Cartmel The Paperback Sleuth - Like a Bullet

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80336-795-8
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 3, 336 Seiten

Reihe: The Paperback Sleuth

Humorous cosy-crime caper from the author of the beloved, bestselling Vinyl Detective series in which a feisty, amoral book dealer uses her unique skills to solve fiendish crimes, A love letter to Agatha Christie murder mysteries and classic whodunnits. When rock musician and World War Two nut Erik Make Loud hires Cordelia, the Paperback Sleuth, to track down a series of rare and highly sought-after Commando novels by the blatantly pseudonymous Butch Raider, it seems like a routine job. But Cordelia soon discovers that the series - and in particular the incredibly rare Commando Gold paperback - are all but impossible to track down. The books' creator - real name Monty Hanington, once a promising young poet and now an embittered drunk - proves easier to find. And when he reveals to Cordelia that all his stories came from a real ex-commando he'd met on a pub crawl, a man who was only too happy to provide authentic colour to Monty's stories for a pint or two, she realises the tales might just be a little too authentic. For Commando Gold details a 1944 operation in Greece, in which commandos stumbled on a cache of Nazi gold and decided to bring it home with them. The operation was real, the gold is definitely real and the horde still exists - hidden away in England. And some people are willing to kill to get it.

Andrew Cartmel is a novelist, comics writer and screenwriter. His work includes a distinguished sojourn script editing Doctor Who for three years (search 'Cartmel masterplan'), co-writing the Rivers of London graphic novels and plays. As a crime novelist, Andrew created the Vinyl Detective while listening to a lot of music, most of it good. Most of it very good. Andrew Cartmel lives in London with too many books, too many records and just enough cats.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cartmel, Andrew

Leseproben

1: A MODEST RETAINER

It was a weird house, but then a rock star lived here.

Well, an ex-rock star. A former rock star.

Cordelia felt that handy two-word phrases like “washed up” and “has been” would have been tempting to apply to her prospective client. But there were reasons not to apply them…

None to do with Cordelia having to respect her clients; if she had to do that, she wouldn’t have any. Clients, that is.

But there was no denying that this fellow was filthy rich; certainly a millionaire several times over.

Witness the house. It was actually situated right beside the river in the riverside suburb of Barnes—zeros were already sprouting vigorously west of the decimal point on its market value in Cordelia’s mind—it was a white monolith, three storeys high with a view of the Thames flowing serenely by. And, in Cordelia’s view, a Bauhaus monstrosity which might well have been inflicted on the world by the same mischievous mad architect who had created the local church (St Drogo’s).

If so, Cordelia wondered what had prompted the mischievous madman to create a sunken alleyway that ran around the basement of this house, like a kind of modernist moat, which necessitated an eccentric miniature black iron bridge to cross from the front gate to the front door. It was a sort of permanently fixed drawbridge.

Which, if you thought about it, was a contradiction in terms.

Cordelia thought about it as she clanked across the pointless drawbridge and rang the bell beside the front door.

There was no immediate answer, so she had a chance to inspect the doormat at her feet, which read: Come in, we are awesome.

Cordelia thought it would be awesome if someone answered the damned door. Eventually someone did. It was a small, smartly dressed woman who looked like she came from the Far East and sounded like she came from Birmingham. “Are you here to see Erik?” she said.

“Yes. Cordelia Stanmer.”

“Come in.” The woman led her through a hallway with a bookcase in it—Cordelia almost got whiplash trying to inspect the paperbacks inside as they strode swiftly past—and into a kitchen. It was a large kitchen and equipped with numerous shiny chrome gadgets, most of them with a retro look which had been obviously chosen to go with the general vibe of the room.

That general vibe being 1950s American diner.

Doubtless to facilitate the consumption of burgers and shakes in this gleaming retreat, the main feature of the kitchen was a long tongue of a counter with a mint green laminate top. On either side of the counter were high shining chrome stools with circular seats covered with bright red leather.

The woman indicated that Cordelia should sit on one of these, though she didn’t indicate which one.

“Erik will be down soon,” she said, and left.

This parting declaration should have been reassuring, but unfortunately the word “soon” seemed somehow to indicate its opposite.

All the more reason to take a seat. There were half a dozen of the stools. Cordelia sat down on the one nearest her and discovered that it spun around in a circle, which was fun and gave her a chance for a 360-degree inspection of the kitchen. As she was spinning around on the stool, she noticed there was a gleaming chrome lever jutting from the base of her gleaming chrome seat.

You’d have to be a very boring person not to pull that lever.

Cordelia was not a very boring person.

She pulled the lever.

Which was why she was both rotating on the stool and gradually sinking down when someone came into the room. And, perhaps justifiably, stared at her.

Luckily it wasn’t her prospective client, Erik. Or at least it wasn’t Erik unless he’d undergone a serious transformation since the images she’d seen of him had been posted online. (Always smart to check someone out before you go to their house; and let them hire you for a job.)

Of course, with a rock star, or former rock star, you could never be sure.

In any event, the person who came into the kitchen was a woman. She passed through Cordelia’s vision twice as Cordelia rotated on the stool, before belatedly arresting her spin and trying to look businesslike. This necessitated pulling the chrome lever again and allowing the red cushioned seat to rise slowly and pneumatically back up under her thighs to a sensible height.

All that done, Cordelia and the woman looked at each other.

The woman was wearing a pair of silver-rimmed pince-nez spectacles with lavender lenses. She had a thin face and was thin generally, and tall. She was dressed in flared black knit toledo trousers and a matching black top over a red T-shirt with a white logo which at first glance appeared to be the Coca-Cola slogan. But which, on closer inspection, actually read: Enjoy Cock.

The woman had long blonde hair worn in a braid. Judging by her age, which had to be sixty-ish, it was doubtful the blonde was a natural shade. And the same could presumably be said for the lavender streak in it, which rather nattily matched her glasses.

She was holding a black satin clutch bag which she pointed at Cordelia as if it was non-threatening weapon. Although it was only really non-threatening if you hadn’t clocked it was a Jimmy Choo and cost the better part of a thousand pounds.

“You’re the Paperback Sleuth?” said the woman.

“Cordelia Stanmer,” said Cordelia, resisting the ridiculous impulse to add, At your service.

“We’ve had the Vinyl Detective here,” said the woman informatively, settling down onto a stool immediately across from Cordelia and setting her preposterously expensive clutch bag down on the counter in front of them. Its black satin shape looked particularly lovely on the pale green surface, and Cordelia supressed a tiny but authentic impulse to grab it and run. “But only socially. Never in a business capacity.” She scrutinised Cordelia. “Erik doesn’t collect records.”

“No?” said Cordelia, by way of showing that she was a gifted conversationalist who could hold up her own end.

“But he does collect guitars. And, more to the point, books.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia, demonstrating more conversational excellence.

“In fact, he collects loads of crazier-than-a-shithouse-rat books about World War Two,” said the woman. “So does Bong Cha.”

“Ah,” said Cordelia wisely. Or as wisely as she could under the circumstances. Which included having not the slightest idea who, or what, Bong Cha might be.

The woman came to her rescue. “That was Bong who let you in. She’s Erik’s housekeeper. Our housekeeper, I suppose, now that I live here. Though I’m buggered if I feel comfortable with the notion of having a housekeeper.”

“Mmm,” said Cordelia.

“It doesn’t mean anything to do with a bong,” said the woman. “In case you were wondering. Her name. It’s got nothing to do with smoking a bong.”

“What a shame,” said Cordelia. The first words of sense she’d uttered since the woman had come into the kitchen to find her spinning, and descending slowly, on her stool.

The woman smiled at her and Cordelia felt some cannabinoid bonding commencing between them. “It means virtuous daughter or something. Bong Cha. In Korean. I suppose her poor parents had to call her something. I’m Helene, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Helene,” said Cordelia. She made a lightning decision and took a chance by extending her hand for a handshake.

Luckily Helene didn’t leave it hanging humiliatingly in midair and they shook hands briefly above the Jimmy Choo, Cordelia taking advantage of the opportunity to surreptitiously rub her bare wrist across the black satin. Christ, it felt soft.

“So, you’re going to be looking for some books for Erik?” said Helene.

“Just paperbacks,” said Cordelia. “I only find paperbacks. Hence the name.”

“Well thank feck for that,” said Helene. “No more giant hardcovers please about the war in the Pacific. Just to name one theatre of operations. Don’t get me wrong, Erik has a shitload of money and he’s earned it. If he wants to throw it around, he’s more than welcome to do so. I don’t mind him buying nutty war books. I don’t even mind him paying through the nose for them. Within reason.” She peered closely at Cordelia. “Do you intend to make him pay through the nose for them?”

“Within reason,” said Cordelia.

“Fine,” said Helene. “However, that’s not why we’re having this conversation.”

“Why are we having this conversation?” said Cordelia. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I wanted to get a look at you,” said Helene, adjusting her pince-nez. “Before Erik had a chance to. And I’m glad I did.” Helene picked up the black satin bag—Cordelia was sad to have it removed from her immediate vicinity—and pointed it at her again. “Because you’re very good looking.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

“Okay,” said Cordelia.

“What it is, potentially, is a problem.”

“Why?” said Cordelia.

“Take a wild guess.”

“Because of Erik?” suggested Cordelia.

Helene took a deep breath. Or perhaps sighed a profound sigh. “Erik and I have got a good thing going.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t interrupt.”

“Okay,” said Cordelia.

“Please. I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a difficult enough conversation as it is.”

“I won’t interrupt.”

“You just did. Sorry....