Timlin A Good Year for the Roses

1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-84344-080-2
Verlag: No Exit Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 288 Seiten

Reihe: A Nick Sharman Novel

The First Nick Sharman Thriller Nick Sharman is nobody's favourite person. Ex-cop, ex-doper, invalided out of the Met after a stray bullet in the foot saved him from an investigation into the missing evidence from a drugs haul. The cops don't like him. The villains don't like him. Sharman is unemployable. So he's hired himself an office and set up shop as a private investigator in his south London patch. Divorces and debt-collecting were what he expected. What he gets is Patsy Bright, young, pretty and missing. Her father wants her back. She's a good girl, a model, and only a little bit into drugs. With Sharman's connections it should be a piece of cake. Only when he comes to with a split head, a pocketful of planted heroin, a dead girl and two policemen acting on a tip-off, does Sharman realise this case is different. And serious. And personal.

In over twenty years as an author, Mark Timlin has written some thirty novels under many different names, including best selling books as Lee Martin, innumerable short stories, an anthology and numerous articles on diverse subjects for various newspapers and magazines.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Timlin, Mark

Leseproben

Chapter Five

First thing the next morning I decided to pay a visit to the photographer whose address was on the back of the copies of the shot of Patsy Bright that I'd been given. His studio was in Holborn.

I'd met some professional photographers before and I wasn't too keen, but I'll talk to anyone.

I pushed the car through the late rush hour traffic heading towards town. It was a 1972 E-Type jaguar hard top, with an automatic shift. I'd picked it up cheaply not long after I joined the police. It had been used in a smash and grab raid on a jewellers in Tooting. The thieves had underestimated the power that the V-1 2 engine poured into the drive wheels, and the driver had put it through a brick wall whilst trying to negotiate a sharp bend near Amen Corner. The beautiful bodywork had all but been destroyed in the crash. The owner had taken write-off value and I'd made an offer to the insurance company. At the time E-types were very unfashionable and they'd jumped at the money.

An old friend of mine in the motor trade had put her back into mint condition. She was sprayed in gleaming black cellulose with chrome wire wheels and white wall tyres. The interior was upholstered in red leather and I loved the vehicle to distraction. Although it had occurred to me that if I got into any serious surveillance work using a car, I'd have to invest in a nice little runabout as the Jaguar was, to say the least, rather conspicuous.

I ducked into the driver's seat and pushed a cassette of blue grass music into the jaws of the stereo. I drove off to the sound of Bill Monroe and his band booming through the speakers.

I soared over Blackfriars Bridge and into the narrow streets around Chancery Lane. I invested in an NCP ticket close to my destination and grabbed a cappucchino in a sandwich bar in the shade of the Prudential building. The studio was right next door to the cafe and I blimped several pretty girls carrying little cases and folders of photos as they picked at a light breakfast before work.

I paid for the coffee and strolled round to the old warehouse that contained the studios. There were a dozen or so photographers’ names listed on the board on the wall just inside the main entrance. The man I wanted was located on the third floor. There was no receptionist so I walked straight up. The stairs were narrow and hardly illuminated by the bare bulbs mounted in the brick ceilings. No trace of daylight filtered through from outside. The entrance to the third floor was through a pair of black wooden doors held shut by vicious springs. I forced the doors open and slid through the gap. An arrow painted on the wall directed me deeper into the building. It was cold and I shivered. As I walked down the corridor I bumped into a kid with a two-tone fringe and I asked him if Howard Mayles was around. He gestured with his thumb. ‘Through there,’ he said. I pushed through another set of double doors, this time painted pale blue and I could feel I was in the presence of genius.

The studio was vast, running down about a hundred feet. There were no windows. The room was high ceilinged and the light hardly penetrated, but I could make out water pipes and all sorts of odd pulleys and apparatus attached to the inside of the roof. The end of the studio where I entered was in semi-darkness, but the far end was brightly lit. Spotlights, some mounted on scaffolding, others in holders that looked like giant Anglepoise lamps shone down on to the floor which was covered with thick white paper. A backdrop depicting a Paris skyline was hanging at the back. Three tripods were facing the set. On each one was mounted a camera. Power cables ran across the floor and hooked into various pieces of equipment I didn't recognise. A bunch of people were huddled in conversation around a table which held a coffee machine, a midi hi-fi system and a big tub of ice with the necks of a dozen or so wine bottles poking out.

About halfway down the room on one side was a long table attached to the wall under a horizontal mirror surrounded by tiny light bulbs. The table was covered in cosmetics. In front of the table, sitting on high chairs were perched two models being made up by two girls who looked like they should have been models themselves.

I stood holding the door open for a moment before I let it close behind me with a crash. Every head in the room turned except mine. I just stood in the gloom looking in.

A tall, curly headed young face with a Japanese suit and a Bermondsey accent shielded his eyes against the light and shouted ‘This is a closed set.’

I just stood and said nothing. He stepped out of the glare and walked towards me. ‘Are you fucking deaf? I said this set is closed to visitors.’

I remained silent. He came up close and said, ‘You can't come in, we're working.’

‘I'm looking for Howard Mayles,’ I said.

‘Well you can't see him now. We're getting ready for a shoot.’

‘Which one is he?’ I asked again.

‘That's got nothing to do with it. Mr Mayles is extremely busy and can't be disturbed.’

‘Which one is he?’ I asked.

‘That's got nothing to do with it. Mr Mayles is extremely busy and can't be disturbed.’

‘Which one is he?’ I repeated.

‘Who are you?’ the young face asked. ‘If you're from client you really shouldn't be here. If you're looking for Clive, he's off with a bug and I'm standing in for agency. I'm sorry about my language before, but it's always a bit hectic at this time.’ He was backpedalling furiously. I had something to thank Clive's bug for. Obviously the face thought I was someone I wasn't. And I let him go right on thinking.

‘Don't worry son,’ I said. ‘Everyone makes mistakes.’

I walked past him and left him talking to himself. I went up to where the cameras were waiting to fire. The bunch of people had fragmented into individuals. There were four under the glare of the arc lamps. Three stood in a row facing me. On my left, a large, open pored woman in a check suit carrying a clip board. Her hair was dark, bobbed and greasy and she had a four inch ladder running up her left stocking from the ankle. Sloppy, I thought.

In the middle stood a very tall cat who looked like a chopstick in a business suit.

On my right, a dream in Italian knitwear and faded denim. He had bitten nails and a skin tone that screamed heavy coke habit. The pupils of his eyes were the size of eight-balls, but the dead give-away was the slight dusting on his upper lip where he hadn't wiped his nose after his last toot. He looked like a little boy who'd been at the iced cakes.

The fourth member of the party was a Chinese girl who was doing very complicated looking things to one of the three mounted cameras. She turned and smiled at me and asked. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

‘Delighted,’ I replied.

Curly had re-appeared at my shoulder. ‘This gentleman's from client.’ He said. Everyone stood to attention.

I was glad I'd slid into something worsted and cut slightly baggy that morning, complete with pastel shirt and paisley tie. I like to look my best when impersonating a rich client. ‘Can I introduce you?’ Curly was the soul of politeness when he wanted to be.

Open pores was named Kathy something-something and was PR for some shit. Chopsticks was a copywriter, I didn't catch his name. Mister Hundred-A-Day-Habit was my man, Howard Mayles. The Chinese girl was Jackie, she fetched me a glass of cold duck.

Curly was Dominick, junior executive from BBD&W or some such initials. I wasn't listening. I wanted to talk to Howard.

Then we came round to me. I was saved by Prince of all people. Two tone fringe came back carrying a bag of what smelled like bacon sandwiches, dumped them onto the table containing the hi-fi, and switched it on. ‘Kiss’ boomed out of the speakers and I just smiled at Dominick when he tried to elicit a name from me. Dom stomped off to turn the music down and I sipped at my wine.

I took one of my cards from my inside pocket and presented it to Howard. He blanched at the sight of it. The volume of the music lowered. ‘I thought you were from client,’ said Howard.

‘I never said that,’ I replied.

‘Dominick!’ he shouted.

‘I'd like a word,’ I said.

‘What about?’

‘Patsy Bright.’

‘Who?’

I pulled a folded copy of her photograph from another pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Howard. ‘Her,’ I said.

He held it up to the light. ‘What about her?’ he asked.

‘She's missing from home.’

‘That's got nothing to do with me.’

‘Your name's on the back.’

He turned it over and Dominick arrived in a clatter of leather soles on parquet floor.

‘Get this man out of here,’ ordered Howard. ‘He's a detective.’

Old Dom turned a trifle grey. ‘A what?’ he asked incredulously.

‘A detective,’ I said, to clarify things for him. ‘I just want to speak to Mr Mayles.’

‘A policeman?’ asked Dominick.

‘Private,’ I replied.

‘Then you're trespassing and I'll call the real police if you don't leave now.’

‘Dominick, old buddy,’ I said. ‘Call them by all means, but I'd guess by the look of Howard here, that there's quite a bit of charley around this studio, and I'm sure Old Bill would love to be invited in to sniff around, if you'll excuse the expression. I used to be a copper and if you like I'll call them myself. They've got a wicked little drug squad at Holborn Nick. Dogs, the lot.’ It was a shot in the dark but it scored a bullseye.

Howard put his hand on Dominick's arm. ‘Forget the police Dominick.’

He said, ‘I'll talk to - ‘ He looked at...