by Penny Grubb
FALLING
INTO
CRIME
THE ANNIE RAYMOND MYSTERIES
Like False Money
The Jawbone Gang
The Doll Makers
Copyright © Penny Grubb 2019
The right of Penny Grubb to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher or unless such copying is done under a current Copyright Licensing Agency license. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Originally published separately as Like False Money, The Jawbone Gang and The Doll Makers
FALLING
INTO
CRIME
THE ANNIE RAYMOND MYSTERIES
Penny Grubb
This Edition First Published 2019 by
Fantastic Books Publishing
Cover design by Gabi
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-912053-94-0
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-912053-93-3
Table of Contents
Like False Money
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
The Jawbone Gang
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
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
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
The Doll Makers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Where There’s Smoke
Prologue
Publisher’s note
Falling into crime brings together the first three novels in Penny Grubb’s private investigator series.
First published in the UK in 2010, later in the USA and Canada, the books chart the career of Annie Raymond from her precarious days in Hull, where she was happy just to be in the right job at last, to more prosperous (and perhaps even more precarious) days as she grows in experience and embraces the wider reaches of her chosen profession.
The books have been edited but not abridged. And the locations remain the same. Like False Money is set in early 21st century Hull; The Jawbone Gang follows on and retains the city’s attractions and characteristics as they were at the time. When the books were first published, answer-phones were more prevalent than voicemail systems; not all of the area was accessible to Google street view; and technology generally was less pervasive. That soon changed. And as the author herself notes, ‘I grew wary of mentioning any specific landmark for fear of seeing it demolished the next day, and technology marched on regardless. The contemporary tales became history in the blink of an eye.’
The third book, The Doll Makers, moves away from Hull and unveils the truth of Annie’s past; a past that has only been hinted at in the first two books.
What draws people to the Annie Raymond books? In reader feedback and reviews, two things crop up again and again; the gripping nature of the drama and the reality of the settings. I felt as though I was there … truly gripping, I couldn’t put it down … The places are real, both geography and culture well researched, as are the processes and procedures of both private and official investigation. The drama plays out to a believable backdrop. Beware, those reviewers are right; once started, these books are hard to put down.
Like False Money was nominated for an international Crime Writing prize, and The Doll Makers was an international Crime Writers Association Dagger Award winner.
Book one: Like False Money
When fledgling private investigator Annie Raymond flies North, it is to chase a dream, to grab an opportunity, but for all the times she has imagined her first ever case, it was never like this – on her own with a job that can never deliver a good result. She digs deep and resolves to do her best for grieving mother Martha Martin by hiding the sordid details of her son Terry’s life.
Conflicting stories around Terry Martin’s last days entangle Annie in a web of rumour and deceit. What she takes for fact is anything but; like counterfeit money tendered in good faith, pretence and distortion have become accepted as integrity and truth. But who is fraudster, and who is innocent victim?
The Humber estuary with its deceptively calm surface hides treacherous currents that become the mirror to Annie’s turbulent new life as the truth unravels. Too late, Annie realises that not only has she walked into a trap, she’s also led a young girl into mortal danger. Now she’s truly alone and if she can’t cut it, it’s the end to all ambition and 12-year-old Laura will plummet into the abyss with her.
Like False Money – What the critics say
“Surprises, entertains, scares and satisfies in equal measure.”
“It was refreshing to read a likeable female protagonist.”
“Spells out the realities of life as a private investigator in the modern world.”
“If you like your crime to have tension that cranks up bit by little bit, with an entirely satisfying and terrifying denouement, then I heartily recommend not just this book, but all the Annie Raymond mysteries.”
LIKE
FALSE
MONEY
Prologue
The film he shot the day before yesterday plays through Terry’s head. A dull, malodorous corri
dor thick with stale dust. A locked door. That awful close-up. Bile rushes the back of his throat. In the dark and the panic, he must have caught the zoom control. His clenched fists drive fingernails into palms. When he gets back he’ll edit that bit out.
Forget what it shows. Remember only that it’s worth big bucks. Terry peers through the windows of the killer’s house, but it still lies empty. He isn’t in control, can’t threaten someone he can’t find.
‘Where the fuck are you, Balham?’ He kicks out at the wall in frustration before he turns back to the road and makes his way down the hill.
A door slams. Terry glances across. Sees the woman on the doorstep. The adulteress.
‘Beckes split over brook,’ he murmurs. Catchy title. He thought at one time he might see his name in big print over that. Stares lock for a microsecond. Lying bitch.
He cuts through to the alleyway. Incredible what that creaky old git, Balham, has been up to, but the evidence is plain on the film.
A small figure meanders ahead of him. He watches for a moment, lengthens his stride and catches up.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I just went to call on Mr Balham. Do you know where he’ll be?’
‘Out in the fields.’
‘No, I’ve tried all over. He’s not been at home the last couple of days.’
‘Gone walkabout then. He does that. He goes off.’
‘Where does he go? How long for?’ Long enough to kill.
‘Dunno.’
‘So who’ll know? Who should I ask?’
Terry leaves the small figure behind and heads for a new target. He feels good now. Back in control.
There’s a ritual to go through. ‘Good turnout for the show at the weekend… They were lucky with the weather… Nice day…’
Once that’s over he goes right to the heart of it. ‘I went to call on Mr Balham but he wasn’t in.’
‘Anything I can help with?’
Terry laughs inside himself. No, there’s no one can help Balham out of this one. He pauses a moment, wondering what line to take. He has an old damp squib of a story he tried to follow at one stage. It’ll do for bait.
‘It was about his church work.’
Church is a good topic to stoke discussion in Milesthorpe. Everything in Milesthorpe leads to the church like every road once led to Rome.
Terry bats the conversational ball back and forth as the image of a killer plays in his mind. He’s known all his life that knowledge is power. Now he feels it as a reality in his gut. Balham’s going to pay, just as soon as he can find him.
In the glow of anticipation he loses the thread of the dreary chat. ‘Sorry, what did you say? You’ve … oh yes, I see. Just a sec, I’ll get it.’
As he bends forward, the hint of a latent instinct nudges him to turn his head a fraction. Not enough. And not quickly enough.
In the third of a second that’s left of awareness, Terry sees the sturdy wooden bar close in. His thoughts zip ahead, dart back, unravel the whole of the story he’s wrestled with these last few weeks. Yes, of course … so simple … A burst of fear almost dulls its edge on something close to pride. He’s found the killer.
There’s time to feel wonder at the clarity of his thoughts, at the razor sharp precision with which they home in on the facts.
What there isn’t time for is to sidestep death.
Chapter 1
The journey from King’s Cross to Hull’s Paragon station allowed Annie a couple of hours with only strangers and her own thoughts for company.
A flutter of unease, the same that had plagued her all week, unsettled her again. It was Vince Sleeman, the man who’d interviewed her. Each time she thought of him she experienced a gut-crunching what-if over her recklessness when he’d stepped out of the room. What if he’d caught her? The coldness of his pale blue eyes made clear he wasn’t a man to mess with, even without the rugged features and misshapen nose, or the sheer solid bulk of him. He had disappeared from the room and she’d clicked open his briefcase to peek inside.
The memory shouldn’t spook her. She’d got away with it. Vince Sleeman would play a six-week bit part in her life, then be gone forever. She knew from the laziness of his questions at the interview that she would be no more than a filing clerk but it didn’t matter. On paper, she was to cover the sick-leave of one of the firm’s directors. And boy, would this six-week placement boost her CV.
Sleeman had barely glanced at the certificates she’d thrust under his nose, which came as a relief because she was fed up with trying to justify the thinness of her qualifications.
Then he’d really floored her. ‘So you’ve wanted to be a Private Investigator all your life, have you, since your father hired one to catch a burglar?’
He didn’t have the facts straight, but he’d touched on a closely guarded secret. Anger had blazed inside her; not at Sleeman but at her flatmate, Kara, and her loose tongue. Kara had taken the call when Sleeman rang to set up the interview.
Sleeman followed his crack about her father with a series of questions about a temporary job she’d had in a nursing home. Irrelevant but easy to answer.
As the train rattled through a landscape beginning to lose clarity with the fading light, Annie thought ahead to the end of this six-week stint. She’d made it up with Kara but refused to promise she’d be back. Where she’d go was a bridge to consider later. It wasn’t easy finding decent accommodation with her credit rating.
Determination to make an impression on Sleeman had been at the root of her impulsive raid on his briefcase, but it had told her nothing. All she’d seen was a thin newspaper, the East Yorkshire something-or-other, the title semi-obscured by a fold in the page, showing a posed group-photograph flanking the text, Glorious weather for Milesthorpe’s tenth annual show last Sunday. She’d snapped the case shut and leapt back to her chair as she heard him return.
He’d needled her a bit about not having the Security Industry Authority licence.
‘I’ll get it as soon as I have a proper footing in the business. I’m only twenty-two.’
‘I can’t contract you out though, can I?’
She acknowledged the point with a tip of her head. Her unlicensed status had been plain on her application.
Then out of nowhere he’d ended the interview with the incredible words, ‘Six weeks’ cover for Pat Thompson. You’ll do whatever she needs you to: filing, making coffee, whatever. She’s laid up with a broken leg, but you can stay with her so no bother about accommodation. You can drive, can’t you?’
She fought for nonchalance as she answered Sleeman’s question. ‘Uh … yes. Five years. Clean licence.’ Pat Thompson was one of the firm’s directors.
And that was it. A contract had been thrust into her hand and she’d signed it.
She’d chanced her arm with Sleeman, but got away with it. She’d not given Kara proper notice but Kara would find another flatmate in a week or so. It was time to shut them both out of her mind and watch as the scenery changed from the warehouses and railway sheds of Doncaster to fields, then waterfront and finally back to cityscape as a booming announcement told her, We are now arriving in Hull. This train terminates here. Thank you for travelling on Hull Trains …
Hull’s station turned out to be a buffered terminus, no through track, just like London except that where King’s Cross led out into the noise and bustle of vibrant city life, this was strangely lifeless. Banks of shop windows reflected the streetlights and duplicated the stillness. More a dead-end than a gateway to somewhere new.
Despite her tiredness, she felt the thrill of adventure as a cab sped her through the empty streets. The city had the newness of unfamiliarity and with a nautical air. Boats with high masts wobbled just by the road and the fading horizon seemed to show a giant liner tipping up as though about to slide beneath the waves, but there was no air of panic about it so it must be something else. Then they were swallowed up into a smart housing estate and Annie fixed her stare on the meter willing it not to move.
&
nbsp; Outside a waterfront apartment block, Annie parted with a handful of her dwindling funds, and watched the taxi execute a swift three-point turn to head back towards the main road. After Vince Sleeman’s factoring in board and lodging this was the worst-paid job she’d ever had bar none.
Pat Thompson’s apartment was on the first floor. No lift. The weight of the case fought with her up the stairs. She knocked briskly on the wood-panelled door and waited.
After a minute she knocked again, and immediately heard locks clicking open and a voice snap out, ‘Bloody hell, give me a chance.’
The door opened on a mountain of a woman balancing on a crutch and with an enormous plaster cast from toes to thigh on her left leg.
‘Pat Thompson?’
The woman nodded.
Annie held out her hand. ‘I’m Annie Raymond.’
The woman looked blankly, first at Annie then at her enormous case. ‘Not interested, whatever you’re selling,’ she said, and shut the door in Annie’s face.
‘No … No, wait!’ Annie leapt forward, but her bulky luggage prevented her getting a foot in the door.
As she banged her hands on the wooden panel, she remembered the cold blue of Sleeman’s eyes and the mental alarm bells they’d set ringing. But why? Annie was a stranger to him. Why would he lure her to this godforsaken place just to strand her here?
She banged on the wooden panel, this time using her fist. ‘I’ve come to work for you,’ she shouted. ‘Vince Sleeman sent me.’
After a pause, a muffled voice answered, ‘Who did you say?’
As the door reopened, Annie scrabbled through her bag for the paperwork.
‘Vince sent you?’ Pat Thompson held the door only half open. ‘At this hour on a Sunday? To do what?’
‘He told me to arrive this evening. He’s hired me to cover while you’re … uh … off sick. He said I’d be able to live here.’
Annie pushed the contract at Pat Thompson who took it with a terse, ‘He did, did he? Wait here.’
The door shut in her face again. Annie waited longer than was comfortable but eventually Pat Thompson reappeared with a phone in her hand which she stared at with exasperated disbelief, before looking Annie up and down. ‘Bloody hell. Well, I suppose you’d better come in.’