death not related to the case would be an unwelcome distraction.
“Never rains but it pours, does it, sir?”
“Pours? It’s bloody torrential. There’s the cup tie, as well.”
“Oh hell, I’d forgotten about that.” Millwall hitting the town, to play non-league Abbotston Alexandra. Even their cleaning lady was going to the match. Robin mouthed Sorry at Adam, then grabbed a pen and notepad.
“What do we know about the murder, sir?”
“It happened about three o’clock this morning. A couple of passers-by found the victim alive, just, although unconscious, and they called an ambulance. He didn’t make it beyond the operating theatre. Died at six o’clock. ” Cowdrey sounded short of breath; he was corpulent, asthmatic but as hard as nails. “Stabbed four times at least.”
“Any leads?” Robin, while making notes, was already building up a picture. The Florentine was an upmarket kind of a restaurant to get stabbed near, the sort nominally run by an up-and-coming television personality chef. It attracted punters from across the Home Counties. Perhaps, he thought—irreverently and guiltily—the dead man was one of the waiters and the murderer had been a customer incensed at the size of the bill?
Whatever was going on, there was a guarded edge to the chief superintendent’s voice as he continued. “The men who found him reckoned he’d been drinking at a local bar earlier, and got himself into a fight there in the process. We got called in with the ambulance and managed to start taking statements at the club concerned. One of these all-night-opening places.” The slight hesitation in Cowdrey’s voice made Robin stiffen; he could guess what was coming.
“Which bar was this, sir?”
“The Desdemona.”
The Desdemona. Robin had been there once or twice, back when he was single; it wasn’t a bad sort of a place. It was on the pricey side, but the decor was tasteful, and there were neither slot machines nor TV screens to ruin the atmosphere. It was about two hundred yards from the Florentine, both of them in the posh part of Abbotston. And the bar flew a rainbow flag outside, which was presumably one of the reasons why he was being put onto the case when the local boys needed a hand.
“Homophobic element, sir?” Might as well ask the obvious.
“Too early to say.” Cowdrey exhaled, loudly. “Sorry, but I think your Saturday’s ruined. I’ll call Anderson and get him to meet you at the scene.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there in half an hour or so. Less if the traffic’s kind.” Robin ended the call, looked longingly at the fourth pancake, and decided to snaffle it now. It could be a while before he got anything else to eat today. At least Lindenshaw, where Adam lived, was the right side of Stanebridge for getting to Abbotston quickly.
“A case?” Adam said in the supportive tones—supportive but with an edge of resignation—he used on these occasions.
“Yeah. A bloke’s been murdered. Stabbing,” Robin said between mouthfuls.
“Blimey. It’s getting like Morse’s Oxford round here.” Adam half filled Robin’s mug. “Here, wash those pancakes down.”
“Thanks. And this is hardly Morse country. It’s only the second murder investigation I’ve led on.”
“That’s two too many.” Adam patted Robin’s hand. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be so tetchy.”
“I should be the one apologising. For buggering up the weekend.”
“It’s not your fault, it’s your job. Like marking a ton of books is mine.” Adam smiled. “And it’s best part of a year since the last one, so I shouldn’t complain, even though I probably will. Where did it happen?”
“It’s not our patch, thank goodness. Abbotston.” Robin let his guilt subside under the details of the case. “Near that posh restaurant with the Michelin star.”
“The one we could never afford to eat at?” Adam’s eyebrows shot up.
“That’s the one. Don’t think the victim ate there either. He’d been at the Desdemona, earlier.”
“The Desdemona? Did they bring you in because . . .?” Adam finished the question with another lift of his eyebrows.
“Because I’m a bloody good copper?” Robin grinned, then swigged down the tea before going over to give Adam a kiss. “No. My boss is bosom buddies with the local detective superintendent, so it was a case of helping out an old mate. The local guys are up to their eyeballs with these attacks on women, and if whoever’s doing it plays to form, there’s likely to be another tonight.”
“I know. Sally at the school lives over there, and she won’t go out after dark.” Adam gave Robin’s cheek a squeeze. “You look after yourself, right? I don’t want you getting stabbed.”
“Yes, Mother.” Robin swiped an apple from the fruit bowl, on the principle that it might be as much lunch as he’d get, then legged it upstairs to put on that bloody shirt and tie.
*****
Abbotston wasn’t the kind of place Robin could warm to. The posh parts were much posher than anything Stanebridge had to offer, but it lacked character, except in some of the outlying areas where villages had been absorbed. The centre had been bombed during the war, and the rebuilding programme had been typically 1950s: utilitarian and horribly ugly. Part of it had seen recent redevelopment, and the Florentine was located there.
The telltale blue-and-white police tape surrounded a piece of concreted hardstanding behind an estate agent’s office next to the restaurant—probably where he or she parked their big, swanky car. The area was partially hidden from the street and not likely to be well lit at night, so you’d avoid it if you were female and the new moon was about to appear. Within its boundaries, a solitary crime scene investigator was finishing off his painstaking task.
Robin noted the groups of people gathered on the pavement, who stood for a while watching, then went about their normal Saturday morning business with the added bonus of a mystery to speculate about. Who, why, when? The word would soon get around. The local news was probably already carrying it, and people would watch, wonder, and just as soon forget. Robin wouldn’t be able to do that until the culprit had been brought to book.
According to Cowdrey, who’d briefed Robin on arrival at the scene, the victim had left the Desdemona, turned east, and headed up the main road, towards the smart new block of flats about a mile away, which, according to the business cards the CSI had found on his body, was the contact address he gave. It also turned out to be where the man lived. That was a mystery in itself, not because it was so unusual to work from home, but because he’d have had to double back to get to this end of town.
Thomas Hatton, Tax Consultant.
They’d found the victim’s wallet seemingly intact, so robbery didn’t appear to have been the motive. Hatton’s keys had been in his pocket too, and, once the CSI had finished at the scene, the police were going to have to work through the dead man’s flat, trying to build up a picture of him.
Four stab wounds indicated to Robin that hatred or some other deep passion had been involved. Though the police couldn’t rule out a random attack from somebody who was so drunk or drugged up that they didn’t know what they were doing.
He looked up and down the road. If Hatton had initially been heading home, why had he taken a detour and ended up here? Had he met someone en route and been walking with them? The early reports were that he’d left the club alone.
“Surprised nobody saw him being attacked, sir.” Sergeant Anderson’s voice at his shoulder made Robin jump.
“Must you creep up on people?”
Anderson grinned. “Reconstruction. I’ve proved the victim could have been crept up on. Assuming he hadn’t come along here voluntarily with his killer. Into a dark car park for a bit of slap and tickle, perhaps?”
“I’m not sure why anybody would have come up here.” Robin shrugged. It might be as simple as a few minutes of fun gone horribly wrong. “Hardly Lovers’ Lane.”
“Some people appreciate the sleazy aspect. I wonder why he wasn’t heard, either. Did he shout out? Or did he know whoever killed him, and get taken off guard?”
Robin nodded. Certainly children were most at risk from people they knew and trusted, family and friends being more dangerous statistically than strangers were. The same applied, if to a lesser extent, to adults. “Does it get that busy round here in the middle of the night? That you’d not be seen or heard?”
“Fridays and Saturdays, yes, or so my mates say. Clubs and bars turning out. The men who found him had been drinking not far from here. Not one of your haunts?”
“No,” Robin replied, coldly. “I can’t help wondering if these local drinkers are so universally sloshed that they wouldn’t notice somebody running away covered in blood? This would have got messy for the killer.”
“Some of the people who roll out of clubs are so far gone they wouldn’t notice if aliens invaded.” Anderson rolled his eyes. “Point taken, though.”
“I suppose if you had a big enough coat, one that you discarded for the attack and then put on again, you could have hidden a multitude of sins.” Especially under street lighting that would have been hazy at best. “If the killer made his or her way off into the residential area, they could have easily gone to ground. That’s supposed to be a complete rabbit warren.”
“You don’t like Abbotston, do you?”
“No.”
“Not even the football team?” Anderson didn’t wait for a response. “I wouldn’t have minded getting called in for cup tie duty.”
“You enjoy aggro?” Abbotston Alexandra’s stunning progress through the early rounds of the FA Cup was about to be put to an end by a Millwall team who were having a great league run and whose supporters had a nasty reputation. All in all, Abbotston wasn’t a nice place to be at present.
Anderson made a face. “It would make more sense to escape up by the apartment blocks than to go along the main road. Unless you had a car waiting for you, then you’d slip in and Bob’s your uncle.” And a car wouldn’t have necessarily attracted attention at chucking-out time if things did get that busy, because there’d have been taxis milling around and people getting lifts home.
“That lack of noise bothers me. Even if Hatton was attacked suddenly by somebody he knew, he was stabbed time and again, so why didn’t he call out?”
“Maybe he did and the noise got swallowed up among the traffic. Or it coincided with some rowdy mob coming out of the Indian restaurant.” Anderson gestured vaguely along the road.
“Or, if he knew his attacker, that line of thought may be irrelevant because he could have let them get close enough to put a hand over his mouth.” Robin shook his head. Too much speculation and no proper evidence to go on, yet.
Robin glanced towards the pavement, the other side of the tape, where Cowdrey was talking to Wendy May, a young, tired-looking WPC, who’d been called the previous night to help take statements from the people at the Desdemona. Whose idea had it been to send a female, black officer into the club to accompany the white, male, local officers? Had someone seen the rainbow flag—or known of the establishment’s clientele—and decided that if they couldn’t find a gay officer, then some other minority member would have to do?
He wasn’t being fair, and he shouldn’t make snap judgements. WPC May was described as an excellent copper, but he’d always been sensitive to outbreaks of political correctness. It was a weakness he found hard to overcome. People said a gay copper would have opportunities galore to get on the force if he displayed any talent. And possibly if he didn’t; the powers that be wanted minority officers to hold up as examples of the constabulary’s open-mindedness.
It grated. Somehow being condescended to in such a way was as bad as coming up against rampant discrimination. Adam felt the same.
“Inspector Bright. Sergeant Anderson.” Cowdrey called them over. “WPC May has been updating me on the statements she took with Inspector Root. He’s gone to get a couple of hours’ sleep before this evening.” They all nodded.
“Is there anything to follow up, sir?” Robin liked presenting the superintendent with opportunities to show off his knowledge. It made the man happy and by some reverse psychology seemed to give Cowdrey the impression that Robin was a particularly bright spark.
“Hatton was involved in a scuffle inside the Desdemona club. He and the other man were ejected at about twelve forty-five. The doorman made sure they went off in opposite directions.”
Twelve forty-five. That left the best part of two hours unaccounted for.
“Do we know who the other man was?” Anderson asked the superintendent.
Cowdrey shook his head. “Seems like no one had seen him there before. Someone called him Radar, but that wound him up, so it’s not a lot of use.”
Radar? That was a character in a show they ran on the classic-comedy channel; maybe he was a fan? Or an air traffic controller, or one of a hundred other things. “I suppose it would have been easy enough for this ‘Radar’ to double back or go around the block and meet up with the victim again? How long would that take, May?”
“To get here? About four times as much as going direct. It wouldn’t take two hours, though.” The constable stifled a yawn.
Cowdrey adopted a paternally encouraging expression. “You’ve done a good job here, given us a start. Before you get some rest, can we pick your brains? Who would you follow up first out of the people you spoke to? You met them; we didn’t.”
May nodded. “As I said previously, sir, there was only one I think needs further questioning at the moment, and I’ve put his statement at the top of the pile. Max Worsley. I know it’s only a gut feeling, but I’m certain he knew more than he was saying.”
“Thank you. Go and put your feet up.” Cowdrey turned to Robin, handing him a dossier stuffed with paper. “There you are, Bright. Not often you get a murder to keep you two out of mischief.”
“Thank God for that, sir.”
“Think of it as good for your careers.” Cowdrey nodded at Anderson, then left, ushering May with him.
“Good for our careers?” Anderson snorted. “Only if we don’t make a pig’s ear of it.”
“Too true.” Robin looked at the dossier, glanced at where the murder had happened, then puffed out his cheeks. “I’m assuming we rule out a link to the Slasher?”
“Don’t you always tell me never to assume?” Anderson flashed his cheeky grin. “Can’t make an obvious connection, though. Victim’s the wrong sex; wounds aren’t in the same places.”
“That’s what I thought.” It would, however, be unwise to dismiss a connection entirely; last night had seen the appropriate phase of the moon. He noted the address on the statement. “Right. Get your phone and find out where Sandy Street is. Let’s see if this Worsley bloke has surfaced this morning.”
Sandy Street was in the part of Abbotston that had been developed back in Victorian times, when the railway arrived, best part of a mile from where Hatton had been found. The quality of the properties shot up a notch as they turned the corner in Worsley’s road.
“Number twenty-one will be on the left side.” Robin peered at the numbers. “Looks like you should be lucky with a parking space.”
They drew up outside an elegant town house; the column of names and bell pushes showed it had been divided into flats, though the facade was well maintained and there wasn’t the air of seediness there usually was about such conversions. They rang, gave their names and purpose over the intercom, were let in, and went up to the top floor. Worsley—a muscular bloke with two days of stubble and a gorgeous smile—was waiting for them at the turn of the stairs.
“It’s about last night.” Anderson dutifully flashed his warrant card. “One or two things we need to clarify.”
“Come in, I was just making myself some coffee. Bit of a late night. Want some?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” Anderson looked at Robin hopefully.
“Count me in as well.”
Worsley ushered them into a little dining area, set in a corner of the lounge, with a view of the local rooftops. A vase of flowers on the table and another on the bookshelves helped fill the place with colour. Worsley soon appeared, bearing coffee-filled china mugs, leaving the policemen to juggle with drinks, notebooks, and pens.
“Did you see either of the men who were in the scuffle at any other part of the evening?”
“Not really. I was too busy drinking and chatting with friends.”
Drinking with friends? Robin was trying to find a subtle way to phrase the natural follow-up question when Anderson cut in with, “Do you go to the Desdemona a lot?”
“As often as I can. Even my straight pals hang out at the place. I assume the question actually meant ‘am I gay?’” Worsley grinned.
“Not at all.” Anderson, if he’d been wrong-footed, made a swift recovery. “I was trying to establish if you were a regular there, in case you could tell us whether Hatton or the man he fought with had been at the club before.”
“My apologies. And no, I’ve never seen them there before. Not that I remember, anyway.”
Robin took a swig of coffee, earning some thinking time. What had May picked up that made her think Worsley had more to say? They couldn’t ignore the fact that he lived relatively close to the scene of the crime, and it was possible that he could have left the club, done the deed, run home to clean himself up, and returned to the Desdemona later, bold as brass.
“Have there ever been similar incidents near the Desdemona? Or the Florentine?” Anderson—eyes darting about—was clearly taking in the flat, maybe searching for clues. “Not necessarily stabbings, but trouble of any sort.”
“Not that I remember. The Desdemona’s a pretty staid place. Matches the area. Very quiet part of Abbotston. Safe.” Worsley shrugged and drank his coffee.
“And is there anything else, however small or insignificant it might seem, that you can add to what you told WPC May last night?” Robin was on the verge of closing his notebook and leaving.
Worsley’s face became guarded, as if he was weighing his options. “What do you know about Hatton? Come to think of it, what do you know about me?”
Well spotted, WPC May. Looks like you were right about him knowing more than he’d let on. Adam would be giving you a house point if you were in his class.
Robin shared a wary glance with his sergeant before replying. “Very little. Hatton’s business card says he was a tax consultant . . .”
“Tax consultant? I suppose he might have been by now, assuming he’d left GCHQ.”
“GCHQ?” Alarm bells started to go off in Robin’s head. “Do you mean Hatton was involved with the secret services? How on earth do you know that?”
“The answers to those are, in order, ‘yes,’ ‘he used to be,’ and ‘I did some computer work for them and saw him there.’” Worsley grinned again, the sort of grin that made Robin uncomfortable around the collar. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was being flirted with.
You’re not my type, dear. And anyway, I’m already spoken for.
“Let me get this right,” Anderson said. “You saw him there? How long ago was that?”
“Oh . . .” Worsley wrinkled his brow. “Three years?”
“Three years and you remembered him?”
“Yes. I have a photographic memory for faces, especially handsome ones, and he was a real silver fox. How I hadn’t clocked him in the bar before the fight, I don’t know. Maybe because it was crazy busy.”
Maybe. If he was telling the truth.
“I’m bloody useless with names, unfortunately.” Worsley carried on, oblivious. “I must have seen him around and about GCHQ perhaps half a dozen times over the course of a month, even though I wasn’t working in his department.”
“I suppose you can’t tell us what you were doing there?” Anderson asked.
“Afraid not. Official Secrets Act and all that, although I’m sure you can verify my security clearance and the like, if you need to make sure I’m a good, reliable boy.”
“We will, believe me.” Anderson had clearly taken a dislike to this particular witness. “Did you notice anybody else you recognised from GCHQ while you were at the club?”
“No. Should I have?” Worsley appeared to be equally disenchanted with the sergeant.
“Please. We’re only trying to find out who killed Hatton,” Robin reminded them both. “You work in computing?”
“Yeah, part of a consultancy. Helping to put in new systems or troubleshooting old ones.” Worsley ran his finger round the rim of his mug. “And in answer to an earlier question, I have no idea if he was gay. He certainly didn’t give the impression of being on the pull last night.”
Robin nodded, but he’d keep an open mind on that point for the moment. “You said you saw Hatton half a dozen times. Ever speak to him?”
“Not back at GCHQ.”
“Last night?”
Worsley shrugged. “No.”
“What about the other guy in the fight?” Anderson asked. “Did you interact with him? You said you’d ‘not really’ seen either of them. Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a qualified no. Unless you count me saying ‘thank you’ when he held the door to the men’s toilets open. And for the record,” he added, with a sharp glance at Anderson, “nothing goes on in those toilets.”
“I never said anything.” Anderson raised his hands in a gesture of innocence that clearly fooled nobody. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in us trying the old ‘do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Hatton’ question? Or whether you’ve got any further bombshells to drop?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Worsley’s regret sounded genuine enough. “Although if that changes, I’ll get back to you. Have you a contact number?”
Robin produced a card with the relevant details on it. “This is the Stanebridge police station number, but someone there can make sure I get any message; I’ll ring you back.”
“Okie dokie.” Worsley took the card, studied it, then put it in his wallet. “Just as well I’ve got this, because I’ll never remember your names.”
“Don’t put yourself out remembering mine.” Anderson pushed back his chair, signalling that the interview was finished.
Robin made an apologetic face, smoothing over the awkwardness with some platitudes, before getting Anderson through the door. They were halfway down the stairs and out of earshot before he asked, “What rattled your cage?”
“Him. He put my back up.” Anderson made a face, as though even referring to Worsley left a bad taste in his mouth. “We should keep an eye on him.”
“And is that based on anything other than the fact he narked you?”
Anderson grinned. “Call it instinct. Anyway, if Hatton was still involved with GCHQ when he died, this is likely to get messy.”
Robin nodded. Murder wasn’t something he had a broad experience of, with the exception—the wonderful exception—of the case that had brought Adam across his path. Terrorism was outside his experience entirely. Of course, Hatton might have been acting as nothing more than a tax consultant at the time of his death, or that could be a cover story; they’d have to wait for further information.
“We’ll get back to the station and plough through the rest of the statements first.” They’d reached the car, although Robin stopped and took a deep breath before getting in. “And we’ll get Davis to work her usual magic on the background stuff.”
“Sounds good. She’ll love you for spoiling her weekend.” Anderson grimaced.
“She can join the club. Your Helen won’t have been happy at you getting called in.”
Anderson shrugged. “She’s got a hen do tonight, so she’s glad to have me out from under her feet.”
“I’ll volunteer you for more Saturday jobs, then.” Adam wouldn’t be so glad. He accepted the long hours as part of a policeman’s lot, in the same way he worked every hour God sent at times, but they’d got used to having their weekends together. Robin was ready to go, but Anderson seemed to be lost in thought. “Are you thinking about the earache you’ll get if I keep screwing up your weekends?”
“No. I’m trying to work out why he bugs me.” Anderson jerked his thumb towards the house. “He’ll be trouble. Mark my words.”
“I will.” Robin started up the engine. Trouble? Robin couldn’t work out how. But the nagging voice in his head reminded him that Anderson had been right about this kind of thing before.
Body at Buccaneer's Bay by Josh Lanyon
Gulls circled overhead, mewing plaintively.
Water sloshed and lapped against the side of the rocking boat. The hot bright August afternoon smelled of diesel and brine and rubber and…liverwurst.
Ellery said, “Hey, do you remember that poison pen letter I got a while back?”
“Yep.” Jack spoke absently, double-checking the regulator and hoses of Ellery’s diving equipment.
Jack was a certified diver. Scuba was his one and only hobby, so it was no surprise he owned his own gear, but Ellery was renting everything from his flippers to his air tanks, and Jack was not a believer in leaving anything to chance.
“Whatever came of that? Anything? I mean, did the lab find any fingerprints?”
Jack glanced automatically toward the bow of the Fishful Thinkin’ where “Cap” Elijah Murphy sat in the cockpit, eating a sandwich and arguing amiably with whoever was at the other end of the ship to shore radio. Although technically employed at the Scuttlebutt Weekly, Cap was no reporter. He contributed a weekly column wherein he detailed his fierce objections to any and all changes to Buck Island in general and the village of Pirate’s Cove in particular.
“No. That is, the only decipherable fingerprints were yours.”
When Ellery didn’t respond, Jack squeezed his neoprene-clad shoulder, turning Ellery to face him. “Why? I really do think that letter was just…local hysteria over Trevor’s murder.”
Ellery’s smile was wry. “I thought so too. But.”
“But?”
“I got another one yesterday evening.”
Jack’s blue-green eyes narrowed. “You…”
“Same as before. No stamp. No return address. Heck, no mailing address. Just my name printed on the face of the envelope. Hand delivered to the Crow’s Nest.”
“By who? Did you see who dropped it off?”
“No. We were busy all afternoon, and then I let Nora leave at three because we were closing early anyway.” Ellery’s parents had arrived on Saturday’s five o’clock ferry and he’d wanted to be there to meet them. They were spending the next ten days on Buck Island. “I only noticed the letter as I was locking up. It was propped on the base of Rupert’s case.”
Rupert was a glass-encased resin skeleton clothed in vintage pirate costume which “greeted” customers as they entered the bookshop. The case was positioned just a few feet from the front door, so someone could easily enter the shop, leave the envelope, and duck out again without ever being seen from the front desk.
Jack’s brows formed a single dark, forbidding line. “Did you open it?”
“Of course. It didn’t occur to me it was another anonymous letter until I was already reading it.”
Jack’s scowl deepened. “What did it say? I hope you kept it.”
“I kept it.”
“Good.”
“It was pretty much a repeat performance. You will die was the central theme.” Ellery said it lightly, but the truth was, he was troubled by the reappearance of his poison pen pal. Like Jack, he’d dismissed the original anonymous threat as his neighbors’ suspicion that he’d murdered Trevor Maples.
If that wasn’t the reason, what was?
The Mystery of the Spirits by CS Poe
A police lieutenant walks into Snow’s Antique Emporium—which was not the setup to a bad joke, just how my Wednesday began.
The bell over the front door dinged and a gravelly voice snapped, “Where’s that Sebastian Snow?”
“Boss,” Max called without missing a beat. “You’ve got a customer.”
I stepped out of the office. Max didn’t look up from where he was dusting displays on the showroom floor, merely jutted a thumb in the direction of the door.
“Yeah, thanks, I hear just fine.” I took the steps down from the raised counter, wove around glass cases of gizmos and gadgets, and sidestepped larger, more eclectic odds and ends from a century long since passed. When I got close enough that the man came into focus, I nearly tripped over myself as I put on the brakes. “Oh. Hi.”
Calvin’s supervisor, and now-lieutenant after a promotion earlier that year, Ronald Ferguson, glowered at me from the threshold. He didn’t much like me, even blamed me for the Victorian-themed murder mysteries that’d befallen his Homicide Squad in the past, only because I’d gotten tangled up in one or two or four of them. I’d also married his best detective a year and a half ago, after the Bones case had been put to rest, and that’d really twisted Ferguson’s balls. I mean, it’s not like I’d purposefully gone out of my way to outsmart the entirety of the NYPD and steal Ferguson’s spotlight when Dr. Asquith had finally been apprehended. I’d simply had the bigger incentive for solving the case. Calvin might have been Ferguson’s first-grade, golden-goose detective, but he was my husband.
And love makes a guy do crazy things.
Anyway. Let bygones be bygones or whatever. Our relationship since me and Calvin tied the knot wasn’t exactly cordial, and I didn’t expect that to change. The few times we’d crossed paths, I’d say hello, Ferguson would grunt, and then we’d go our separate ways. So the fact that this man, with his permanent scowl, big arms, bigger chest, and classic Cop ’Stache, had willingly sought me out at… nine o’clock in the morning… was concerning.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, fiddling with the rolled-back cuffs of my shirtsleeves. “Is Calvin—?”
Ferguson tsked under his breath and shoved the cardboard box he’d been holding under one arm against my chest.
I scrambled to catch it and awkwardly pushed my glasses back up my nose.
Max had joined me by that point. He brushed the unsecured flaps of the box with his duster, then said to Ferguson, “Morning.”
“He bites,” I muttered in warning.
Max, who stood taller than me and still had that wiry build of a twentysomething guy who can eat absolutely anything and not gain an ounce, was using my shoulder as an armrest. “Max Ridley,” he said next, motioning to himself with the duster. “In case you wanted to yell at me too.”
Ferguson’s left eye twitched. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat, retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and when I’d taken a breath with the intention of telling him he couldn’t smoke in my shop and I would’ve told him the same thing if he were the President of the United States, Ferguson said, “Cool it, I’m not lighting it.”
“Cool it,” I repeated, deadpan. It was my turn for an eye twitch.
“Who’s your friend, boss?” Max asked in that easygoing-bro way he had of speaking.
“Ronald Ferguson,” I answered. “Calvin’s former sarge and now… is there slang for lieutenant?”
Ferguson snapped the filter off a cigarette, put the stick to his lips, and sucked hard on the cold tobacco. “I don’t know how Winter handles you.”
“With both hands, generally.”
Ferguson bit down on the cigarette. Loose tobacco peppered his tie. “Do you, ever once, have something to say that isn’t sarcastic?”
“Not really,” Max answered for me. “But over time you learn what’s important. It’s like tuning a radio.”
I raised the box in my hands and asked Ferguson through clenched teeth, “Can I help you with something?”
Ferguson took the cigarette from his mouth and pointed at me with it. “Do you know what that is?”
“Corrugated cardboard.”
“His face is getting red,” Max warned me.
“Now listen here, you smartass—” Ferguson began.
I set the box on the nearest display, crossed my arms, and said, “Please try that again.”
Ferguson looked about ready to swallow his tongue. “I read my detectives’ reports.”
“Hm-hm.”
“I know you’re a walking encyclopedia of weird shi—stuff—and that you’ve… inadvertently helped close a few cases in the past.”
“Watch those compliments, Ron. I’m a married man.”
Ferguson drew a deep breath before adding, “It would save me a lot of time and resources if you would look inside the box and tell me what that thing is.”
“I have a consultation fee,” I said.
“And I have your husband’s still-unapproved request for next Monday off.”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
Ferguson shoved the mangled cigarette back between his lips and stared at me.
I huffed, turned to the box, and yanked open the flaps. I carefully removed an item that’d been thoughtlessly wrapped in a few feet of Bubble Wrap, and unwound the packaging just enough to reveal, on first glance, what appeared to be a clockface bolted to a slab of solid wood. I reached into my back pocket, tugged my magnifying glass free, and brought it close to read the inscriptions on the face.
Max leaned over my shoulder and said, “It looks like a clock and Ouija board had a baby.”
“That’s exactly what is it,” I murmured.
“What? Really?” Max asked.
“It’s a spiritoscope.”
“The fuck is a spiritoscope?” Ferguson interjected; more tobacco flecks sprinkled across his tie and shirt as he spoke.
“The layman’s answer: it was intended to disprove the validity of the Spiritualism movement in Victorian America,” I said.
“I don’t need the fucking layman’s explanation,” Ferguson snapped.
“Oh?” I looked at Ferguson and offered a saccharine smile. “I guess I’m used to people telling me to shut up and therefore have to consolidate an entire religious movement that lasted nearly a century, heavily influenced by sensationalism and the mass casualties seen during the Civil War and World War I, into a single sentence.”
“I want to hear more about it,” Max said with a sort of over-the-top enthusiasm clearly meant to be a jab at Ferguson.
“Do you?” I asked, just as fake.
“I sure do!”
“Well—” I began, adding a sort of dramatic, storyteller inflection to my voice, “Robert Hare, a once-prominent scientist from Philadelphia, set out to debunk the table-rappers of the 1850s by conducting a series of experiments with devices he called spiritoscopes.” I held up the item in question while adding, “This was one of several unique designs.”
Max crossed one arm over his chest and used the handle of the duster to tap his chin thoughtfully. “I see, I see. And did they disprove the movement?”
“They did not,” I said brightly. “In fact, Hare ended up converting to Spiritualism after becoming convinced of the mediums’ accuracy. He was shunned by the scientific community for the last few years of his life.”
Ferguson growled before spitting out, “How. Does. It. Work?”
“Hey,” Max chastised, motioning between him and me with the duster. “Respect the process.”
I dropped the bullshit pretense and countered with, “How did it manage to fool Hare? The same sleight of hand required to be a successful magician, I suppose. How did it work from a technical standpoint?” I looked around briefly, then told Max, “Hold out your hands.”
He tucked the duster into his back pocket and held them out, palms up.
I set the still-wrapped base in his hands and said, “Max is the table. The spiritoscope rests on its wheeled base, which allows it to move in a horizontal position—back and forth like this. The medium would rest his or her hands on this board, with the index—that’s the clock-like face—pointed away from them so they couldn’t read the results. As they moved the spiritoscope across the table, a system of pulleys—here on the side—caused this arrow on the index to move.” I picked the antique up and turned to face Ferguson. “It was thought that the spirits used the medium’s hands to spell out messages, or answer direct questions. See on the index, there’s the complete alphabet, zero through nine, as well as a few simple phrases: yes, no, think so, mistake, etcetera.”
Something in Ferguson’s expression had changed. I’m usually not very good at reading people—bad eyesight and all. I mean, if I’ve been around them long enough, consistently enough—like Max, my ex, my dad, my husband—then sure. I can definitely pick out nonverbal cues and surmise what they’re thinking. But Ferguson? I had no inkling, other than something about my explanation wasn’t sitting well with him. Like he’d eaten something sour and it was twisting his guts up.
Secret Simon by Davidson King
Prologue
My name is Simon, but you can call me Eight—I’ll explain that later—and this is the story of how my hope for a quiet drama-free college life blew up in my face…all because I fell in love.
Yes, I know, cheesy. But here’s the thing—it really is true. It’s more complex than that, and it wouldn’t be much of a story if it was all, “Met a boy, he was cool, we fell in love, the end.”
Truth is, I chose to go to college five hours from Haven Hart, where I grew up, not because I had a bad childhood or hated my family, but because everyone knew who I was there…Hell, everyone knew who I was for miles and miles from there. If you don’t know why, let me fill you in real fast.
I’m the nephew of the most powerful mob boss in Haven Hart, Christopher Manos. He isn’t your typical mobster, though. I’ve seen the documentaries on Al Capone and Joe Bonanno, and yeah, sure, my uncle killed and isn’t clean in a lot of ways. But he’s also the best man I know. My mom died when I was a baby, and he loved me as a son and raised me as far away from his lifestyle as possible…Or at least, he tried to. No matter how hard he tried, though, there was no way to hide that kind of stuff forever.
As a child I saw a lot of things I shouldn’t have, but when I was eight everything changed. There’s that number again. See, I got bored waiting in a car while my pops’s driver—Pops is what I call my uncle—went into the ice cream shop to get me some rocky road. So, I left the car and wandered around. That wasn’t a good idea, and yet it kinda was.
A couple of guys started hassling me. One was named Roy Sokolov, and he tried to kidnap me. But from the depths of a dark, dank alley came my guardian angel. His name is Snow. He saved me that day, and we saved him too. He and my pops fell in love, and that’s how I found the second-best person in my life. Snow, he calls me Eight—the age I was when he saved me—and because when he asked me what to call me, I wouldn’t give him my name and only my age…I think you get the picture.
After that night, I saw so much more. Years later, my pops and I were actually kidnapped. There was no escaping the life he lived and so, when it came time to go to college, I decided it should be far away in the hopes that no one would know who I was.
Snow suggested I use a different last name, and while it hurt my heart to do it, I knew he was right. There were forgeries made, and abracadabra! I became Simon Mancia.
Thankfully, I got through my first year of college easily. No one knew who I was—at least no one said anything. I dated a few people. Penelope for about six months, but we didn’t click the way a boyfriend and girlfriend should…Instead, she became my best friend. Then there was Raul. He was amazing, but he cheated on me after two months, and yeah…that sucked. I hadn’t been with anyone since. That was, until I saw Him. He was singing karaoke on the green at campus when I returned my second year. It was some welcome-back thing, and he was right there and…Wow.
Penelope told me his name was Rush, and that was all she knew. I decided it would be my mission to find out more and hope beyond hope that he’d take me up on an offer for coffee.
Well, there’s something to be said for falling in love with someone; you will risk it all. I did just that and more.
So, sit back and find out how my finally calm life was turned upside down…all because I fell in love.
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.
She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.
C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.
Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Charlie Cochrane
NEWSLETTER / KOBO / RIPTIDE
EMAIL: cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com
Josh Lanyon
SMASHWORDS / iTUNES / BOOKBUB
EMAIL: josh.lanyon@sbcglobal.net
CS Poe
They Call Him Levity by Davidson King
Jury of One by Charlie Cochrane
Body at Buccaneer's Bay by Josh Lanyon
KOBO / WEBSITE / GOODREADS TBR
The Mystery of the Spirits by CS Poe
B&N / KOBO / iTUNES AUDIO
GOOGLE PLAY / iTUNES / AUDIBLE
Secret Simon by Davidson King
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