Pretend We're Dead E-Book

Mark Timlin

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Sharman's getting married, and down at the nick they're taking bets on how long it's going to last. His new wife, Dawn (the ex-stripper), isn't going to settle for little woman status - she's got her eye on those mean streets. And Sharman's going to need all the help he can get as he's faced with the little matter of a rock star twenty years dead who's back and wanting his royalties. . .

Leseprobe

PRETEND WE’RE DEAD

Sharman’s getting married, and down at the nick they’re taking bets on how long it’s going to last.

But Dawn (the ex-stripper) isn’t going to settle for little woman status – she’s got her eye on those mean streets.

And Sharman’s going to need all the help he can get with the little matter of a rock star twenty years dead who’s back and wanting his royalties…

MARK TIMLIN

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 for various newspapers and magazines. His serial hero, Nick Sharman, who appears in Take the A-Train, has featured in a Carlton TV series, starring Clive Owen, before he went on to become a Hollywood superstar. Mark lives in Newport, Wales.

‘The king of the British hard-boiled thriller’ – Times

‘Grips like a pair of regulation handcuffs’ –Guardian

‘Reverberates like a gunshot’ – Irish Times

‘Definitely one of the best’ – Time Out

‘The mean streets of South London need their heroes tough. Private eye Nick Sharman fits the bill’ – Telegraph

‘Full of cars, girls, guns, strung out along the high sierras of Brixton and Battersea, the Elephant and the North Peckham Estate, all those jewels in the crown they call Sarf London’ – Arena

Other books by Mark Timlin

A Good Year for the Roses 1988

Romeo’s Tune 1990

Gun Street Girl 1990

Take the A-Train 1991

The Turnaround 1991

Zip Gun Boogie 1992

Hearts of Stone 1992

Falls the Shadow 1993

Ashes by Now 1993

Pretend We’re Dead 1994

Paint It Black 1995

Find My Way Home 1996

Sharman and Other Filth (short stories) 1996

A Street That Rhymed with 3 AM 1997

Dead Flowers 1998

Quick Before They Catch Us 1999

All the Empty Places 2000

Stay Another Day 2010

OTHERS

I Spied a Pale Horse 1999

Answers from the Grave 2004

as TONY WILLIAMS

Valin’s Raiders 1994

Blue on Blue 1999

as JIM BALLANTYNE

The Torturer 1995

as MARTIN MILK

That Saturday 1996

as LEE MARTIN

Gangsters Wives 2007

The Lipstick Killers 2009

For The Cookie Crew

One more radar lover is gone

1

The phone call came on the morning of my wedding day.

That’s what I said. My wedding day. No, don’t laugh.

Ten am sharp, Saturday morning, the 12th of May. Only I wasn’t. Sharp that is. Anything but.

The original idea had been for me to have my stag night on the Thursday, thus allowing plenty of time for the hangover to consume Friday, then up early, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, on Saturday morning to get ready for the ceremony that was going to take place at Brixton registry office at noon.

Only I wasn’t bright-eyed and bushy-tailed either. Trouble was, the sort of people who’d come to a stag night of mine didn’t know when Thursday ended and Friday started. Or stopped for that matter. In fact I hadn’t got rid of the last one until about six o’clock on Saturday, just four hours earlier. Then I’d fallen into bed and set two alarm clocks for nine-thirty. Thank God I’d heard them. Dawn would never have forgiven me if I was late.

So there I was at ten o’clock in the morning, standing in the middle of the carpet in my tiny flat, shaking hard enough to register on the Richter scale, and wondering if it had been a good idea to agree to plight my troth for the second time in my life.

After three rings I picked the phone up. The sound of the bell was echoing around my head like a fire alarm. I held the receiver a few inches away from my ear, but said not a word. My mouth was dry and I had an overwhelming desire to throw up.

‘May I speak with Nick Sharman?’ said a cheery American male voice. A cheery American voice of either sex at that time on my wedding day I did not need. Especially when I just knew that a dead pig was probably in better shape than I was right then.

I grunted. It was a ‘yes’ kind of grunt. About all I could manage in my condition.

‘Good morning. I believe it is morning in London.’

I looked at the curtains that were tightly drawn across my windows. Outside it could have been dark midnight for all the light they let in. In my flat it certainly was, except for a tiny forty-watt bulb in the lamp sitting on top of the dead TV set. Forty watts was all I could handle then. Probably all I could manage for the rest of my life, the way I felt. And it still seemed to be as bright as the Blackpool illuminations.

I grunted again. A sort of non-committal grunt that time.

I assume he took that one for a yes too, or totally ignored it. Either way, he introduced himself. ‘My name is Lamar Quinn,’ he said just as cheerily. ‘I’m calling from Los Angeles, California. It’s one am here, and it’s been a beautiful day. I’m in the offices of Lifetime Records right now. I trust you’ve heard of us.’

I’d heard of them. Who hadn’t? They were one of the biggest music conglomerates in the world. But I refused to be impressed. A third grunt. What the hell did this geezer want? A weather forecast from London?

‘I work here in the royalty department. I’m first vice-president,’ said Quinn.

From what I’d gathered about American business practices, there were probably five hundred first vice-presidents at the company. All driving identical BMWs, wearing identical Armani kit, and drinking identical mineral water with lunch.

‘And we have a problem,’ he continued.

Don’t we all, I thought, as I sat on the bed and tried to put my head between my knees and listen to what he was saying at the same time.

‘What?’ I said. My first intelligible word of the day. Things were looking up.

‘Do you remember Dog Soldier?’ he asked.

‘The band?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sure,’ I said, and I did. People of my age do. What age? I hear you ask. The kind of age where you remember Elvis before he got fat, and you’ve seen every episode of Star Trek at least three times.

Dog Soldier. Jesus, I’d bought all their records when I was a spotty-faced kid. They had been one of the biggest American bands in the world in the late sixties and early seventies.

‘And Jay Harrison?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

Christ! He was Dog Soldier. All hair and cheekbones and Greek God looks and skinny chest. There had been a famous poster of him at the time, wearing a crown of thorns and being crucified on a rough wooden cross. I read somewhere that in 1970 it sold three million copies. I mean, a poster. Shit! I had one myself, hanging on the wall of my bedroom over the record player.

‘You know that he died in London in 1972?’ said Quinn.

‘I know,’ I said.

In the bath of heart failure. But it was reckoned that the big H had finally taken its toll of his life. Long after it and the booze had taken their toll of his good looks and talent. He was buried in Highgate cemetery close to Marx’s tomb.

‘Well,’ said Quinn. ‘We had a letter from him a month ago. Posted in London W1.’

‘Did you?’ I said. ‘What kind of letter?’

I heard an exhalation of breath down the line. It was so clear that he might have been in the hall outside my flat.

‘When Harrison died – to be blunt, Mr Sharman, you couldn’t get arrested with a Dog Soldier record. The sales figures were well down. Almost off the graph. But since then we’ve released a greatest-hits double, and all the earlier albums on CD, plus a lot of in-concert recordings. And then John Sloane made the movie a couple of years ago. Remember it? Just called Dog Soldier?’

I remembered it. I’ve got it out on video. For old times’ sake, I suppose. It was crap.

‘And frankly the sales are way up again. Higher than a lot of contemporary hit acts,’ Quinn went on. ‘All his share of the royalties are still being held by us. There’s been some squabbling over it. Some! That’s an understatement. All sorts of people have popped up claiming to have married Harrison, or to have had his children, or to have signed contracts at some time or other. We have a dozen law suits running currently. The money hasn’t been touched, and there’s a lot of it. Millions of dollars. The letter said that he was alive and wanted what was owing.’

‘Wild,’ I said.

‘Precisely. And a big headache for us. We talked to Chris Kennedy-Sloane in London. He’s done a lot of work for us over the past few years in the UK. We asked for his advice and he suggested that we, I, spoke to you.’

‘What about?’

‘About whether or not you’ll try to find out who sent the letter. If it was Jay Harrison or an impostor. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re a private eye.’

‘That’s what I do,’ I agreed. ‘But not today. I’m getting married in an hour or so.’

‘Married! Congratulations. That’s great to hear,’ said Quinn as if he’d known me for years. But before his enthusiasm got too much for him he was all business again. ‘Do you have a fax number?’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Oh,’ he said. He sounded put out. As if everyone should have a fax number. Preferably from birth. Preferably tattooed somewhere prominently on their body.

‘Anyway, I’m off for a couple of days. Honeymoon, you know,’ I said.

‘Sure. I had mine in Acapulco.’

‘In my case it’s in Hastings,’ I said.

‘Is that in England?’

‘Just about.’

‘Well I hope you have a good time and the weather keeps fine.’

There it was, the bloody weather again.

‘So do I,’ I said. ‘And I’m sure it will. But do you think there’s anything to this letter?’

‘We don’t know. But we have to check. This sort of thing happens all the time when a company has a deceased artist on its roster. Especially when it’s a big name. Presley, Hendrix, Buddy Holly. But of course there’s always been a certain mystery about Harrison’s death. I’m sure you’re familiar with the story…’

‘Remind me,’ I said.

‘Well, he died over in London, thousands of miles away from home. There was no post-mortem. Like I said, at the time very few people cared. The only witness was his then girlfriend, Kim Major. She died less than a year later from a drugs overdose herself. The doctor who signed Jay Harrison’s death certificate is also dead. It was a closed-casket funeral within a few days. No one from his family or any other friends attended. By that time he’d alienated the former, and there were very few of the latter. None at all in Europe. There have been rumours for years that Harrison is still alive.’

‘Dig him up,’ I said.

‘Rumours, Mr Sharman. No evidence. Your British authorities take some convincing before they’ll supply an exhumation certificate.’

I grunted again.

‘So I’d like to fax over a copy of the letter and the envelope, plus some background information.’

‘Doesn’t Kennedy-Sloane have a fax number?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

Probably several, I thought.

‘Then send the stuff through to him. I’ll collect it when I get back next week.’

‘You’ll take the job then?’

‘Sure,’ I said. Why not? I was getting married. Becoming a responsible citizen. I needed the money. And I suppose I’ll never forget that poster that used to hang in my room.

‘Do you know my rates?’ I asked.

‘Chris tells us you charge a thousand pounds sterling per day, plus expenses. We’ll arrange for you to pick up the money from him. And please. Remember that these enquiries are strictly confidential. Have a nice day, Mr Sharman, and enjoy your wedding. We’ll speak again soon.’ And he broke the connection.

I looked at the dead phone in my hand. A grand a day. Very good, Chris. A tasty little wedding present.

And then I remembered that I had to get dressed.

2

I’d bought a navy blue, single-breasted suit from Paul Smith for the occasion. And teamed it with a soft, white, Oxford cotton shirt with a button-down, roll collar, a dark blue knitted tie, a new pair of wool-mix socks from Marks and Sparks, and a favourite old pair of black loafers that I’d polished to a brilliant shine. I’d figured that a new pair of shoes would be a disaster. Who needed sore feet at their own wedding?

I showered, shaved and got dressed in my new suit, and when I looked into the mirror I didn’t look half bad, if I do say so myself. Much better than I deserved after the caning I’d given to the twenty-year-old Scotch the night before.

Waiting by the door was my suitcase packed for the honeymoon. We were going to Hastings for a couple of days, like I’d told the American. I knew exactly why. Dawn had spent her childhood holidays there. She said the town was old and a bit past it, but with plenty of front. She also said it reminded her of me. I didn’t quite know how to take that. I’d suggested Spain for a week, but Dawn hated flying. So I’d booked a couple of nights at the best hotel in Hastings, and we were due to drive down there after the reception.

I lit a cigarette, and looked at my watch. By then it was almost eleven, and I was getting a bit worried about my best man. I hadn’t heard a word from him, and my last clear recollection of the night before had been that he would give me a call about ten-thirty to make sure that I was still alive. After that, everything was a blur.

My best man’s name was Chas. He was a reporter for a tabloid Sunday paper now, but I’d met him when he wrote for the South London Press, and he’d become involved in a couple of cases of mine over the past year or so. So involved, in fact, that he’d nearly been killed by a rogue copper the previous autumn. He was OK now. Except that sometimes he went all quiet and introverted, like he was looking back down a long, dark tunnel where monsters lurked. It was at those times that I worried about him, but he said they were getting fewer and fewer and I had to believe him.

I’d thought that the call from America had been him checking in early. I looked at my watch again, and decided to call him up. I didn’t want anything going wrong. The plan for the day was as follows. My wife-to-be, Dawn, was going to be collected from her flat in Wandsworth by one of a pair of brothers I knew who bought and sold American cars for a living. As a sideline they hired out the white Cadillac convertibles they owned for weddings.

Dawn and I had gone down to have a squint at the motors and choose which one she wanted for her big day, and she’d fallen in love with an oversized 1984 five-litre Chevrolet Caprice station wagon that they’d imported from California, and bought the damn thing. Just like that. Three and a half grand’s worth. And that’s not counting insurance. When I protested, she told me tartly that it was her own money, and that the boys had thrown in car tax and a T-shirt. Christ! I ask you. You buy a car and all you get is one lousy T-shirt. That morning, the Chevy Caprice was parked outside my front door, next to my E-Type, like a cart horse next to a thoroughbred racer. Chas was due to come round, dump his Ford Sierra, and we’d drive to Brixton in the Chevy. Then he was going to take it on to where the reception was being held. As it was a full nine-seater, there’d be plenty of room for anyone who turned up without a motor. Me? I’d be off with the blushing bride in the Caddy.

And talking of blushing, Dawn was getting married in scarlet. From the skin outwards. We’d choked over the thought of a white dress, and I’d told her that full black, which was her first choice, was a little too funereal for our nuptials, even if it was second time for both of us. So we’d settled for fire-engine red.

Dawn was, if plans had gone smoothly, getting dressed right now. She shared a flat with her friend Tracey, who was going to be matron of honour. My daughter Judith, who was going to be our one and only bridesmaid, had been fetched down from Scotland by my ex-wife, Laura, and was staying the night with them. Laura was safely ensconced at the Connaught, where she always stayed when she was down in London, now that she was married to a seriously rich dentist with a large private practice in Aberdeen.

With me so far?

Tracey had arranged a hen night for the Friday night, at the local boozer in Wandsworth that she and Dawn both used. I was supposed to believe that Judith was going to be cosily tucked up in bed by nine with a good book and a mug of Bovril. Fat chance. I knew that plans were afoot to sneak her into the pub. Plans that I wasn’t supposed to know anything about. Of course I’d sussed that one out early, but was prepared to turn a blind eye. Judith was thirteen after all, and these days kids grow up fast. And it was a rare occasion. But I also knew that if her mother ever found out where she’d been, my life would be a misery henceforth. Laura was good at making people’s lives a misery. I should know, I was married to her for long enough.

As I was about to pick up the telephone, it rang, and I jumped. My nerves were raw. I didn’t let it ring twice.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Nick?’ The voice seemed to come from far away.

‘Chas?’

‘Yeah. What’s happening?’

‘I’m getting married this morning. You’re the best man.’

‘Oh God. For a moment I thought I’d dreamt the whole thing and I could go back to sleep.’

‘Don’t do this to me, Chas,’ I said.

‘Sorry. I’m almost ready.’

‘You don’t sound like you’re almost out of bed, and I’m getting hitched in…’ I looked at my watch, ‘… sixty-two minutes exactly.’

‘Nick. Don’t worry. I’ll be there.’

‘No, Chas. Be here.’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘How long?’

‘Thirty minutes tops.’

Chas lived in Docklands. A cute little development by Tobacco Wharf. He was going to have to move his arse to do it.

‘Do you want me to meet you at the registry office?’ I said. ‘It’s closer.’

‘No. Trust me. I’ll be there.’

‘Don’t forget the ring,’ I said. But he was gone.

I put the receiver down carefully and made the second big mistake of the day. I went over to my little collection of bottles and poured out a stiff Jack Daniel’s.

Oh yeah – the first had been taking the Jay Harrison case, but I didn’t know it yet.

3

I went over to the window, drew the curtains back and winced at the brightness outside. I stood for half an hour, thirty-five minutes, three-quarters of an hour, smoking cigarettes, sipping at my JD and chewing on my fingernails. Finally at ten to twelve I saw Chas’s red Sierra tear up the road and screech to a halt in front of my house. I shook my head sadly and went downstairs to meet him.

He looked like a wreck inside a smart suit. His face was pale and his hair had obviously been plastered down with water. He stood by his car and shrugged apologetically. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’re going to be late.’

I got into the Caprice and started it up. I leant over and opened the passenger door, and Chas joined me on the wide bench seat. ‘Sorry, Nick,’ he said. ‘It took me longer than I thought to get here.’

‘Forget it,’ I replied. ‘Got the ring?’

His face crumpled.

‘Chas,’ I said. ‘If you’ve lost it…’

He started patting his pockets and I saw him relax as he reached into one and pulled out the twenty-four carat I’d bought for Dawn. ‘No problem,’ he said.

I stuck the column change into reverse and pulled smoothly out into the street, put the car into drive and headed for Brixton.

We arrived at the registry office at one minute to twelve. A Chevy Caprice is almost twenty feet long and not the easiest car to park, but luckily I found a space and manoeuvred it in and switched off the engine. There was no sign of the Cadillac, or Dawn, Tracey and Judith, although I saw a couple of people who’d been invited to the wedding, lurking about in the street smoking cigarettes and pretending they weren’t there.

I said hello to them, and got the usual offers of fast cars and ferry tickets. My friends have never been noted for the originality of their wit.

Chas and I went inside the foyer, where the previous wedding group was standing around having their photographs taken, and looking self-conscious on a carpet of cheap confetti and a few rose petals.

Chas went off to see the registrar and I lit another cigarette, which contravened all the local bylaws, and stood and waited for something to happen.

The previous wedding party made for the door, and I smiled at the bride who smiled back and wished me luck. With my track record I was going to need all the luck I could get, and I wished her the same.

Chas returned to the foyer and gave me the thumbs up, which I took to mean that no one had expired or been arrested overnight. He came over and said, ‘Any sign of Dawn yet?’

‘Not so far,’ I said, ‘but with her and her pals, and unlimited booze, anything could have happened.’

‘The registrar’s getting a bit antsy,’ he said. ‘Saturday’s their busy day. They’ve got another wedding booked for half past. I’ll go and have a look outside.’ And he did. I lit another cigarette and wished I was anywhere else but there.

A minute later Chas stuck his head back through the front door and said, ‘They’re here. Where did you get that bloody car?’

‘Don’t ask,’ I said.

The guests started filtering in, straightening ties and adjusting hats as they came, and Chas pulled me into the registrar’s office, where she was waiting, book in hand, looking at her watch.

Chas and I took our places at the front of the room, and the guests sat in the chairs provided, and I turned and looked at the door, as some cheesy organ music filtered through the cheap speakers on either side of the big window covered in a dusty Venetian blind.

At ten past the hour precisely, the door opened, and Dawn, Tracey and Judith came in. Dawn looked like a flame in her red dress, Tracey had gone the Nashville route in an outfit of denim and lace teamed with spike-heeled ankle boots, and Judith was a picture in an ivory dress and matching shoes. All three carried bouquets of white roses. I looked at Chas and raised my eyebrows, and he raised his eyebrows back, as the music on the tape changed to the Wedding March.

I won’t bore you with details of the ceremony. But by twelve-thirty, Dawn and I were husband and wife and Judith had a new step-mum. So the world turns.

When we left the registrar’s office, we stopped in the foyer to have our photographs taken.

Then my new bride and I, plus her matron of honour and bridesmaid, went out to the ridiculously bulbous Cadillac convertible, complete with spotlights and sirens that was blocking the Brixton Road outside, to be carried off to the bar where the reception was taking place. No one threw confetti. But then no one threw bricks either.

The bar was in West Norwood. I’d actually worked there once for a while when times had been hard. Not that they were ever much else. The geezer I’d worked for, JJ Jeffries, had sold up and moved to Hollywood. Hollywood in Ireland, that is. And the place had been bought by a bloke called Simon. He was all right, except for his penchant for red glasses. But then, changing times make fashion victims of us all.

Simon ran the place with his wife and kept a couple of small children barking in the flat above.

We’d hired the place for the whole day, twelve to twelve. I knew the kind of people who’d been invited, and I didn’t want them let loose on the streets of south London until well past the end of licensing hours.

The driver of the Caddy dropped us off outside the bar, at just before one, and the four of us entered the premises to be greeted by the guv’nor and two barmaids.

The counter was covered with dishes containing a buffet lunch, and half a dozen bottles of champagne were standing in a big tub of ice. They were just for starters. Like I said, I knew the kind of people who’d been invited. Simon and the barmaids congratulated us, and cracked open the first bottle, as the vanguard of guests started arriving. I pulled Judith to one side.

‘Did you have a good time last night?’ I asked.

She went pink and nodded.

‘Don’t ever tell your mother,’ I said. ‘Or I’m dead meat.’

She shook her head.

‘I hope you didn’t get drunk.’

‘I only had orange juice,’ she protested, and I smiled.

‘I believe you. Do you want some champagne?’

She nodded.

‘With orange juice?’ I said.

She nodded again, and I ordered a Buck’s Fizz from one of the barmaids and a glass of champagne for myself. Not that I like the stuff, but it was that kind of day, and I needed something as an antidote for the JD I’d been swigging at home earlier.

When the drinks arrived Judith bobbed up and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Congratulations, Daddy,’ she said. ‘I think Dawn is terrific.’

I almost cried.

‘So do I, love,’ I said, and we toasted each other and drank.

By then, the bar was starting to fill up, both with people who’d been to the ceremony and with those Dawn and I had asked just to the reception. As I looked through the big plate-glass window into the street, a bright red Porsche 911 with full racing trim pulled up outside, parked on the bus stop, and out from behind the wheel appeared the rotund form of my old pal Christopher Kennedy-Sloane, one of the last of the city whizz-kids who still had a seat to his pants. He ran round to the passenger door as fast as his little legs would carry him, opened it, and gave his hand to whoever was sitting inside. The world seemed to hold its breath as a dream in cream silk emerged, unfolded herself to her full six foot, and stood dwarfing Kennedy-Sloane as he closed the door behind her and set the locks and alarm with the little remote control he held in his hand.

I looked round and found Dawn’s eye and she followed mine to the scene outside, and I saw her smile and shake her head as Kennedy-Sloane and his companion entered the bar.

I hadn’t been the only one to witness the two of them arrive. I think every geezer in the bar stood pop-eyed as Kennedy-Sloane ushered her inside, and the conversation level dropped to the floor.

I pushed through the crowd to welcome them.

‘Nick,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘I was in two minds whether or not to venture down into the badlands where you insist on living. I thought the whole thing would have ended in tears by now.’

‘Thanks, Chris,’ I said. ‘Your confidence in my new marriage is duly noted.’

‘I just didn’t think you’d go through with it, old boy. You or your lady wife. More likely the latter, as she discovered what a reprobate you are. I take it the ceremony did take place.’

‘We’re street legal, son,’ I said. Then looked at the woman he was with, who close up I saw was no more than a girl. At least twenty-five years his junior, whose doe eyes were fixed intently on mine. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ I asked.

He looked up into her face. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Do forgive me. Angela Shakespeare-Lane, allow me to introduce the blushing bridegroom. An old adversary of mine, Nick Sharman. Who is just about to make a comment about double-barrelled surnames.’

‘No I’m not,’ I said, and stuck out my hand in Angela’s direction. ‘How do you do,’ I said. ‘Welcome to the party.’

Angela took my hand in her gloved right. I could feel her bones through the fabric and the skin and flesh beneath it. ‘Delighted,’ she breathed.

‘Angela is a clothes horse,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘Eighteen years old and making a mint. Front cover of Vogue as we speak.’

‘From which you take your percentage,’ I said.

‘Certainly. You don’t mind, do you, Ange?’

She shrugged.

‘Can I get you both a drink?’ I asked. ‘Champagne. And don’t ask about the vintage, Chris.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said. ‘Not in this neck of the woods. You’re likely to get a kick in the head if you do, I imagine.’

I turned and rescued two glasses of bubbly off the counter behind me, and passed one to Kennedy-Sloane and one to Angela, who had pulled a cigarette out of her handbag and stood with it between pursed lips while as many lighters as you see at the encore of a Barry Manilow concert were fired up and stuffed under her nose. She didn’t flinch. Just took a light from one, inhaled and breathed the smoke out through her nose in two grey streams, and nodded regally at the lucky man who’d ignited her cigarette.

‘I’ve got a little something for you in the car by way of a wedding present,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘I was going to get you a pair of engraved, his and hers pump-action shotguns, but I imagine you’ve already got all you need of those.’

Funny man.

‘So instead I settled for a couple of lead crystal tumblers. Super king size. Just right for a couple of gin and tonics when you come home after a hard day’s sleuthing.’

You had to give it to the man. He was a prat of the first order. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And thanks for putting that American geezer on to me.’

‘Lamar. He phoned you did he?’

‘He sure did. First thing this morning. At least, first thing for me.’

‘And?’

‘And I took the job. I was always a big fan of Dog Soldier.’