The Paperback Sleuth - Like a Bullet E-Book

Andrew Cartmel

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 390

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

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.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

1:A Modest Retainer

2:Edit War

3:Good Books

4:Eden Street

5:Thai Brothel Bookcase

6:Commando Dagger

7:Hybrid Burglary Bag

8:A Picture of Rainbottle

9:Bettie Page

10:A Souvenir of France

11:Monty Harrington

12:Lucky For Some

13:Neck Like A Giraffe

14:Meet Melantha

15:A Bad Idea to Tell The Truth

16:Betty Not Bettie

17:Bumper Sticker

18:We Have A Visitor

19:Monty’s Explanation

20:Someone Who Wasn’t Pleased

21:On The Way To Yoga

22:Special Dispensation

23:Like Christmas Morning

24:Heart-To-Heart Chat

25:The Oblong Box

26:What To Do

27:Back To Cambridge

28:The Handover

29:Toffee Popcorn Vodka

30:Cheque

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise for

THE PAPERBACK SLEUTH SERIES

“An intriguing mystery with an amoral protagonist. Whoknew the world of paperback books could be so deadly?”

Ben Aaronovitch, author of the Rivers of London series

“Andrew Cartmel introduces a new kind of heroine,entirely immoral, somewhat venal and slightly foxed.”

David Quantick, Emmy award-winning producer of VEEP

“Packed with Andrew Cartmel’s customary witand cleverness, the Paperback Sleuth novels make asplendid successor to the Vinyl Detective.”

Stuart Douglas, author of Death at the Dress Rehearsal and Death at the Playhouses

“Tightly plotted and hugely enjoyable. I racedto the end to find out whodunnit.”

Nev Fountain, author of The Fan Who KnewToo Much and Lies and Dolls

“A quirky crime yarn bound to hit the sweet spot for mystery lovers.”

Kirkus Reviews

“Cartmel has never been better than in this darklyfunny series kickoff… Fans of Lynne Truss’s ConstableTwitten novels will find much to love.”

Publishers Weekly Starred Review on Death in Fine Condition

“Devilishly clever… richly suspenseful…readers will be primed for more.”

Booklist on Death in Fine Condition

Also by Andrew Cartmeland available from Titan Books

THE VINYL DETECTIVE SERIES

Written in Dead Wax

The Run-Out Groove

Victory Disc

Flip Back

Low Action

Attack and Decay

Noise Floor

Underscore

THE PAPERBACK SLEUTH SERIES

Death in Fine Condition

Ashram Assassin

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The Paperback Sleuth: Like a Bullet

Print edition ISBN: 9781803367941

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803367958

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: June 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 Andrew Cartmel.

Andrew Cartmel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

EU RP (for authorities only)

eucomply OÜ, Pärnu mnt. 139b-14, 11317 Tallinn, Estonia

[email protected], [phone]

For Stephen Wyatt

“What like a bullet can undeceive”

Herman Melville—Shiloh: A Requiem

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. I really don’t mean to be rude…”

“But this is a difficult conversation,” said Cordelia.

“Yes.”

“Let me make it easier for you,” said Cordelia. “This is only a wild guess, but given that Erik is a retired rock star…”

“Who said he’s retired?”

“Please don’t interrupt,” said Cordelia, delighted to turn the tables. “But given his carefree bohemian rock lifestyle and his, ah, no doubt extensive romantic history, you’re concerned he might try and sleep with me because I am, as you said, irresistible.”

“I never said irresistible.”

“So, you’re warning me off,” said Cordelia.

Helene shook her head vigorously. “Of course I’m not warning you off. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that.”

“Why not?” said Cordelia.

“Because if I warned you off, that would only make you more likely to do something, out of bad temper, vindictiveness and spite.”

Wow, this woman is good, thought Cordelia.

“Therefore, I am not warning you off,” said Helene. “What I am doing is paying you off.”

Oh boy, thought Cordelia as Helene opened her black satin clutch bag and took out a chequebook. “Do you know what this is?” she said, waving the floppy rectangle at Cordelia.

“Chequebook,” said Cordelia.

“Just checking, no pun intended. You can never be sure with young people these days. Did I just say ‘young people these days’? Christ, I’m turning into my parents. Anyway, you probably think it’s antiquated. Having a chequebook.”

“Not at all,” said Cordelia politely. “I’m thinking of getting one myself.”

Helene inspected her closely. “Are you taking the piss?”

“Far from it. An old-style paper cheque is a super-secure form of payment these days compared to the electronic options, which are vulnerable to the predations of any bored pre-teen with a smartphone.”

“That’s exactly what I think,” said Helene, slapping the chequebook on the countertop to emphasise her point. Then, suddenly, “Would you like a drink? We have an astounding selection of vodkas.” She hopped off her stool, showing laudable nimbleness in a woman of her years, and crouched on the floor. A fleeting impression—both terrible and gratifying—that she was about to worship Cordelia from this position was dispelled as she popped open the door of a kitchen cabinet fitted under the countertop.

Helene emerged with a clinking clutch of bottles and set them out on the counter. They were an eccentric variety of vodkas, which she proceeded to itemize. “Marshmallow, salted caramel, lemon birthday cake… and toffee popcorn. Lemon birthday cake used to be my favourite, but then I discovered the toffee popcorn. And, oh my gawd.” She gave Cordelia a bright, hopeful look. “Would you like one?”

“Better not, before I talk business with Erik.”

Helene sat back down, seeming only mildly disappointed.

“Fair enough. Sensible. Where was I?”

Before Cordelia could reply—she wasn’t even sure she remembered herself—Helene spotted the chequebook lying on the counter. “Ah, right, speaking of business.” She looked Cordelia squarely in the eye in a no-bullshit kind of way and Cordelia did her best to return that gaze.

“Now, what I want to do is make sure there’s no chance of anything rocking the boat with me and Erik. Erik is only human and you’re sufficiently cute to potentially trigger some boat rocking. Potentially a lot of boat rocking. Now, I’m not saying he would try anything, or that you’d even be amenable…”

Thank god for that, thought Cordelia. This was a former rock star old enough to be her grandfather, millionaire or not. Plus, he was a World War Two nut. Talk about turn-offs.

“But one thing can lead to another,” said Helene sagely. She picked up the chequebook and flopped it around in the air. The poor little chequebook must be getting dizzy. “So, I’m paying you to guarantee that one thing—should there even be one thing—does not lead to another.”

Helene delved into her clutch bag, took out a pen, and proceeded to write in the chequebook with firm, angular handwriting. She tore a cheque out of the book and handed it to Cordelia. It was a sum in the low three figures, worth getting out of bed in the morning for, certainly, but rather an annoyingly low price to put on one’s virtue.

Helene seemed to agree. “That’s just a modest retainer,” she said, returning pen and chequebook to their Jimmy Choo residence.

“So that I retain my modesty,” said Cordelia.

“Nice one. Yes. While you interact with Erik, correct. And, if at the end of your assignment—finding whatever dumb war paperbacks Erik is after—if everything is still hunky dory, then I’ll pay you a bonus which is considerably larger than that. Fair dos?”

“Fair dos,” said Cordelia, folding the cheque and putting it carefully in the pocket of her jeans. She wondered if she should offer to shake hands again, but this quandary was resolved by Helene standing up from her stool in a meeting-ending sort of way.

“Don’t tell Erik we had this little chat.”

“I won’t.”

“Right, bye,” said Helene. And she was gone. Leaving Cordelia to read the fine print on the vodka bottles, for want of anything more edifying. She had reached the point of wondering if she could sneak out into the hallway to check out the paperbacks in that bookcase when there was finally the sound of an approaching rock star.

Erik Make Loud—he had been christened Eric McCloud but his sensible, normal name had been just one more rock and roll casualty—strode in, radiating good health and fitness, which were the last things Cordelia had expected him to radiate.

He was wearing a green shirt with a small, pointed collar and two large chest pockets. It would have looked quite military but for the fact it was sleeveless. That and the Calvin Klein logo, which was almost as large as the chest pockets. The shirt revealed surprisingly well-muscled arms, which was no doubt the whole point of the sleeveless thing. But no tattoos, which was also surprising. Erik’s black jeans were stylishly torn at the knees and he wore pink Converse high tops. Apparently, this was a rock star in touch with his feminine side.

He sat down opposite Cordelia, on a stool which would have still been warm from its erstwhile occupancy by Helene if he hadn’t made his guest hang around waiting for so long, and smiled at her.

Erik possessed a rather bulging and slightly asymmetrical nose, but otherwise he wasn’t too far from being handsome. His face was a trifle ravaged by the years and the onslaught of assorted pharmaceuticals, but much less ravaged than you might expect. He had long hair, quite grey and entirely undyed, which also seemed to count in his favour. It was gathered into a braid no doubt deliberately intended to resemble the one Helene had. His facial hair was the same grey but thankfully was limited to a small moustache and a neat little square patch under his lower lip.

He smiled at Cordelia long enough for her to register that his teeth were perfect.

Then he said, “You’re Stinky Stanmer’s sister.”

Cordelia winced inwardly. It was her cross to bear that her detestable brother Stuart aka Stinky was a DJ and minor celebrity. And detestable. That couldn’t be mentioned too many times. “Let’s not talk about that,” she said.

“Okay,” said Erik. “And apparently we have a mutual friend. Jordon.”

Cordelia was about to ask who the hell Jordon was when it clicked. “Tinkler?”

“Yeah, right. Jordon Tinkler. Good mate of mine. Apparently, you guys were going out.” Erik suddenly noticed the vodka bottles. “What the hell is this?”

“Vodka.”

“I can see that. Why isn’t it in the vodka cupboard? Did you get it out?”

“Of course not,” said Cordelia, truthfully.

“Why won’t people leave things in their proper place?” enquired Erik rhetorically. He scooped the bottles up and knelt more or less at Cordelia’s feet, in a similar posture to the one recently adopted by Helene, as he returned them to the cupboard beneath the counter. This gave Cordelia the chance to inspect the top of his head, on which there was no sign of any incipient male pattern baldness. Good for Erik.

He slammed the cupboard door shut and hopped back onto the stool opposite Cordelia.

“Where was I?”

“You know Tinkler,” prompted Cordelia.

“Yes, that’s it. So naturally I had a word with him when I was thinking about hiring you.”

“What did he say?”

“Please come back to him. He misses you.”

“That’s sweet,” said Cordelia.

“I’ve edited out some of the smut,” said Erik.

“Naturally.”

“Do you think you will go back to him?”

“I couldn’t really go back to him because we were never really together.”

“Fine with me,” said Erik breezily. “Anyway, I checked you out with Tinkler and do you want to know what he said? He said you have absolutely no moral compass.” Erik seemed enormously amused to be imparting this information.

“He’s one to talk,” said Cordelia.

“But if you’re looking for rare paperbacks—and I am—he said there’s no one better suited to the task of finding them.”

“But you already knew that,” said Cordelia.

Despite this being their first face-to-face meeting, Erik had been a client of hers, purely in a mail order capacity, for some years now. And Cordelia had sporadically found him some very nice items. Hence, she’d assumed, her summons to appear here today. “What about those Sven Hassels I located for you?” she said.

Sven Hassel was a Danish novelist who had supposedly fought with the Wehrmacht and wrote a series of bestselling pulp novels about the bloodthirsty adventures of a group of tough misfits in a penal Panzer regiment. A Panzer was a kind of tank. The books had sold in huge quantities despite being unmoored from any recognisable reality; Cordelia was particularly fond of the soldiers’ pet cat who had his own Obergefreiter (private first class) uniform. Although she was herself a dog person, Cordelia felt that a cat deserved a higher rank than that. Anyway, Sven Hassel, despite being dead for decades, still had a thriving cult following.

Including the man sitting opposite her.

Erik’s face lit up at the mention of the paperbacks Cordelia had found for him at a charity shop in Putney and had sold on to him at an enormous profit. If he’d known how enormous, his face might not have lit up quite so brightly.

But as it was, Erik emanated unguarded, childlike delight. “Oh man, they were brilliant,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

Cordelia basked in the glow of his praise.

“They were in absolutely mint condition,” said Erik.

Cordelia didn’t correct him by telling him that books were actually graded “fine” not “mint”. Why be a dick?

“Thank you,” said Erik again.

“You’re welcome”

“Would you like a drink?” Sudden puzzlement and a hint of frustration supplanted the delight on Erik’s face. “Shit, did I just put the vodka away?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, no problem, I can take it out again. Would you like a drink?”

As a matter of fact, the toffee popcorn tipple did sound tempting—so much so that Cordelia was worried her stomach might betray her and start rumbling, something it had never done in connection with booze before—but she decided it was best to retain a businesslike demeanour. And who knows, if they started necking vodka, one thing might lead to another…

And she had just been paid a retainer to make sure it didn’t.

So she said, “No thank you. A bit early in the day.”

“Is it?”

“And I want to keep a clear head for the no doubt cutthroat business negotiations which are about to take place.”

Erik gave a gurgling giggle and settled comfortably onto his stool once more, dutifully forgetting about the vodka so enticingly close at hand. Or, given its location, close at foot.

He leaned a little nearer to Cordelia across the counter, bringing about both an air of conspiracy and the aroma of costly perfume.

“You’re right. You’ve found me some great books in the past. Some of them pretty rare. Some of them fairly valuable. But this is different. This is a whole different level of rare and valuable. This is the big one.”

2: EDIT WAR

“What do you know about the Commando novels?” said Erik.

Cordelia had done her homework. “They’re a series of British paperback originals, written by someone under the hilarious pseudonym of Butch Raider.”

Erik grinned at her. “It is pretty hilarious. But they are really good.” He assumed a serious expression. “More than good. Brilliantly written.”

Well, Cordelia reflected, Erik had to believe this since he was about to be separated from some fairly large sums of money in pursuit of these dumb books. He was watching her carefully so she made sure these sardonic musings didn’t show on her face. Or at least she thought she did, but judging by the way Erik suddenly grew defensive, either he was better at picking up on this stuff or she was worse at concealing it than she’d thought.

“Have you ever read any of them?” he demanded.

“Any of Butch Raider’s oeuvre?” said Cordelia.

Erik grinned again. “Okay, it’s a stupid name and the covers are a bit off-putting. You know, lurid.”

Cordelia shook her head and said, “The cover art is actually great. In this case, lurid is good.”

“You think so?” he said.

“It’s aimed at a certain market,” said Cordelia. “And it’s ideally suited to that market. And at least it isn’t photographic.”

Cordelia had a particular loathing for photographic “art” on paperback covers. With a few key exceptions (Adrian Flowers, Bob Brooks, Harri Peccinotti, Brian Duffy), give her a painting any day. Even these lurid, to quote Erik, examples.

She took out her phone and went through some of the Commando covers, showing them to him on the other side of the counter. “Admittedly, it’s somewhat amusing, the little flames coming out of the barrels of their little guns,” she said.

Erik barked with laughter. “I didn’t realise you were so familiar with the series,” he said.

Cordelia put her phone away. “Only because I did some research before I came over here. Based on your initial email.” His initial email had been, essentially a list of titles he was after, and a request—actually, it was more like a demand—that they should meet up in person to discuss the deal. “And,” said Cordelia, “it should be fairly straightforward to get virtually all of the books you requested.”

Erik brightened visibly when he heard this. “They have to be in good condition, though. When I say ‘good’ condition—”

“You don’t actually mean ‘good’ condition,” said Cordelia swiftly, because if someone was going to state the thunderingly, boringly, numbingly obvious it was going to be her. “Because in book-collecting terms, ‘good’ condition means bad condition. Shitty condition in fact.”

Erik was nodding like a nodding dog in a car. Cordelia’s dad had one of those. But then Cordelia’s dad was weird. Anyway, that was how Erik was nodding. “You want copies in mint condition,” said Cordelia, who then took a metaphorical deep breath and followed it by taking the equally metaphorical plunge, “Which incidentally, boring fucking book pedants actually call ‘fine’ condition. Not ‘mint’.”

She threw in the swearing because she thought Erik would appreciate it, rock star and all.

And he did.

“They do, do they?” he said.

“Yup. ‘Mint’ is for coins and stamps. And comics.”

“And records,” said Erik.

“Yes,” conceded Cordelia.

“Then what I want is copies in fine condition.”

“But of course,” said Cordelia.

“Because the copies I’ve already got are knackered.” He grinned at her, showing those expensively perfect choppers again. “In other words, they’re only in good condition.”

“I’ll make sure we put that right,” said Cordelia.

“Brilliant,” said Erik. “Now, how about some vodka?” He kicked the cupboard containing the exciting and varied bottles of spirit, but it was a gentle, affectionate sort of kick.

“Not just yet,” said Cordelia. Or indeed ever, she added silently, thinking of the cheque in her pocket and a much larger one to come, down the line. If she was good. Which meant no vodka. Especially since they hadn’t finished talking business yet. Erik’s look of crestfallen disappointment was brief, boyish and rather touching. “There’s one more crucial thing to discuss,” said Cordelia.

“Yeah?” he said, unconvinced. Then he mimed chagrin at his own absent-mindedness, stopping short of slapping himself on the forehead, but not far short. “Oh, you mean we need to talk about money.”

“Well, yes, that too,” said Cordelia, feeling a warm glow at the mention of remuneration. But it was a premature warm glow and she knew it, because she was about to disappoint her prospective employer and that never made for generous paydays. “But there is one title on your list that I’m not sure I can help you with.”

Erik was surprisingly philosophical when he heard this. In fact, he anticipated her. “You mean Commando Gold.”

“That’s right,” said Cordelia, careful to show the correct amount of surprise. Which was to say sufficient to indicate she was impressed with his penetrating shrewdness, though not going quite so far as eyelash-fluttering.

“How did you know?” she said.

“Because it’s the rarest book on the list. Bloody rare. And valuable. Like I said, the big one.”

“Yes, you did say that, come to think of it…”

“So, it will be hard to find, sure,” said Erik. “But I’m counting on you to find it.”

The look he gave her was one of such touching faith in her abilities—Tinkler must have really bigged her up—that Cordelia found she was reluctant to let him down. But let him down she must. She did her best to do so gently.

“The thing is, Erik. May I call you Erik?”

“What the fuck else would you call me, darling?”

“Well, Erik, the thing is, while I can find any book in existence…”

“That’s my girl. And when I say girl, I mean woman. No sexism intended.”

“Thank you. None taken. But while I can find any book in existence, what I can’t find is any book not in existence.”

Erik blinked at her. It was a long slow blink. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t find a book that doesn’t exist.”

“Of course not. So what? What a bloody obvious thing to say.”

Cordelia made a note of how quickly Erik could become tetchy. This was the corollary of his boyish enthusiasm, which is to say, swift transitions to childish bad temper.

“So, I’m afraid I won’t be able to find you a copy of Commando Gold.”

“Why not?”

Cordelia didn’t wince or sigh, though both of those would have been good reactions at this point. “Because it doesn’t exist.”

“Oh yes it does,” said Erik belligerently.

Now Cordelia did wince, because it was obvious that the rest of their interview wasn’t going to go easily or well. She dug in and started talking.

“I’m afraid not, Erik,” said Cordelia, remembering to use his first name as often as possible. Just like you would with a mad gunman. “I’ve done some research…”

“Oh,” said Erik. He relaxed instantly and dramatically. He even chuckled. All of which rather baffled Cordelia. So she just sat tight and waited for more from him. She didn’t have to wait long. He leaned forward over the counter, intimate and conspiratorial and fragrant again.

“You mean Wikipedia?” he said.

“Well…” Cordelia didn’t like to be found out like this. Found out for being so obvious and banal, that is. But there was no point denying it. “Yes.”

“You looked up the Commando books on Wikipedia.”

“Yes.”

“When did you look it up?” said Erik.

“A few days ago…”

“No,” said Erik impatiently, drawing back and reducing the level of conspiracy and perfume. “I mean what time of day?”

“Late at night.” Cordelia did much of her online research in the wee small hours.

This was, for some reason, the right answer, because Erik was suddenly all smiles and leaning forward again. “Yeah,” he said. “That makes sense. So, you looked on Wikipedia and it said that there was no such book as Commando Gold, that it had been announced or something but never actually printed.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “Something like that. But they were very emphatic…”

“Very emphatic that there were rumours it had been printed.”

“Yes.”

“But those rumours were false.”

“I think the word ‘hoax’ was used,” said Cordelia.

“The word ‘hoax’ was most definitely used,” said Erik. “Did you see the bit about the fake cover image that had been posted online?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“And did you have look at the fake cover?”

“No,” said Cordelia.

“Okay,” said Erik. “Let’s have a look at it now.” He took his phone out of one of the big pockets on his Calvin Klein sleeveless army shirt. He was positively jovial. Even a brief spell of frustrating wrestling to get his phone switched on—Erik clearly wasn’t a tech savant—didn’t dent his joviality. Eventually he got it going and found what he wanted. He showed it to Cordelia.

It was a book cover for, yes, a paperback called Commando Gold by Butch Raider. The art, if you could call it that, was a crude imitation of the other covers in the series. Although those themselves could also be described as crude, or at least primitive, they were also vivid and vigorous. And a number of other adjectives beginning with ‘v’. Notably ‘violent’.

But this one lacked any of the energy or raw, naïve talent on show in the others. It was obvious, even at a glance, that it was the work of other hands.

Or perhaps other feet. Or another mouth.

It really was that bad.

“What do you think?” said Erik.

“It’s a fake,” said Cordelia.

“Right,” said Erik, happily. “Isn’t it just?”

“It’s a total, obvious fake.”

“Right, darling, right.” Erik seemed triumphant. But Cordelia could see no reason for this triumph.

“But…” she said.

“Yes darling?”

“It’s supposed to be a fake. I mean, that’s what it says on Wikipedia, isn’t it? That the book was never published and accounts of its publication are a hoax and that there are fake covers online.”

“That’s what they said, all right,” said Erik. He was still triumphant. And happy.

“And this is a fake, an obvious one, so that bears all that out.”

“Does it?” said Erik. He was doing his best to look like a wise old sage. And he certainly looked old.

“Doesn’t it?” said Cordelia.

Erik smiled at her and resumed struggling with his phone. After a relatively short period of time, he snorted with satisfaction and showed her what he had found.

It was another image of the cover of Commando Gold.

But this one obviously—obviously to Cordelia, at least—was the work of the real artist.

“Hang on,” she said.

“Right,” said Erik. “Hang on. Bloody well hang bloody on.”

“Can I see the other cover? The fake?”

“Sure,” said Erik and began to laboriously do things on his phone.

“Erik,” said Cordelia.

Something in the tone of her voice caused Erik to pause and look at her curiously. “Yes, darling?”

Now Cordelia actually did flutter her eyelashes. It seemed called for. Essential, in fact. “Would you mind if I borrowed your phone for a moment?”

“Borrow it?”

“I’d like to see both covers side by side.”

“Oh, well. Good luck with that, darling. Rather you than me.” He handed the phone over readily. In gratifyingly few seconds Cordelia had both covers on the screen. “Bloody hell,” said Erik. “You’re good.”

“All part of the service,” said Cordelia, making a mental note to increase her bill by at least ten per cent.

They studied the two covers. The logo and the lettering were identical on both. And the paintings were similar. Quite closely similar. They depicted the same scene, rubber dinghies, moonlight, a frogman cutting an enemy’s throat, gold spilling into dark water. But one was clearly the work of the artist who did the Commando book covers, and the other was the work of some chump—or possibly even some chimp—imitating the artist who did the Commando book covers.

And doing a very bad job.

“A remarkably bad job,” said Cordelia softly.

Apparently too softly for someone who had spent his lifetime on festival stages beside gigantic speakers. “What was that, love?” said Erik.

“I was remarking on what a lousy imitation the lousy imitation is.”

“Right,” said Erik.

“It’s almost like it’s deliberately a lousy imitation.”

“Now you’re starting to get it,” said Erik.

Get what? thought Cordelia. And she almost said it out loud. But it seemed like it would be more impressive to Erik, and more gratifying to herself, to work it out on her own. “So, it’s deliberately a fake,” said Cordelia.

“Yeah,” said Erik encouragingly.

“And people are supposed to spot that it’s a fake.”

“Unless they’re absolute drongos, right,” said Erik.

“Okay,” said Cordelia. “Which means someone wants people to believe there never was a print run of Commando Gold. They want people to buy into the hoax theory.”

“So, it’s a theory now, is it?” said Erik.

Cordelia had to smile. He had her there. “Now that I’ve seen the other cover…” she said.

“The real one,” said Erik.

“It certainly looks real,” said Cordelia.

“Believe it,” said Erik.

Cordelia handed the phone back to Erik. It was such an expensive phone that she forgave the way he polished it on his shirt, to remove any residue of her fingerprints, before putting it away. But she added an additional five per cent to his eventual bill.

“So why would someone plant an obvious fake cover and want people to believe the book doesn’t exist?” said Cordelia.

“I don’t know,” said Erik. “But I do know it’s bloody annoying. And I know it’s what that idiot is doing on Wikipedia.”

“What idiot?” said Cordelia.

“Whoever keeps editing that page to say the book doesn’t exist.”

“But doesn’t Wikipedia…”

“Try and prevent that kind of thing?” said Erik. “Of course they do. That’s why I asked what time of day you looked at it.”

“Ah,” said Cordelia. Enlightenment began to dawn on her.

“You looked at it late at night, right?”

“Right.”

“And it said the book didn’t exist. Try taking a look at it first thing in the morning.”

“And it will give a me a different story?” said Cordelia.

“It certainly will, along the lines of the book being printed but withdrawn.” Erik gazed at her, eyes shining with happy excitement. “It’s what they call an edit war.”

“Right,” said Cordelia.

“The two people editing the page live in different time zones,” said Erik. “Judging by the time of day when it changes.”

“And one of the people is telling the real story of Commando Gold.”

“Yes,” said Erik. “And the other one is a lying twat.”

3: GOOD BOOKS

It was a beautiful autumn day and the dark masses of cloud flowing overhead split up at regular intervals to let a lazy pearly blaze of light through to shine on the river below. Cordelia watched seagulls dip and dive over the water as she walked home from the abode of Erik Make Loud.

It was a short walk home, past the pub, around the corner, down the High Street and turn left. And then Cordelia was at the house she shared with her landlord, Edwin. And, better yet, his dog Rainbottle. It was quite a big house, or at least it had seemed so before she’d visited the Make Loud mansion. Cordelia let herself in, was greeted by a bark of acknowledgement from Rainbottle in his (and Edwin’s) flat at the back of the house, and made her way upstairs to her own cosy little attic room.

Where she set about consolidating her knowledge of—it was difficult to even contemplate the name without spluttering—Butch Raider. And his Commando books.

First of all, Butch himself. Or possibly even herself. Clearly a pseudonym. No one could actually have the misfortune of being christened with such a moniker. And even if they did, for them to end up writing a series of novels about World War Two commandos, the definitive example of butch raiders, was too much to ask of nominative determinism.

So, the name almost certainly masked another name. But Cordelia had no luck working out who the real person behind the pseudonym might be. In her online research, the biographical and bibliographical information went around in an unilluminating loop: the Commando novels were written by a person called Butch Raider. And Butch Raider was the person who had written the Commando novels.

And that was about all she could learn.

As for the books themselves, they had sold in their millions in their heyday, but they were now out of print and showed no signs of returning from oblivion. There was still a thriving secondhand market for them, though. And while battered examples, which were virtually all the examples to be found, changed hands for a few quid, more pristine copies rapidly escalated in value, plateauing at a few specimens optimistically offered for sale online at several hundred pounds each.

Cordelia decided that somewhere between fifty and a hundred quid was right for a fine copy of a first printing of any of the titles. Which didn’t necessarily mean this was what she’d end up charging Erik Make Loud, if and when she found them.

And ‘any of the titles’ actually meant any of the titles except Commando Gold. If this book really existed—and now that Cordelia had seen the cover art, she was inclined to believe that it did—and if she found a copy for Erik, and if it was in immaculate condition—a cumulative lot of ifs—then all bets were off.

At least regarding what she would charge him for it.

One thing Cordelia was sure of, having seen how much money Erik had, how rare the book was, and how much he wanted it, was that she’d be asking for thousands rather than hundreds of pounds.

All this for a silly, brutal, simple-minded little tale of wartime derring-do.

Or at least, that was the impression she’d formed of Butch Raider’s books. She hadn’t actually read any of them.

And, perhaps surprisingly, this was an omission she intended to rectify.

Cordelia had a policy of reading the books she was looking for, if there was sufficient incentive. In other words, if they were sufficiently rare and/or valuable. It was helpful to know exactly what she was hunting for and what sort of people might be excited by it. Excited enough to pay Cordelia her premium rates to find copies.

That didn’t mean she’d plough on with a book if it was a total unreadable dud. But she’d definitely give a book a chance. And as a result, she’d become acquainted with some odd and interesting titles. The hippy mystical odysseys of Avram Silverlight, for instance.

And now she proposed to go adventuring with Butch Raider’s commando team.

It helped that Erik had insisted she check the books out and had even pressed some of his personal copies on her. So, she’d come back from his house with half a dozen very dogeared—that reminded her, she must get some treats for Rainbottle—and yellowing paperbacks from his personal library.

Just how personal she discovered when she changed into sweatpants and a big baggy sweater and curled up on the padded bench in front of the large bay window in her room and, here in the excellent autumn light, started reading the first of these books, Commando Dagger. She opened its garish and much-creased cover and there, on the top right-hand corner of the first page, was a name, written carefully and clearly.

Eric McCloud.

It was rather touching. This had been Erik’s own copy from his pre-rock-star days.

And it also explained why he was so eager to acquire a flawless, exemplary collection of the books. Nostalgia. He was buying back his youth and trying to render that perfect, too.

But, as Cordelia began to turn the brittle pages, she discovered that wasn’t Erik’s only reason for wanting these novels. They were actually highly readable, and quite compelling, in a have-another-mouthful-of-junk-food kind of way. And Butch Raider could actually write. Admittedly, the book was full of sentences like, “The Sten gun bucked in his hand as it barked staccato death.” But there were other sentences, many of them, which were pretty good.

Butch Raider could evoke a sense of place and conjure up atmosphere. He had a terse gift for description. What’s more, he actually seemed to know a thing or two about warfare in general and commando warfare in particular. It always helped have at least some tenuous acquaintance with the subject matter you were writing about. But this was far from being always the case in pulp fiction. In Tarzan of the Apes, for instance, Edgar Rice Burroughs had happily included tigers roaming among the indigenous fauna of Africa.

As far as Cordelia could tell, no such howling errors were perpetrated by Butch Raider. When he found himself writing about something that was beyond his knowledge, he simply became vague about it, but vague in an adroit, fast-moving way that kept the reader reading. And elsewhere he dropped in telling little details which made the whole narrative seem authentic.