September Song (Tony Gerard, Book 2)
Colin Murray
Language: English
Pages: 179
ISBN: B01LP7IDB4
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Set in 1950s’ London, the gripping new Tony Gerard thriller - Reluctant jazz-loving sleuth Tony Gerard’s laid-back lifestyle is dealt a major blow when he receives three separate requests to track down three missing people on a single day: a long-lost daughter, a missing piano player and Hoxton Films’ latest leading man – the good-looking but feckless Philip Graham. But there is more to each case than meets the eye, and Tony finds his investigations are attracting the attention of some seriously dangerous individuals. Soon, events take a murderous turn
He looked at me warily, not saying anything. The accusation was in the look. ‘For the record,’ I said, turning to Les and Charlie, ‘I wasn’t there. And knives are not my style.’ But I was thinking back to what Lee had said to me the night before. It had sounded suspiciously like knives might be his style. ‘No one’s accusing you of anything, Tony,’ Les said. ‘I rather think they are,’ I said. It wasn’t just Philip Graham. The Mountjoys obviously thought I was involved too. And they, equally
the paper poking out from his pocket and pulled it out. It could have been worse. Orient had held Southend to a nil-nil draw. ELEVEN Pete’s Place was about as full as it ever gets on a Saturday night by the time I arrived. And that’s pretty full. The sharp tang of spilt beer, sweaty bodies and cheap aftershave and scent cut through the thick fug of cigarette smoke. No wonder our lords and masters call us the great unwashed. I elbowed my way to the bar as the Peter Baxter Band played what was
more. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘there’s an injured woman here, and I am going to take her inside the club. If anyone follows me in, he is going to regret it for a good month or two. I really am that browned off.’ There was no response. ‘Do you understand me?’ Stanley coughed. ‘Yeah, I understand,’ he said. ‘No one’s coming after you. Take her in. Mr Fitz has no interest in you or her.’ ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘All the same, I think I’ll wait until Malcolm is safely upstairs before I move.’ Malcolm Booth
fan.’ ‘Stop pratting about,’ he said. ‘Where’s my stuff?’ ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I don’t know. It’s gone.’ I just didn’t want him to have it. And, apart from the simple pleasure I got from cheesing him off, I didn’t know what the vicious little sod would do once he placed his grubby little mitts on it. He took a few steps forward, his sharp, Italian, mohair suit a shimmering shiny blue with flecks of purple in the gloom. ‘I won’t ask you again,’ he said. I shrugged, and he jumped lightly on to the
wrestled their way into them before rolling off to the baker or the butcher or the greengrocer. I sauntered casually along and, following the old soldier, turned into Old Compton Street, then I moved as quickly as I could until I came to the entrance to a drinking club I knew and stepped inside. The club itself was on the first floor, and I didn’t venture up the stairs. I stood in the little corridor, pressed up against the clammy wall, and waited, smelling the musty, damp odour of a sick and