A Good Year for the Roses

by Mark Timlin

Overview

The First Nick Sharman Thriller

Nick Sharman is nobody's favourite person. Ex-cop, ex-doper, invalided out of the Met after a stray bullet in the foot saved him from an investigation into the missing evidence from a drugs haul.

The cops don't like him. The villains don't like him. Sharman is unemployable. So he's hired himself an office and set up shop as a private investigator in his south London patch.

Divorces and debt-collecting were what he expected. What he gets is Patsy Bright, young, pretty and missing. Her father wants her back. She's a good girl, a model, and only a little bit into drugs. With Sharman's connections it should be a piece of cake.

Only when he comes to with a split head, a pocketful of planted heroin, a dead girl and two policemen acting on a tip-off, does Sharman realise this case is different. And serious. And personal.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781843440802
Publisher:	No Exit Press
Publication date:	02/22/2013
Series:	A Nick Sharman Novel , #1
Sold by:	Bookwire
Format:	eBook
Pages:	288
File size:	324 KB

About the Author

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

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

Read an Excerpt

A Good Year for the Roses

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By Mark Timlin

Oldcastle Books

Copyright © 1989 Mark Timlin
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84344-082-6

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CHAPTER 1

I opened for business on a chilly morning, in a cool August, in a cold and wet, forgettable summer. The headlines in the newspapers told me that there had been a radiation leak at Sellafield Nuclear Re-Processing Plant, Beirut had been bombed for the third successive day, a fourteen year old girl had been raped and left for dead in Clapham, and England had lost in the final test at Edgbaston. It must have been someone's birthday, or someone's wedding anniversary. Somebody had cause to celebrate. But the Lord Mayor didn't come down and cut a pink ribbon for me. I didn't notice the earth move.

I unlocked my office and looked around the room furnished by a second hand commercial furniture company, slumped down in a second hand typist's chair and propped my foot in the open drawer of a second hand desk. My foot was sore. I'd been shot through it by a bullet from a .38 calibre Colt Detective Special two years previously. Ultimately that slug of lead had brought me to where I was sitting. Although I had made virtually a 100% recovery from the injury, I still limped slightly when the weather was wet or cold, and as I said, it had been both that year. It felt good to take the weight off my old wound. I wasn't a walking miracle.

Starting a new venture left me with a certain feeling of anti-climax. But then I felt anti-climax every morning when I woke up.

I was resting on an overdraft that resembled the national debt of a small South American country, like more successful men rest on their laurels. I was in my peak earning years and worth less than zero.

The office I had rented was situated in a cul-de-sac leading to a railway station deep in South London. I had been born and bred in the area and when I was a baby, my mother had taken me for long walks across the grounds of a riding school which was now a council estate where two thousand souls lived. She'd bought our vegetables from a market garden where a used car lot now stood.

The city had eaten into the suburbs like a giant cancer and gobbled up the little communities one by one. Digesting them into a sprawling mass of shopping precincts, slum flats and rows of houses stretching from the river for mile upon soulless mile. The few remaining green areas surrounded by concrete and brick like a wagon train encircled by Apaches.

To most people, that little manor in which I'd put my roots down again was just an insignificant name on the map, a place they drove through to reach the inner city or out to the green hills of Southern England. The South Circular road cut through Tulse Hill like a wire through mouldy cheese. On one side of the road lived the have-nots, on the other the have-lesses. The sign-posts pointing out were a constant reminder that things could be better.

It hadn't always been like that of course. It used to be a genteel area, full of elderly ladies sipping coffee together in tiny cafes, served by young girls in smart uniforms. Now it had slipped down the charts and was full of shops selling greasy take-away food or cut price furniture. The ladies had died or moved down the line to Surrey. The girls were married now and lived on the council estate. Things had gone full circle. After my short period away, I'd returned to the kebabs and chop suey and litter on the pavements. I'd cashed in my chance of a ticket out again.

The single shop front I sat in had previously housed a coal-merchants. It was in a hundred year old terrace of buildings that were dark with soot from the railway. The narrow windows of the flats above the shops looked over towards the rutted car park next to the station. The whole block was about due for demolition and it showed.

The interior of the shop consisted of a large, high ceilinged outer office. On one wall was set a cranky old gas fire with broken elements, mounted in the middle of a cracked, brown tile fireplace. The front of the office was almost filled with a plate glass window which allowed me a panoramic view of the street outside. Separated from the window by a slat of white painted wood was a narrow door with a pane of frosted glass set into it at head height. The wall opposite the window held another similar door that led into a smaller, windowless inside room, bare but for a stained stone sink with one dripping cold water tap. A further door led out into a tiny, muddy, high walled yard which contained nothing but an outside toilet. I'd congratulated myself on getting fixed up with premises that featured all mod-cons. But it was cheap and the penthouse could come later. I'd painted the interior of the whole place white and fitted some shelves to hold a selection of leather-bound law books which I hoped looked authoritative and business-like. On the day I'd picked up the keys and checked around my new establishment, a big, old cat had come stalking by to suss me out. He was black and white in colour with a ripped ear and a wall eye that appeared to gaze off into the distance behind my shoulder when he looked at me. I'd thrown him a few scraps from the cheeseburger I'd bought for my lunch. He gobbled them down and came back for more. So much had vanished from my life over the previous months that there seemed no harm in feeding him with the left-overs from the take-out food that made up most of my diet. Cod and chips was his favourite, closely followed by chicken tikka from the tandoori.

I didn't want any long term relationship, so I just called him Gat and refused to pet or stroke him. I think we were both satisfied with the arrangement. When he came to be fed we just sat on opposite sides of his bowl and scowled at each other.

At least having an animal around the place was a good excuse for me to talk to myself without being taken away for treatment. I'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

So I formed a tenuous kind of attachment to Cat. It was a start and about as far as I was prepared to go for a while.

I hadn't got dressed up for my big day, I was wearing a yellow cotton polo shirt and old blue jeans with soft Italian moccasin shoes. No jacket. I'd been up half the night wandering about the place, putting the finish to the decor, besides, I didn't have a shoulder holster to hide. Not yet anyway.

As a thought, I'd put a tiny advertisement in the local paper that week, just my name, address and telephone number, plus a simple description of my new profession. 'Discreet investigations' it read. I'd received no mail yet, not anything addressed to me anyhow. Just a circular giving me the chance to win a new Volvo and someone ordering half a hundred-weight of smokeless fuel. By ten to eleven boredom had set in and I was really beginning to feel like a cold bottle of beer. I thought about knocking up a sign saying I was in the boozer in case anyone was interested.

Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds. It shone down across the roofs of the buildings on the opposite side of the street and directly through my window into my eyes. The room turned primrose colour and I could feel the chill lift from the skin on the back of my hands. The light was bright and piercing.

I was mulling over those thoughts in my mind with my eyes closed against the glare, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face, when a dark shadow fell across me. Someone was standing in the open doorway. I squinted upwards and saw the outline of a man in the opening. His face and body were silhouetted by the sun shining over his shoulder. I felt a shiver run down my spine for a moment, as if someone had walked over the place my grave would be one day. Then he moved towards me and I shifted my position on my chair slightly, so that I could see him clearly.

He was tall, over six foot and aged somewhere in his mid-fifties, I guessed. He reminded me of Burt Lancaster going to seed, with sharp handsome features beginning to fade under a coating of excess flesh over his cheekbones. He was pale under a tan, giving his face a yellow, unhealthy look. His hair was thick and newly barbered, with grey speckles salting the youthful style.

He was wearing a smart navy blue suit of conservative cut, a white shirt with a red tie and a pair of polished black, lace-up shoes. In his right hand he carried a black brief-case with chrome locks that sparkled in the sunlight. He looked like the managing director of a successful advertising agency, or a top consultant at a private hospital, or the VAT man.

CHAPTER 2

'Is your name Sharman?' the man demanded with rather more vehemence than I thought was really necessary. 'I want to talk to you.'

His accent was basic London town, but the nice part.

'Good morning,' I said politely. 'Do sit down.'

I nodded at one of the two metal chairs facing my desk. He looked at them as if he'd never seen such items of furniture before, and with a moment's hesitation pulled one towards him and sat. I got the feeling he would like to have wiped it down with his hankie before he did so. He fixed me with the sort of look usually reserved for something that has crawled out of a side salad.

'Are you a registered private detective?' he asked.

'Registered with whom?' I asked back.

'Well, you have to register with someone, don't you?' he asked with a puzzled look.

It was my turn to look puzzled. 'I don't know what you mean,' I said.

'That's what you do isn't it, investigations?' He pulled a scrap of newspaper from his jacket pocket and tapped my advertisement.

I began to understand. A little late perhaps, but I was out of practice.

'Yes,' I said, 'that's what I do, but this is not Los Angeles. In London you don't need a licence to undertake investigative work.'

'I didn't know that,' he said. 'Have you got any qualifications?' Christ, I thought, he wants to see my '0' Level certificates. And then said aloud, 'I used to be a policeman, ten years on the force.'

'You're too young to be retired. Why did you leave?' he asked almost accusingly.

'I resigned for personal reasons,' I said. 'If it's any of your business.'

'It'll be my business if I'm paying you to work for me,' he said. I shrugged.

'And there's me convinced you were the VAT man.'

Things were beginning to look up. I pulled a shorthand pad and pen from the top drawer of my desk and placed them neatly in front of me. I opened the pad to a fresh page and said,

'Let's start at the beginning. What's your name?'

'Bright, George Bright,' he replied.

'Address, telephone number?'

He gave me the information.

'All right, Mr Bright,' I said. 'Tell me what the problem is.'

'It's my daughter Patricia. She's missing,' he said.

Sitting there with him in that stuffy little room reminded me of the beginning of one of those 1950s black and white detective films that are transmitted in the afternoon, or late at night on TV. I liked it.

'Tell me the whole story,' I invited.

I made myself comfortable as he began. He started slowly, thinking back.

'Two months ago, two months exactly today, Patsy went out for the evening. She left after we'd eaten dinner. She made a salad for us both. A prawn salad,' he looked as if he could still taste it. 'She came and said goodbye as I was watching TV in the library.' I made a mental note that this guy didn't live in a council maisonette. 'She told me she was off to visit a friend,' he continued.

'Where?' I asked.

'In Brixton. I told her to be careful. That's no place for a young girl, alone at night. She promised me she wouldn't be late and she'd catch a cab home.'

'Why didn't you offer to pick her up?'

He gave me a pained look. 'You're joking, she's a very independent girl.'

Obviously, I thought.

'But she never showed up,' I said.

'No.'

'When did you begin to get worried?'

'When I went to wake her up the next morning and realised her bed hadn't been slept in.'

'So you didn't wait up?' I asked. I think he took it as an accusation.

'I had no reason to,' he replied quickly. 'Patsy was a trustworthy girl. A little vague sometimes. But if she told me she was going to be home, there was no reason for me to believe she wouldn't.'

'Did she often stay out all night?' I asked.

'No, never; well only if she'd arranged it with me beforehand. A party or something like that. But I always knew.'

'Who was she visiting that night?' I asked.

'What?'

'You said she was off to see a friend,' I said patiently. 'Who was it?'

'I don't know,' he was almost squirming in his seat.

'No idea?' I probed.

'She didn't like to be tied down to anything definite about her movements,' he explained. 'I told you she was a little vague. Most of the time it was on purpose.' His whole attitude hinted at countless arguments about people and places.

'But you always knew if she was going to come home or not?' I asked.

'Yes.' He sounded more definite. I decided to believe him.

'Did she have a boyfriend?' I changed my line of questioning slightly.

'No, she wasn't keen on boys,' he sounded rather defensive at the question.

Fair enough, I thought, you should know. But I scribbled a notation on my pad.

'So it was a girlfriend or girlfriends,' I said.

'I suppose so.'

'You don't seem too sure, Mr Bright,' I said.

'I'm not sure about anything. I sit at night and try to work out if she knew she wouldn't be back. It's been so difficult to cope with her since my wife died. I've tried to do my best -' He didn't finish the sentence, just lapsed into silence and slipped lower down into his chair. 'Then I got this.' He plunged his hand into his inside jacket pocket and produced his wallet. It was black leather, expensive, well worn and fat. He opened it on his knee and removed an envelope. From the envelope he slid out a sheet of folded paper. He leant over and placed the paper in the centre of my desk in front of me. I picked up the paper and unfolded it carefully. It had obviously been read many times. The few words were written in black ballpoint. The handwriting was stylish yet somehow immature. It read:

Dear Daddy,

Don't worry, I'm fine. I need some time to myself to sort a few things out. I'll be in touch soon.

Love Patsy

I sat holding the letter in my hand.

'When did this arrive?' I asked.

'About a week after she left,' he replied.

'Is it her writing?'

'Yes.'

'Where was it posted?'

'Stockwell.'

'Well there you are,' I said. 'She'll be back soon. I don't think I can be of much use. We'll both be wasting our time.'

'Let me be the judge of that,' he said.

'I assume you've been to the police,' I said after a moment's silence. He gave me a piercing look from under his eyebrows.

'Of course I have. They filled in all the bloody forms, and that was that. They don't seem to care. She's just a kid,' he added, as if it meant anything.

'How old is she, Mr Bright?' I asked.

'Eighteen.'

'When?'

'Last March, March 24th.'

'So she's an adult in the eyes of the law.'

'What the hell does that mean?' He interrupted in a high-pitched, strangled kind of voice. 'She could be dead.'

'It means she can come and go as she pleases,' I replied calmly. 'The police are too busy to spend a lot of time on cases like this, unless suspicious circumstances are suspected. And you've got this note.' I tapped the paper on the desk to underline the point.

'Fuck the note and the police,' he shouted. Then continued in a more subdued tone, 'Will you look for her too?'

I tapped the letter on the desk again.

'You have shown this to the police, haven't you?'

'Yes of course.' He dismissed my question with a savage, spastic movement of his hand.

'It's the Salvation Army they'll send you to,' I said.

'Or a private detective,' he finished my sentence for me.

The words hung around like unwelcome guests in the warm air of my office.

'When did you inform the police?' I asked.

'The day after I discovered she was missing,' he replied. 'I last saw her on the Sunday evening. On Monday I waited for her at home all day. By late afternoon I was desperate. I hadn't heard a word. No 'phone call, nothing. I went out and drove the streets looking for her.'

'But you didn't know where to look,' I interrupted.

'I didn't care, I just drove around for hours. Then I went back to the house and sat up all night hoping she'd come back or get in touch at least. She didn't. So the next morning, Tuesday, I went to the police.'

'Where?' I hated to ask.

'Brixton.'

'That makes sense I suppose. Who did you see there?'

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from A Good Year for the Roses by Mark Timlin. Copyright © 1989 Mark Timlin. Excerpted by permission of Oldcastle Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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