by Joel Hames
There was still the mystery of the coordinates hidden in the book, but I’d done some digging of my own, sitting in that hospital bed, bored, alone and waiting for Claire to arrive and liven things up a little. I knew what was there. Google Maps could pick up a tiny metal roof huddled at the foot of the glacier.
“There’s something there,” I said, and for a moment she looked blank. “There’s photos of it on the web. Shitty little hut perched on the edge of a mountain.”
She smiled. I was getting warmer.
“But there has to be someone else involved, right? Someone in town. Someone you can trust.”
“Alé’s best friend. Local copper. The only person who knew.”
“And that’s how you exchange messages.”
“It’s how we used to pass things on,” she said, “in the early days, food, cash, before we sorted out the bank accounts, before he learned to manage on his own again. It’s not like we need it any more. When you’ve got email and instant messaging and money in the bank, what do you need a dead drop for?”
I thought back to my trek into the Bowland hills with Malhotra.
“In the hut? Under the floorboards?”
“Under the floorboards. The way they did it in Burnley.”
Old habits die hard, I thought. There was no body in the ice after all. I reached inside myself and tried to figure out how I felt now I knew the truth, whether I was angry at the time and effort I’d wasted on a spot of petty smuggling on the other side of the world. I found myself smiling. I wasn’t angry. If anything, I was relieved that this time, no one had wound up dead.
They weren’t your everyday couple, I thought, as I walked away. Thomas had drifted back to his wife, stopped to shake my hand on the way, and apologised. He needed to stop apologising. It was over. As much as anyone ever is, Thomas and Sally Carson were free.
I was done with the Carsons. I was done with Manchester. I walked back to Roarkes and Malhotra and said goodbye and asked them to pass on my regards to Gaddesdon. No one was mentioning Tarney. We were standing around paying our respects to the woman who’d killed him, but no one had mentioned his funeral or whether they’d be going. He might have died a police officer but it wasn’t like he’d been killed in the line of duty. Tarney had no close family, no kids, one ex-wife who hated him. I found myself rubbing my arm, which still gave a twinge from time to time, and remembered what Serena had said. Tarney was an animal. The things he said. That knife in the neck was more than just tying up loose ends. The sooner Tarney was forgotten, the better.
As I made my way past the mourners and out towards the car park, still smiling at the thought of Alé and his bank account, I felt an arm fall on my shoulder. I turned. There was a man beside me, about my own age, short brown hair, long black coat. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
He nodded at me, extended his hand, and without thinking I put mine out and met him in a brief handshake.
“Thank you,” he said, and as he turned to walk away I remembered who he was and where I’d seen him. Fiona Milton’s funeral. Arms on shoulders. Lips pressed tightly together. Jaw trembling.
I hoped I’d managed to wipe the smile off my face before he’d spotted it. And I hoped this was the last funeral he’d see for a while.
I walked to the car, still just about driveable after all it had been though, eased myself in, waited a couple of minutes for the air to clear the windscreen. I wasn’t supposed to drive, not for another four weeks, the doctors had told me.
They’d said something similar about having sex.
It started raining again as I drove out of Manchester. I smiled. It was done. I was done. No more stings in the tail. It was over.
Halfway down the M6 I stopped to call Claire, and for something to eat, and noticed another missed call from Elizabeth Maurier. As I opened the door to get back in the car she called again.
I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to say to her. But then, I didn’t know for sure what she was going to say to me. Fook it, I thought, and answered the call.
“Elizabeth,” I said, but it wasn’t her voice that came back.
“Who is this?”
It was a female voice, deep and somehow sharp at the same time. They say you can tell a lot about a person from their voice, and that’s bullshit, but if it were true I’d have said this woman was pretending to be more important than she was.
“You called me,” I replied. “And you called me from someone else’s phone. Why don’t you tell me who you are first?”
I heard a deep breath, a sigh of frustration.
“This is DI Martins from Westminster CID.”
I stopped, one foot in the car, one out. This couldn’t be good.
“What are you doing with Elizabeth Maurier’s phone?”
“Before I tell you that, I need to know who you are.”
I didn’t much care for her tone, but there was no point being obstructive. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t find out in the end.
“This is Sam Williams. I’m a lawyer. I used to be a colleague of Mrs Maurier’s.”
“Well, Mr Williams, this phone has been recovered from a crime scene and your number was the last one dialled. In fact, there seem to have been several recent calls to your number. We’re trying to reconstruct events.”
“What do you mean, reconstruct events? What’s happened?”
Another sigh.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t go into that now, Mr Williams. Can you tell us what you and Mrs Maurier discussed when you last spoke at – let me see – four o’clock yesterday afternoon?”
“I didn’t answer. And I want one from you. What the hell is going on?”
There was a scuffing noise that I recognised as a hand being placed over a mouthpiece, and some fuzzy conversation in the background. A moment later Martins was back.
“OK, we know who you are, Mr Williams. Do you know what Mrs Maurier wanted to talk to you about?”
“No,” I said, sharply, and then corrected myself. “Well, she’s been trying to get hold of me for a few days. We had a falling out, years ago. I sued her firm last year. They had to settle out of court. She called me on – I’m not sure what day it was, I can check – and left a voicemail saying we had to talk. I’m not sure we’ve got much to talk about. Hang on—”
Something had suddenly struck me. Wanted, she’d said. Wanted to talk to you about. Not “wants”.
“What’s happened to her?” I asked, even though I already knew.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Williams, but Mrs Maurier is dead. She’s been murdered.”
I should have known. I should have bloody known.
There’s always a sting in the tail.
A Message From the Author
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Also by Joel Hames
THE ART OF STAYING DEAD
A prisoner who doesn’t exist.
A lawyer who doesn’t care.
A secret buried for thirty years.
Meet Sam Williams. Lawyer, loser, man on the way down. Sam's about to walk into a prison riot. Meet a woman who isn't what she seems. And wind up on the wrong side of some people who'll stop at nothing to keep him quiet.
Sam thought things were going badly yesterday. Now he'll be lucky to see tomorrow.
Read what Amazon customers are saying about The Art of Staying Dead...
"A brilliant read for thriller action readers"
"The suspense is perfectly timed and believable, the atmosphere and characterisation spot on"
"The well-thought-out plot moves along at a relentless pace"
"A pacy thriller with a rich seam of laconic humour"
"Engaging, fast-paced and genuinely thrilling"
Amazon UK
Amazon US
VICTIMS – A SAM WILLIAMS NOVELLA
The trick is to save one without becoming one
Young lawyer Sam Williams is riding high. He's got a job he loves, a girl he wants, and the brain to win out every time.
But Sam's about to find out that he's got enemies, too. And figuring out which one wants to hurt him most isn't as easy as it seems.
Victims introduces Sam Williams, hero of international bestseller The Art of Staying Dead and Dead North, ten years younger than we last saw him, and a lot less wise.
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CAGED – A SAM WILLIAMS SHORT
Promises come with consequences.
Binny Carnegie doesn't want her notorious night club shut down. Lawyer Sam Williams wouldn't normally care, but it's his job to fix Binny Carnegie's problems.
Fixing this particular problem might be more trouble than it's worth.
Caged is another snapshot of Sam Williams, hero of international bestseller The Art of Staying Dead and Dead North, back in his formative legal years at Mauriers.
Please note that Caged is a short story, not a full length novel.
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BREXECUTION
There are thirty-three million stories on referendum night. This one has the highest body count.
Dave Fenton sleeps by day and drives a taxi by night. As the counting commences in the most important vote in Britain's history, one passenger leaves something in his cab.
Something secret.
Something explosive.
Something so dangerous there are people who will stop at nothing to get it back.
From Downing Street to the East End via the City and a whole bit of the country that isn't London at all, BREXECUTION is a fictionalised account of the closing days of June 2016. Politicians, bankers, cabbies and crooks - some will win, some will lose - and some won't make it past the first day of Brexit.
From Joel Hames, author of international bestseller The Art of Staying Dead, comes a thriller you’ll want to put your cross on.
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BANKERS TOWN
The number 1 bestselling financial thriller, "A real page turner - a hugely enjoyable, often funny, always intense thriller of a book"
“This time everyone else had their ducks lined up and every last duck had “Alex Konninger” written in bold marker-pen on its forehead. If I didn’t crack this fast, those ducks would be shot, shredded and rolled into pancakes before you could say hoi sin sauce.”
Everything’s going rather well for Alex Konninger. He’s drifted his way into a big-money job in a top-tier bank, and if he doesn’t always play by the rules, he’s hardly the only one. Alex doesn’t know it yet, but he’s got a problem, a whole army of problems, in fact, and they’ve all picked this week to jump on him. He’s losing control, his past is about to catch up with him, and he doesn’t know who he can trust, because someone wants him out, and it looks like someone else wants him dead.
In a world of bonds, bodies and blackmail, not everyone will make it to drinks on Friday.
Welcome to Bankers Town, the explosive thriller from Joel Hames
Amazon UK
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Acknowledgements
THIS BOOK HAS been far too long in coming, but as a result has benefitted from the kindness and expertise of more people than I have a right to count as friends or ask for help. Listing every last one here would be impossible, but the least I can do is try.
John Bowen, whose advice and skill in writing and marketing and design have been critical to any success I’ve met with.
Joanna Franklin Bell, whose brilliant editorial knowhow has torn my books to shreds and rebuilt them word by painstaking word.
Ray Green and Rose Edmunds, fellow Mainsail writers, for all their help.
Tracy Fenton, founder of THE Book Club on Facebook, and Helen Boyce, indefatigable admin and contributor. These people are the best friends to authors and readers that any of us could hope for. The whole team at TBC are due my thanks and the thanks of many an author.
Christopher Little and Jules Bearman at Christopher Little Literary Agency, for the months of effort they put into this book.
Louise Beech, Susie Lynes and John Marrs, three incredible writers whose words of encouragement have been invaluable.
And finally: my wife, Sarah, for reasons too numerous to mention. My children, Eve and Rose, for their patience. And my parents, Valerie and Tony, for their unwavering guidance and support.