Cartmel The Vinyl Detective - Underscore

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80336-799-6
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 8, 464 Seiten

Reihe: Vinyl Detective

The Vinyl Detective plunges into the world of Italian movie soundtrack music in his eighth adventure that is sure to delight those who love whimsical British cosy crime. Expect laughs, LPs, cats and the return of fan favourites, Nevada, Tinkler, Stinky Stanmer and more. Some of the greatest (and grooviest) music ever committed to vinyl has come out of Italy in the form of soundtracks-especially for that variety of lurid thriller known as a giallo. The maestros who composed these masterpieces include Ennio Morricone, Piero Piccioni, Armand Trovajoli... And Loretto Loconsole. No one disputes that Loconsole was a genius, but was he also a murderer? When his mistress was brutally killed in 1969, on location in Cool Britannia for a giallo called Murder in London, there wasn't enough evidence to prosecute him. But Loconsole died in the shadow of disgrace. Now, his granddaughter Chloë has come back to England to hire the Vinyl Detective. She wants him to find an immaculate vinyl copy of Murder in London... And to clear her grandfather's name. Can the Vinyl Detective and the gang-Nevada, Tinkler and Agatha-find out the truth of what happened in Swinging London more than half a century ago? And can they stay alive when there's someone out there who'd prefer the secrets of the past to remain buried-and is more than willing to kill to keep it that way?

Andrew Cartmel was born in London and grew up in midwestern Canada where, among other things, he learned the meaning of the words 'wind chill factor.' The fine public libraries of his childhood provided a rich feast (Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein, the Oz books) and Andrew never wanted to be anything except a writer. On returning to London to study at university, his game plan was to support himself writing for television while getting established as a novelist. This led him into a detour - and down a rabbit hole - which included a distinguished sojourn script editing Doctor Who for three years (search 'Cartmel masterplan'). At the same time, he began writing for comics and today he co-writes the Rivers of London graphic novels. A playwright and 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

2: CHLOË

Tinkler got his meal, salmon and butterbean salad with marinated red onion, capers and fresh mint. He tucked into it with a level of enthusiasm which matched the way our cats attacked their diced bavette. Tinkler hoovered up the salad and asked for seconds, despite his complaints about being given leftovers. “Leftover by about twenty minutes,” said Nevada.

He might even be said to have earned this supper because, after eating and listening to details—what few we had—of our encounter with Cass and Desdemona and hearing the mention of our old friend Jasper McClew, he went online and after a little adroit searching found a page stylishly designed in black and white with bright red highlights that featured a moody monochrome photograph of Mr McClew himself.

“The photographer who took that picture is a genius,” said Nevada.

“Because they made him look good?” said Tinkler.

“Because they made him look human.”

“A bit harsh,” said Tinkler. He then proceeded to chortle over the text, which was headlined McClew’s Clues.

“I wonder how long it took them to dream up that zinger?” said Tinkler.

Beneath this title, slightly smaller lettering boasted A True Crime Podcast Solving the Coldest of Cold Cases…

The surprising level of professionalism and general slickness on show in the design was somewhat undermined by the banner at the bottom which read Website Under Construction, and the fact there weren’t actually any podcasts available yet.

“So Desdemona and what’s-his-name…” said Tinkler.

“Cass,” said Nevada. “I wonder if that’s short for Cassio?”

“Why?” said Tinkler.

“Because they’re both names from Othello, you lout.”

“No need to get personal. We can’t all be Shakespeare scholars.”

“Full marks for knowing it’s Shakespeare, though,” said Nevada.

“I know more than that.”

“Really?”

“I know it’s not a great play to name your children after.” Tinkler took out a small, flat, pink tin from his pocket and removed cigarette papers and a tiny plastic bag of vegetable matter from it. “Tragic ending and all that.”

“Desdemona and Cassio are the two most blameless characters in it,” said Nevada.

“Being…?”

“Being Othello’s wife and his best friend.”

“Both of whom came to a sticky end, right?”

“Well done, Tinkler,” I said. “You’re showing a surprising depth of knowledge.”

He grinned and held up the small plastic bag. “Once I’ve smoked some of this, I’ll probably be able to recite the whole play from memory.”

“Please don’t,” said Nevada.

“Anyway, see my earlier comment about being lousy names for your kids.”

“Cassio gets out of it okay,” said Nevada. “He ends up as governor of Cyprus.”

“Yay Cassio,” said Tinkler. “Governor of Cyprus. Impressive.”

“But Desdemona…” Nevada trailed off and Tinkler looked up at her with sudden and atypical alertness.

“Murdered, right?” he said.

Nevada nodded. “Strangled,” she said thoughtfully.

“Bummer,” said Tinkler.

There was silence for a moment in our little house and then Nevada said, “Why are we even talking about them?”

“Desdemona and Cassio?” said Tinkler.

“Desdemona and Cass, who might be called Cassio,” said Nevada.

“Count on it.” Tinkler was studiously assembling a joint. He showed impressive skill and dexterity in this enterprise, but then he was highly motivated. “We’re talking about them because they’re apparently assisting Jasper McClew with his true crime podcast.” He paused in joint-assembly to make air quotes with his fingers for both “true crime” and “podcast”. “In some capacity or other.”

“Presumably they’re providing the true crime,” I said.

“Which is their grandfather murdering what’s-her-name’s grandmother?”

“Chloë,” said Nevada. “And it’s the other way around.”

“Their grandmother murdering her grandfather?”

“No,” said Nevada. “Stop it. Now you’re making me confused.”

I stepped in at this point. “They said Chloë’s grandfather murdered their grandmother.”

“Thank you for the clarification. Whichever way round it is, it all sounds like it happened a long, long time ago.” Tinkler licked the cigarette paper, sealing the weed inside.

“Cold case,” I said.

“The coldest of cold cases,” quoted Nevada.

“Website under construction,” quoted Tinkler. He held up his creation, an admirably neat, thin white cylinder and waggled it invitingly at her. “Going to help me smoke this?”

Nevada shook her head. “No thanks.”

“What?”

“Sorry, after what happened earlier, I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re going to let unexpected visitors turning up in the middle of the night and talking about murder, ancient murder at that, put you off smoking drugs? Tut-tut. Shows a distinct lack of moral fibre.”

Nevada smiled. “I just want to keep a clear head.”

“Oh foolish child.”

“At least for the time being.”

“That’s more like it,” said Tinkler. “Meanwhile I shall go outside and smoke this one in the garden.”

“Thank you, Tinkler. That’s very considerate of you.”

“I’m Mr Considerate.” Tinkler waved the neat little spliff at us. “And, remember, there’s plenty more where this came from.” He opened the back door. “Now, Fanny are you going to join me in the garden? Wait a minute, this is Turk.”

Nevada sighed. “And you’re not even stoned yet.”

“I corrected myself, didn’t I? Come on, Turk.”

Duly accompanied by the cat, he went out into the back garden, taking care to shut the door behind him so as not to catch her tail in it. Nevada and I exchanged a look. Whatever we might have been about to say to one another, we never got around to it.

Because at that point the doorbell rang. Again.

We stared at each other.

I got up to go and answer it, experiencing a brief, swooning swoop of déjà vu. I walked down the hallway with Nevada at my side, and opened the front door. It was night now, and the creamy smell of our lilac came riding into the house on a flow of cool air.

Standing there looking at us was a petite young woman. She had a sweetly appealing elfin face, haloed by an impressive mass of black curly hair. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt, tie-dyed in trippy shades of pink and green, and long denim shorts which looked like a skirt until you noticed it was split in the middle into separate legs. Her feet were shod in what looked like serious hiking boots, low cut in sturdy chocolate brown leather with pale blue laces and pale blue trim. The boots went with the large and serious rucksack on her back.

She looked for all the world like she might be in search of a youth hostel to spend the night in. But this impression was immediately dispelled when she smiled at us and said, “Hello, I’m sorry it’s so late.” She fixed her gaze on me. “Are you the Vinyl Detective?”

“Yes,” I said. I’d given up prevaricating on this point.

“And I’m Nevada,” said Nevada.

“My name is Chloë Loconsole.”

Nevada smiled back at her. “You’d better come in, Chloë.”

* * *

More, though milder, déjà vu buzzed through my brain as I went back into the kitchen to make some coffee.

This time I used the good stuff. It seemed called for. And I was glad I did. The smell coming from the mugs stirred something deep in my nervous system and caused my spirits to lift and my energy reserves to rally as I carried the tray of refreshments towards the living room, walking down the hallway past Chloë’s backpack which was standing alertly against the wall, parked there like a patient pet, or a small and exceptionally well-behaved child.

Nevada gave me a dazzling smile as I joined her and Chloë. In striking contrast to the earlier interlude with Desdemona, there had been a steady flow of animated conversation coming from the living room all the while I was gone. This paused momentarily as I handed out the mugs. I have to admit that Chloë won my heart by the way she sniffed the coffee and her face lit up with pleased surprise. She knew quality when she smelled it.

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. I could tell by the appreciative way she sipped it that here was a woman who wouldn’t have been satisfied with the instant.

Nevada said, “I’ve just been filling Chloë in on our usual terms and conditions, darling.”

“We have terms and conditions now, do we?” I said. I sipped my own coffee and felt the unique combination of stimulation and relaxation which the magic elixir provided flowing through me. Both the women smiled at me.

“Chloë has a record for you to find,” said Nevada.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” I said. This wasn’t entirely true. After Cass and Desdemona’s hit-and-run visit, I didn’t particularly want any part of what sounded like a potentially very messy affair. And Jasper McClew being in the mix certainly didn’t make it sound any more inviting. But at least I was on familiar, or anyway recognisable, terrain if someone wanted me to look for a record.

And, I have to admit, I was instantly intrigued.

“What record?” I asked.

Chloë set aside her mug—reluctantly, I was pleased to note—and said, “It’s a film soundtrack. The music underscore. And...