Storey E-Book

Keith Dixon

• Herausgeber: Keith Dixon
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

When Paul Storey comes home from London he’s escaping an event that ruined his professional life. Now he’s slowly making contact with people again … but the people he winds up meeting are lowlifes, thieves and conmen.Exactly the kind of people he was trying to escape.Worse, one of them is a con-woman who, for some reason, he can’t get out of his mind and who has a habit of manipulating men ...When he gets involved in a scam to sell smuggled antiquities from Syria he realises he can’t escape being a professional either—and one with a specialised skill that makes him even more desirable to his new colleagues.Finding a purpose in life while keeping his head connected to his shoulders keeps him busy, until a Syrian who wants the return of one of the stolen antiquities shows up ... and he's not inclined to take prisoners.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title page

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Author's Note

Other Works

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

STOREY

KEITH DIXON

Copyright Keith Dixon 2016

First published by Semiologic Ltd

Keith Dixon has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph, photocopy, or any other means, electronic or physical, without express written permission of the author.

Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental and to be deplored.

For information, contact: [email protected]

Cover image © David Holt under Creative Commons License

Design by Keith Dixon

Join the Readers Group at www.keithdixonnovels.com or on the Blog at www.cwconfidential.blogspot.com to get the first two books in the

CHAPTER ONE

THE THIRD TIME Paul Storey saw her was what he’d remember afterwards, when it all went wrong.

She didn’t look at him or say anything, at least not to begin with. But he knew she’d noticed him when she came through the door. Even in a room full of people there was something in the way she ignored him—a studied awareness.

He wondered whether he should walk over, a casual introduction, sit opposite her at one of the square black tables and strike up a conversation. You come here every day, don’t you? … No, too obvious. Not the effect he was after. Perhaps he shouldn’t say anything, just pull out a chair, unfold a newspaper, nod at her, do the crossword.

Then she might think he was stalking her. Which he wasn’t. She was an attractive woman and he’d just noticed her …

She came into Starbucks the same time every morning, just before lunch. Different clothes each day but classy, well-cut, skirt just below her knees, blouse tight across her chest. Like a woman who works in business but still wants some sexiness in the mix. Carried a little brown briefcase with gold clasps. Heels with a bit of height but not tarty. Blonde hair neatly combed, straight, tucked behind her ears … no, one ear: the ear she used when she was on the phone.

She always found a table by the window, looking out across Broadgate, past the statue of Lady Godiva and towards Wagamama and the café next to it. She had a little computer she opened up and pecked at, then stopped and stared out the window. Bit her lower lip. Took a sip of a Starbucks flat white. She had good bones, a high forehead and arched eyebrows that looked as though they’d been drawn on with a pencil, a touch of colour on her eyelids. A short straight nose but lips that could have been slightly fuller. Her skin was flawless.

This time she’d only been seated five minutes and already she was standing up again, organising her things into her bag—keys, purse, packet of Kleenex, coin change from paying the barista. Putting the computer back in the briefcase. She seemed irritated, nervous, now standing motionless and staring out the window at the people walking past.

Then turning and looking directly at him.

Now she was walking in his direction and he couldn’t move. He was trapped, sitting on one of the high chairs by the other window, near a loudspeaker playing Dylan.

She stopped three feet away, her eyes dark, a slim blonde woman of average height, a little younger than him, something hard in her face.

Saying, ‘If you’re going to stare at me every day you could at least introduce yourself.’

‘I was waiting for the right time. This wasn’t it.’

‘What do you want?’

‘To live one day at a time without complications. Thanks for asking.’

‘From me. What do you want from me?’

She was getting right into it. He liked that. It was the one thing he’d admired about the women in London—they were in a hurry. It meant he could go at their pace or slow it down. It wasn’t always him setting the dial, trying to judge how fast to travel. Nice to find someone like that in the old home town.

He said, ‘I wondered why you came here.’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘You dress for an office. You’re made up. You have a dinky little laptop and a smartphone and you sit in a corner and play businesswoman. Where do people think you are when you talk to them on the phone? What’s the office address on your business card? I can’t help myself—I wonder about these things.’

‘Are you a copper?’

‘Do I look like a copper?’

She moved her gaze up and down as if she hadn’t thought to look at him before.

She said, ‘You might be. Towards the seedy end of the spectrum.’

‘Insurance.’

‘Sales?’

‘Assessor. Your house burns down or you have a flood, I tell you how much you’re likely to get.’

‘But you’re in Starbucks every day. Watching strange women and scaring the shit out of them.’

‘You’re not scared.’

‘Aren’t I? How would you know? How would you know what it’s like to go to a public place and find someone staring at you every day?’

Paul shrugged. ‘I didn’t think it was that obvious. I was aiming at furtive.’

‘I just want to come in here and have my coffee and not be stared at. Is that okay with you?’

She was running out of steam, the threat leaving her eyes. He tried to place her accent—a faint Scottish lilt, more east coast than west. It was so slight he wondered whether it’d been worn away by living in the south. It was attractive, made you want to hear her talk, just so you could follow it up and down.

Now she tightened her grip on the briefcase and shifted her weight. She was wearing her usual white blouse under her dark jacket and he thought he could see a black bra beneath it. Not so businesslike, then.

She said, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Paul Storey.’

‘With or without an e?’

‘With. Not many people ask that. You going to look me up on Google?’

‘Should I?’

‘I wouldn’t. What’s your name?’

‘No way. Did you think if you stared at me long enough I’d ask you for a date?’

‘Crossed my mind.’

‘It’s not going to happen.’

‘I’m getting the message.’ He lowered his voice. ‘What’s going on? What are you scared of?’

‘Life,’ she said, ‘the universe and everything. Pretty comprehensive. And in answer to your first question I come to work here because the noise helps me concentrate. It’s too quiet in the office.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Journalist, local rag. Not that it’s any of your damn business. Satisfied?’

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

She seemed about to add something but instead she turned and walked away. He watched her profile as she pushed open the door and headed left, towards Primark. He felt himself grinning and swivelled his chair to face the wall and pick up his coffee.

Thinking she wasn’t a journalist. She was too well-dressed and more nervous than any journalist he’d ever met.

But also thinking he didn’t mind. After all, he didn’t work in insurance, either.

CHAPTER TWO

‘MR STOREY, IF you want my professional opinion the price you’ve set is far too high for your father’s house. Dwellings in your, ah, area of Coventry have taken a serious hit in the last couple of years. You’re looking at first-timers trying to get a foothold and the price you want for it is going to dis-incentivise them to even look inside.’

Dis-incentivise? Jesus. He said, ‘Not my problem, is it? That’s your job, the selling part.’

‘Of course—’

‘I tell you what—I’ll go five percent lower if they’re interested in a deal.’

‘Buyers are much more aggressive these days. They’re likely to offer fifteen to twenty percent under the asking price, especially in your area. The local school doesn’t have a great reputation and as you know, there’s been a certain amount of crime reported in the last year. Minor things, petty things, but they set a tone, so to speak.’

‘I know what you’re saying but I don’t care. I have to sell.’

The estate agent was called Jeremy Frost and Paul didn’t like him. There was too much bullshit in his demeanour. Pretending to be realistic while still acting as his friend. Perhaps that was how they worked these days.

Now Frost was leaning back in his shiny leather chair, describing what they were going to do, putting the photos online so they’d be distributed through their various national partnerships, placing the video on their rolling shop-front display screen, and if he’d like to pay a little more they could give it a premium slot on the website, meaning a bigger picture and a guaranteed thirty percent uptick in views …

Dealing with the sale of his father’s house had brought out the worst in him. It was the house he’d grown up in and now he had to sell it. It was as though he’d been asked to rip off an arm and auction it through eBay.

Frost was saying, ‘Do you have a date to sell by? Before you go back to London?’

‘I’m not going back.’

‘Oh, but I thought—’

‘You’re stuck with me.’ He grinned. ‘Your favourite client.’

Frost grinning back. ‘All our clients are our favourites.’

‘Of course we are. But some are more favourite than others, eh? Some are touched by your magic hands and sell quickly while others are left to fester. I’m not going to be one of those, am I, Jeremy?

The agent’s expression seemed to freeze and he started talking about client satisfaction and questionnaires and how many clients stayed with them through several sales …

Paul phased out, thinking, And what about him? What did he sell to himself? He knew the situation was eating him up—going home every night to an empty house that still smelled of the room-freshener his father used. He’d decided to sell and then find something else … a nice apartment near the town centre, perhaps, or something out in the classier suburbs, Styvechale or Cheylesmore. Until then he was spending as little time as possible in the house. Have breakfast, then go out for the day, back at night and cook something for dinner with pots and pans his father had used for thirty years. Then go to bed in the same room he’d slept in till he’d left home for college. The memories … the peacefulness … these were part of the sales pitch he’d made to himself: it was a temporary place to find his feet again. After all the hoo-hah down south.

Frost said, ‘How does that sound?’

Paul hadn’t heard most of it but didn’t care. The details weren’t as important to him as they were to Frost. Buyers liked the look of the house and its price or they didn’t. He’d stay there as long as he had to. He certainly wasn’t going back to London, and definitely not back to work. Once you quit the police the bridges were burned. Turn away from the fire and look in the shadows for something else to occupy your time.

He said, ‘Do what you have to do. Sell it but don’t give it away.’

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘I know you wouldn’t, Jeremy. I’m counting on you to sell the house but financially I don’t have to. You understand? So I want as good a deal as you can get without scaring people off. If I have no prospects in the next three weeks, then I’ll reconsider who I use as an agent. I don’t want to do that because it would be a ball-ache and I don’t want to go through these bizarre conversations all over again. Sell the house for a good price, get your cut. It’s quite simple. So don’t sit there with your mouth open swallowing flies. I’ll leave the house when you want to come and show people around, and I won’t interfere. But you’ll have to be on top of your game, you and I both know that.’ He noticed that Frost had turned pale, his cockiness leached away. Paul said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a bad guy. I’m just sort of impatient from time to time. So help me out and everything’ll be all right. Okay?’

He was standing now, looking down at Frost’s upturned face. He thought the confusion and fear he saw there probably mirrored his own, though he would never admit it, to himself or to anyone else.

He said, ‘You’ve got my numbers. Don’t be afraid to use them.’

HE DROVE HOME through streets he thought were more crowded than he remembered and parked outside his father’s house. There was a garage at the back but it was difficult to get to and besides, was full of stuff his father had never got around to throwing out—an old Hotpoint washing machine, a table with a broken leg, an armchair. He’d told his father to get rid of all the clutter but apparently he never found the time. Too busy at the pub or in his allotment. Growing stuff he never ate.

He was heating up a microwave meal when his phone rang.

‘Milly.’

‘Storey. You don’t call, you don’t write …’

‘When your father dies there are things to do. Socialising isn’t one of them.’

‘Don’t try to make me feel guilty. The last time I felt guilty about anything was in two thousand and four, when I knocked over an old man with a Zimmer frame.’

‘You were driving?’

‘Walking too quick, not watching where I was going. This isn’t why I called.’

‘Why did you call?’

She let out a raspy breath and Paul saw her leaning back on her sofa in the apartment she rented next door to his in Battersea. She’d be wearing a black leotard and sweating from practising her dance routines in front of the television, her shiny trophies racked on the shelf above it. She danced ballroom at the weekends with a guy from Fulham, went over her moves solo as best she could.

Storey was a project to her. There’d been a moment when they might have had something but he’d got the timing wrong and they stopped talking for three months. Then they started again, but on a different footing. He liked the fact she still wanted to talk to him, even though he’d left with only two days’ notice and dumping on her the responsibility for selling the furniture before the landlord gave it away. She was resourceful—she’d handle it.

She said, ‘A guy came round to talk to you last night. I heard him pounding on your door, went outside. Said he worked with you, wanted to talk.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Bit taller than you, buzz-cut fair hair, big lips, very red, like he wore lipstick or something.’

‘Rick. I thought he’d come round.’

‘Thanks for warning me.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Now look, this is where this conversation gets interesting, you know? I’m a pretty calm girl most of the time but you really shit on me here, Storey. I don’t need all your past history dumped on my doorstep. I’ve got my own life, you know? Fair enough if you have to go look after funeral arrangements and all, but you didn’t have to leave altogether. I don’t care about your stress, I don’t care about your job. I don’t care about your bookshelves. You’ve got no right to dump it all on me then bugger off to the Midlands.’

‘Agreed. I did a bad thing. So, what did you tell Rick?’

Now he could see her staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember what her counsellor told her about letting the anger take control. She might be counting to ten. Or imagining angels. He had no idea what she did to bring herself down.

She said, ‘I told him you’d gone away. I didn’t say where or what for. I pretended I didn’t know. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘You didn’t mention my father? Or Coventry?’

‘I followed your instructions.’ Sounding cool now, a little pissed off, a tone he recognised well. ‘What would this Rick want, anyway? I thought you resigned.’

‘I did. He probably thinks he can un-change my mind. Always fancied himself as a bit of a shrink. Thought he knew me better than I know myself.’

‘Shit, Storey, you don’t know yourself at all. You’re walking in the dark.’

‘I bow to your superior knowledge.’

‘Look at your recent history. That’ll tell you all you need to know.’

‘I have to go. My microwave just pinged.’

‘Yeah, right, don’t let your burger go cold.’

‘It’s a meat pie.’

‘So you’ve gone native already. I fear for you, I really do.’

‘I’ll call you when I’m more settled.’

‘Like that’s going to happen,’ she said, hanging up.

CHAPTER THREE

JANICE SAW HIM through the window before she went in. The nerve—taking her favourite seat, relaxing into it as though it belonged to him. She supposed he was good-looking in a swarthy kind of way, like Pierce Brosnan if he’d had Greek parents, that kind of dark stubbly chin and the wiry black hair. Clothes seemed to fit him, too, showing his broad chest and slim hips but like a man who kept himself fit, not an unformed boy. He didn’t have any soft edges, he was sharp and spiky and his eyes seemed to look straight through you.

That could be interesting. Be nice to know a man who could take control, for once. She saw that in him, that urge to dominate, to have his way. She might have liked the challenge if she didn’t have other plans.

So there he was, looking up from his book now, seeing her and smiling at the same time, knowing she was bound to come through the door and was just waiting for her to arrive. The smile doesn’t hit his eyes, she thought, it was something he did with his mouth, a social move, acknowledging the game’s about to start.

He was saying, ‘I thought you’d never come back, what with me being so rude and all. Thought I’d broken the spell.’