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    Sweet Art.
    Sweet Art.
    Sweet Art.
    Ebook113 pages1 hour

    Sweet Art.

    By Mark Abel

    ()

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    About this ebook

    1979 England.Corrupt cops and the search for a missing girl set against the hunt for a serial killer.
    Petty criminal Jimmy Blackthorne escapes from his sleazy past and tries to make a living and a new life in a new town, but It's noir lite time for the would be Private Detective as past events finally return like a lazy homing pigeon,and Jimmy discovers that all that glitters most certainly isn't gold.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMark Abel
    Release dateJun 23, 2016
    ISBN9781311911742
    Sweet Art.
    Author

    Mark Abel

    I'm lucky enough to live beside the river close to the city of Chester which is handy as I am of the general opinion that outdoors beats indoors for most activities.Hopefully you have enjoyed some of my writing and may do so again.

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      Book preview

      Sweet Art. - Mark Abel

      SWEET ART

      Copyright Mark Abel 2016

      This book is a work of fiction, any similarity between the characters and real people are unintentional.

      1976

      1

      Ex- lovers, dead relatives.

      Their faces and features soon begin to fade from the memory, leaving behind a soft focus image that is never totally accurate in its likeness. No matter how hard you concentrate, small inaccuracies begin to slip in and tease the mind, questioning remembrances.

      It's odd then, that I clearly recall the last few seconds of Linda Beacon's life. I can still recall seeing it fading away, again and again, in a slow motion replay.

      She wasn't connected to me in any way, and I only learnt her name several days later, from a story on the television news, when her body was dragged from the low tide mud of the estuary.

      The look of surprise and then horror on her face in those last seconds , has remained with me for ever since and it often manages to weave its unwanted way into my dreams.

      I had been working as part of a team of security guards on the docks; most security jobs were the pits, crap wages combined with killer hours, but this one was a licence to print money.

      The main fiddle was simply looking the other way as van loads of good were stolen from the dock side and in return we got a roll of bank notes slipped to us.

      Between us allowing the goods to be stolen and the police helping themselves to their share, it was surprising that any items were left to find their way to the legitimate owners.

      Occasionally, to justify our existence, we would apprehend a gang of thieves' red handed, loading video recorders or the like into the back of their vans., and round them up until the cops would arrive to cart them away. Of course, we usually got paid by rival gangs for performing this service.

      Whilst we waited, we added extra electrical items to the back of the vans to increase the value of the theft, or on other occasions, small amounts of hashish, thus making our success rate look better. Whether these items ever made it as far as the police evidence lockup, who could say? Most of the cases never came to court, either due to lack of evidence, or the thieves cutting deals with the police.

      Just as profitable was the cut of the money we confiscated from the prostitutes who sold themselves to the sailors. We let them ply their trade, and then stopped them on their way out and relieved them of a chunk of their takings.

      I never felt any guilt taking their money, they didn't pay income tax, or any of other contributions, and we gave them access to a place to work, so, it was only right that they had some deductions from their income, just like the rest of us working stiffs.

      A few of the guys I worked with preferred to be paid in kind, with a quick coupling against a warehouse wall.

      I usually preferred cash.

      Things were going pretty well for me until the day Linda Beacon got herself killed.

      2

      Banks of mist were moving slowly inland from out at sea, heading up the river, and winding their way over and around the bulks of the ships tied to the quay.

      All of the metal surfaces carpeted with the wet air, and slowly dripping as the mist settled on them, whilst the cloying dampness performed the illusion of making the shouts and commands of the workers unloading the cargo holds appear to be coming from high above the ground.

      The powerful arc lamps fitted high on the warehouse walls did little except illuminate the water droplets floating in the air and cast small orange circles of light on the ground.

      The deep base note of a tug's foghorn came from further down the river as it escorted the last cargo ship of the day out to sea.

      Occasionally it cleared, and the surroundings could be seen, and sounds located correctly, before the next wave of mist rolled in, covering everything again.

      Early afternoon, but already getting dark.

      I had been aboard one of the harbour tugs, and had just returned a couple of spanners I had borrowed to tighten the windscreen wipers on the work van, and then I'd had a couple of shots of gut rot Polish vodka with the chief mate.

      I came out from the stuffy heat onto the deck, just in front of the small bridge, and looking up, could just make out the faint reflections on the wet glass of the pale green lights from the instrument panel inside.

      I lit a cigarette, and exhaling, studied the rust blistered white paint on the hand rail.

      More mist rolled over me.

      I could hear a pair of voices , but couldn't place where they were or what they were saying.

      The mist partially cleared and I could make out three people standing on the flat stern of the barge moored a few yards down river of me.

      Two men and a woman, judging from their height and clothing.

      One of the men was talking to the woman, whilst she nodded her head and gesticulated toward the second man.

      Some dodgy business deal, or payment for sex, none of my business.

      I took another drag on my cigarette before flicking it down and grinding it out on the deck. I watched as one of the men stepped forward and took the woman into his arms, as I started to make my way down the gangway descending from the deck.

      I cast a last look over towards the barge just as the second guy, approached the woman, there was a sound, like a crack or clap, and the woman sagged forward , as though she had been winded. The man quickly grabbed her by the coat collar and dragged her across the deck and threw her over the gunwale into the murky river.

      I let out an involuntary gasp, the sound travelling on the damp air ,and we made eye contact, the next moment I realised what the cracking noise I had heard was, as a bullet ricocheted off the anchor chain beside my cheek.

      One of the men kicked something off the deck and I heard it splash into the water as I hurled myself down the last few steps to the quayside, then stumbling on the damp concrete, slipping, I went down on my knees, pushed myself up, and with shouts and footsteps coming from the barge close behind me, I began to run.

      3

      I reached the end wall of the first warehouse, and grabbing the cold iron drain pipe, pulled myself towards it and span sharply left and continued to run away from the water's

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