by Owen Mullen
and so it began
Delaney Series Book 1
Owen Mullen
Copyright © 2017 Owen Mullen
The right of Owen Mullen to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Contents
Also By Owen Mullen
Praise For Games People Play
Praise for Old Friends And New Enemies
Prologue
I. Summer in the City
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
II. Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
III. That’s What Friends Are For
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
A Note From Bloodhound Books
Acknowledgments
Also By Owen Mullen
PI Charlie Cameron Series:-
Games People Play
Old Friends And New Enemies
Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead
The Charlie Cameron Series
Praise For Games People Play
Longlisted for the Bloody Scotland McIlvanney Award 2017 :
"Owen Mullen sucks the air out of your lungs in the opening pages of his novel and the standard of his writing that he has set here simply continues throughout the book." Susan Hampson - Books from Dusk Till Dawn book blog
"Games People Play is an easy to read, fast paced thrilling page turner that is bound to capture your attention." Gemma Gaskarth - Between The Pages Book Club
"The book is very well written and it kept me gripped right through to the end, its fast paced and compelling with enough twists to keep you engaged and guessing." Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog
Praise for Old Friends And New Enemies
"The tension was more palpable, the storyline was grittier, and the stakes were higher as Charlie faced some serious betrayals." Amy Sullivan - Novelgossip
"This is the second book to feature PI Charlie Cameron, I loved the first book so had high hopes for this one.. it delivered. Bucket loads." David Baird - David's Book Blurb
"The mix of thrills, tension, suspense and a touch of humour worked really well, as did the interactions and relationships between the characters." Mark Tilbury - Author
Praise for Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead
"Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead gives you a tightly knit and enthralling plot, with Glaswegian grit and gallows humour thrown in; Owen has an uncanny knack of creating solid and multi-dimensional characters that will draw you in and leave you wanting more…it will keep you engrossed until the very last page and shouting for book number four!" Sharon Bairden - Chapter In My Life book blog
"If you like your books fast paced, gritty and multilayered, then grab this book, and if you haven't read the others grab them too." Alfred Nobile - Goodreads
"The author manages to keep me guessing and keeps his cards close to his chest so that I never know what quite to expect. This is sure to be a hit with fans of the series, new and old." Sarah Hardy - By The Letter Book Reviews
To
Catherine Mullen: a friend when friends were few.
And Devon and Harrison: The Carney boys.
I think about you every day.
Prologue
The Little Louisiana Pageant, Whitfield Centre, Baton Rouge
Timmy Donald waited to be introduced; he wasn’t nervous. Timmy was a round-faced cherub, kiss-curled and confident. A tiny robot programmed to perform, and at five, already a veteran.
The MC gave him a big build-up. ‘From East Baton Rouge, a homeboy paying his tribute to one of the greatest entertainers of all time … Timmy Donald!’
The red velvet curtain parted, leaving Charlie Chaplin in the spotlight – lost, unsure and vulnerable. Timmy played it to a T, cocking his head to one side, leaning both hands on his stick. The face of a comic genius gazed out of the golden light. A single note gave him his key, and the spot followed the diminutive performer through a show of stagecraft beyond his years.
A piano track, played without finesse, tinkled in the background. Timmy brought the walking stick into action in vintage Chaplinesque. He scrunched his shoulders and tipped his bowler, letting it run down his arm, a weak smile revealing the courage of the little tramp beset by cruel misfortune. He sang “Smile,” and the audience loved him.
At the end of the song, he twirled, walked his “Charlie” walk and shuffled towards the back of the stage. The spotlight died, the curtains closed, the lights came up.
Timmy’s father was pleased. All the hard work, the day after day rehearsals, had paid off. That trick with the hat had taken months to get right. Worth it, though.
‘You can’t put it out if you don’t put it in,’ Tom Donald reminded his son every chance he got. The old jazz musicians’ maxim about the value of practice appealed to him. Timmy’s performance shouted its truth.
He was the winner for sure. Everybody said so.
‘We can’t find him.’
Claudine Charlton couldn’t believe it. It had been going so well. A good crowd. No hiccups. No tantrums. Even one or two who might have something. Not as good as the Chaplin kid but not bad. She watched Alec Adams giving out instructions. He’d been with her for years, from the very first contest, and she would be first to admit that when it came to stage-management, there was nobody better. They had been married once, a very long time ago. Claudine never let herself forget that he was a snake.
Alec shook his head. ‘No sign.’
‘Did you ask his parents?’
‘His father thought we had him.’
In a room off to the side, the judges sat round a beat-up table, drinking coffee. Claudine didn’t knock. The interruption took them by surprise.
‘We have the final result, Claudine.’
‘Who won?’
‘The little boy.’
‘Forget it. He’s out of the running. We need another decision and fast. Bump everybody on a place; that’ll give us a new winner. Stick any of them in third, it doesn’t matter. The cowgirl, the crowd liked her, she’ll do. OK? Two minutes.’
‘But she was awful.’
/> ‘No.’ Claudine stared the objector down. ‘She was third.’
Alec met her behind the stage. ‘Cops are here. And the father. Somebody needs to speak to him.’
‘What? Oh, yeah.’ She ran a hand through her hair in quiet desperation. ‘What do I tell him? What can I say?’
‘Reassure him.’
‘You do it. You speak to him.’
‘It’s your show, and I’m busy. You’re the boss, remember?’
She hurried towards a guy in an ill-fitting suit – had to be a cop – talking to Timmy’s father. Uniforms covered the stage door; the front was already closed.
‘Mr Donald, Claudine Charlton.’
Timmy’s father was too upset to reply. She placed a comforting hand on his arm and spoke to the policeman. ‘I’m in charge. What do you need to know?’
‘When did you notice the kid was missing?’
The policeman glanced at Tom Donald and walked-back his tactless question. ‘I mean, when did you notice Timmy was missing?’
‘Twenty minutes ago. He was one of the last to go on. Once they’ve done their thing, the contestants stay in the dressing rooms. No wandering around until we announce the winners.’
‘Sounds fine. So how come he’s gone?’
‘Wish I knew.’
The detective gave an order to a sergeant. ‘Start interviewing. We need ID, names and addresses. It’s going to be a long night.’
Claudine said, ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Start looking.’
‘What about the show?’
He didn’t answer her.
‘Shouldn’t we go with the final ceremony? Keep it normal’
‘Good idea. Finish the thing. Nobody’s going home for a while.’
One hour later, a locked store cupboard in a back room was the only place that hadn’t been searched. The detective wasn’t prepared to wait for a key; he barked his instructions. ‘Break it open.’
Two uniforms forced the door. The wood frame cracked and splintered and gave under the pressure. In his career, the cop had come across plenty of bad stuff; that didn’t make it easier. The colour drained from his face, and he knew he’d been doing this shit for too many years: time to take the pension, kick back and go fishing. But for now, he was the officer in charge, so he made himself look at the horror guaranteed to keep him awake at night long after he’d turned in his gun and badge.
Stuffed in at the back, on top of paint pots and dustsheets, was a broken Charlie Chaplin doll that used to be Timmy Donald.
And so, it began.
Part I
Summer in the City
1
Julian Boutte threw his cards on the table face down so the FBI agents didn’t see his winning hand. ‘Beats me,’ he said. ‘I’m out.’
He yawned, scratched the heavy stubble on his jaw and stood. The agents ignored him and concentrated on the game. They’d been in the safe house since before the start of the trial – now ten days in – and were battling boredom. Their level of alertness had fallen; the prisoner was becoming part of the furniture. They called him Juli, talked football, and showed him photographs of their kids, while he faked interest and lost at Blackjack to keep them happy. Occasionally, they baited him because they could, and Boutte acted uptight, as if the consequences of testifying against his former boss, Beppe “Little Man” Giordano, the head of one of the oldest crime families in the South, made him nervous.
It didn’t.
Boutte and Giordano hadn’t seen each other in seven years, not since Boutte was convicted and sent to Angola. But the thick-set felon was a ghost from the past, the last man the accused would want in court: Julian knew where the bodies were buried – literally – he’d put some of them in the ground himself. If he took the stand, it was all over for “Little Man.” With Boutte’s testimony, the FBI would close down his operation and give him a one-way ticket to the Farm. As for Julian Boutte, he would be handed back to the U.S. Marshals and swallowed by the Witness Protection Program. In a month, a guy who looked a lot like him would be pumping gas in Oregon, or somewhere far from Louisiana.
That was the deal. Boutte had been removed from the penitentiary for his own protection, and it was common knowledge Giordano’s men were searching for him. The Mafia boss should’ve known he had nothing to worry about from his former employee.
Boutte paced the floor. Over at the window, he fingered the blind.
Sammy – the fat Fed – remembered he had a job to do and spoke without taking his eyes off the two aces he was preparing to split. ‘You know the rules, Juli. Sit down and chill.’
The agents had seemed distracted, but the admonishment meant they hadn’t switched off completely.
Boutte stayed in character. ‘Yeah? Easier said.’
The other agent, a bald guy called Maurice, enjoyed himself at his expense. ‘What’s the matter? Can’t wait to be washing those cars? Shine’em up good now, y’hear?’
‘He’s scared his pal Beppe’s coming ‘round to cool him out.’
The agents sniggered into their cards. Boutte pretended to be irritated and slumped into an armchair. He turned the television on and listlessly began surfing the early-evening channels.
Fat Boy wasn’t done. ‘Stick with the cartoons, all right. Stay away from the news, Juli. Your ugly mug’ll be on every channel between here and the Gulf soon enough.’
Maurice tossed in his two cents. ‘Don’t blame you for being nervous. Giordano’s gonna be awful pissed when you start blabbing. Introducing him to The Electrician at Angola won’t go down well. Might not speak to you again.’
The agents laughed and dealt a fresh hand. Their coats hung on the chairs behind them, and their sleeves were rolled up. Holstered weapons rested against crumpled shirts. Underneath the table, Maurice had his shoes off and was whistling out of tune: for all the world, just buddies at the regular Tuesday night meet, instead of law enforcement officers guarding the prosecution’s star turn. Boutte let them have their fun. The more relaxed they were the easier it would be.
He complained on cue. ‘When’s dinner? I’m hungry.’
‘Too soon. Have some potato chips.’
‘Sick of potato chips.’
‘Then suit yourself.’
The split aces delivered. Fatso grinned and pulled his winnings towards him. He pitched a dollar across to Boutte. It landed on the carpet between them.
‘A contribution towards your new life, Julian, or whatever you’re gonna call yourself.’
‘Shove it up your ass.’
Fat Boy was better at dishing it out than taking it. ‘You’re an ungrateful fucker, d’you realise that, Juli? With what you’ve done, they should’ve thrown the key away. Instead, you’re sailin’ free.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
‘Too right. Free and clear.’
Julian imagined the wall behind Fatso, splashed with blood and bone, after he blew a hole in the bastard’s skull.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
At seven, a knock on the door and an exchange of passwords meant the food had arrived. The game was abandoned. The agents opened the boxes.
‘Pizza again. Doesn’t the budget run to anything else?’ Boutte complained.
‘Maybe somebody doesn’t share your sense of importance? Eat it or don’t eat it. Your choice.’
‘I’m just saying. Does it always have to be junk? It gives me stomach ache.’
Maurice shook his bald head at his partner. ‘And they told us this was a tough guy.’
They ate in silence, tearing off pieces of red dough and stuffing them into their mouths until the boxes were empty. Boutte didn’t join in. Maurice wiped his hands on his pants and went to the kitchen to make coffee. From what he’d seen so far, Boutte was a loser; a low-energy nobody with an undeserved reputation. Riding him never got old.
Fat Sam rubbed his belly and spoke, spraying grated Parmesan across at his prisoner. ‘Gotta eat, man. Keep up your strength for when Beppe’
s thugs come bursting through that door and drag you away.’
Boutte tapped out a Gitanes and lit it.
The fat man said, ‘Heard something once – way down the line – ‘bout what Giordano did to a traitor.’
Maurice came back with the coffee. ‘Don’t tell him, Sammy. He’ll go running back to Angola.’
Sammy smiled. ‘Too late. Option’s off the table. Wouldn’t last a day.’
Maurice agreed. ‘Lucky if he lasted an hour.’
Boutte drew on his smoke and stared at the floor. It was eight o’clock.
Almost time.
The overweight agent studied him. ‘Nah. Best Juli realises where it’s at. Anyway, the guy’s name was Foy. Narcisse Foy. Ever heard of him?’
Boutte ignored the question.
‘Took him into the bayou, stripped him naked, and tied him to a big old Spanish Oak. Then, they got to work on him. According to the story, one of Giordano’s men had trained as a chef. He showed the others what was what.’