Divinities

Parker Bilal

Description

When two bodies are found brutally murdered at a building site in Battersea, DS Cal Drake is first to the scene. He sees an opportunity: to solve a high-profile case and to repair his reputation after a botched undercover operation almost ended his promising career in the Violent Crimes Unit. Assigned to work with the forensic psychologist Dr Rayhana Crane, and on the hunt for an elusive killer, Drake's investigations lead down the dark corridors of the past - to the Iraq war and the destruction both he and Crane witnessed there. With a community poised on the brink of violence, Crane and Drake must put their lives on the line to stop the killer before vengeance is unleashed.

Informations

• Publié par: Canongate Books
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781838855154
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Parker Bilal is the author of the Makana Investigations series,the third of which, The Ghost Runner , was longlisted for theTheakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year Award. The Divinities , the first in his Crane & Drake London crimeseries, was published in 2019. Parker Bilal is the pseudonym ofJamal Mahjoub, the critically acclaimed literary novelist. Born inLondon, he has lived in a number of places, including the UK,Denmark, Spain and, currently, the Netherlands. @Parker_Bilal | jamalmahjoub.com
Also by Parker Bilal The Heights The Trenches

 
 
The streets that Balboa walked were his own private ocean, and Balboa was drowning. August Wilson ‘The Best Blues Singer in the World’
The paperback edition first published in Great Britain, the USA andCanada in 2021 by Black Thorn, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE Distributed in the USA by Publishers Group Westand in Canada by Publishers Group Canada First published in 2019 by The Indigo Press,50 Albemarle Street, London, W1S 4BD This digital edition first published in 2021 by Black Thorn blackthornbooks.com Copyright © Jamal Mahjoub, 2019 The right of Jamal Mahjoub to be identified as the Author of this Work has beenasserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are eitherthe product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except whereactual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of thisnovel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actualpersons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library ISBN 978 1 83885 514 7 eISBN 978 1 83885 515 4
CHAPTER 1
C al Drake swayed, struggling a little to control the stream of piss that he was aiming at the dark, shadowy corner, while resting a hand on the wall to steady himself. His head buzzed and his stomach fizzed with acidic burn. It was gone four in the morning after a long night s boozing.
When he had finished he shook himself and zipped up before stepping back towards the car, an old BMW 3 Series, and the cup of coffee he had carefully placed on the roof. The Styrofoam had an evil chemical smell to it, the contents watery. Still, at this moment in time it was better than anything he d ever tasted. He tossed his woollen hat through the open window onto the front seat, set the cup carefully back on the roof and took a bite out of his burger. The grease had seeped through the paper like glue. Swimming in fried onions and melted orange cheese, it was the kind of sustenance you didn t want to think too hard about. He took a deep breath and began to chew. A choice meal at a poncey restaurant in Park Lane couldn t have tasted better. Not that he had much chance of ever making that particular comparison.
The sleet had eased off finally, leaving the streets slick with a wet, icy sheen. His breath came out in gushes of steam. Poker night. The Thursday night game was a regular fixture organized by an old army mate. He squinted at his watch, trying to focus. Where was he actually? Somewhere off the High Road in Balham. It was hardly worth going home. He might as well drive back to Raven Hill and get an hour s sleep on the backseat before the day began. The prospect of what lay ahead of him only made his spirits sink further and he took another bite out of his burger, swilling it down with the scalding hot coffee.
The shout came from behind him. Over his shoulder, Drake saw a woman standing in the middle of the brightly lit forecourt of the Texaco station, alongside a silver Audi A3. Nice. She wasn t too bad herself. Classy. She seemed to glow in the cold, artificial light. What she was doing around here at this time of the morning was anybody s guess. The car and the clothes said businesswoman, estate agent, maybe, on her way down to an early meeting. Failing that, a high-end working girl on her way home from a wealthy client.
All of this flashed through Drake s mind in a split second. His chewing slowed as his eyes settled on the scooter racing towards him. The kid clutching the handlebars wore a balaclava pulled tight over his face. Despite the fact that it was still dark, the one riding pillion had on Ray-Bans, probably knock-offs by the way they sat lopsided on his nose. It was this one who was holding the woman s phone. As the scooter came off the forecourt the rider had a choice. Left or right. He made the wrong call.
A tall, green wheelie bin with its flap down was parked on the kerb. Stepping into the road, Drake lifted as he swung, turning the way a dancer might spin his partner into the air, the bin gaining momentum before he launched it hard along the road.
The bin torpedoed straight into the front wheel of the scooter, knocking it sideways and sending bike and passengers skidding along the road. The engine gave a high-pitched whine in protest. Drake walked into the middle of the road. He could see now that they were just kids in their teens. Ray-Ban lay face up, gasping for air. He watched as Drake stepped over him to retrieve the phone, struggling to right himself.
Stay, said Drake. The kid stayed.
The driver had hurt his arm. He was on his knees swearing, clutching his elbow. When he saw Drake he tried to get up, managing to rise onto one knee. A flick-knife appeared from inside the bomber jacket. It snapped open with a sharp mechanical click to expose a short, nasty blade.
You don t want to do that.
With a growl the boy got his feet under him and charged.
Drake wasn t in the same shape he had been in the army. Soft living and poor diet had contributed to the decline, but he still had the moves. He turned into the charge, deflecting the half-hearted thrust and using the boy s own momentum to flip him over. He landed heavily on his back, the wind knocked out of his lungs. He was still holding onto the knife. Drake planted his boot on his wrist and the boy squealed. The knife clattered along the ground as Drake kicked it away.
It s against the law to attack an officer of the law.
You wot? That s police brutality!
Get a life, muttered Drake.
He turned as the woman came rushing over. At close quarters it became clear that she was older than she had first appeared. Clearly she d made an effort some hours ago to look younger, but with dawn fast approaching the magic was wearing off.
Oh my god, how can I thank you? She was going through her bag. Please, take this. Drake glanced at the fifty pound note she was holding out. His first instinct was to turn it down. But there was something about her, the way she looked at him. Not a call girl. She was more scared of him than of the kids who had just tried to rob her. The way she was standing just out of reach, as if he might be contagious or something. He plucked the note from her outstretched fingers and turned away. The kids were scrambling to their feet, trying to get the scooter up, pushing it along to get the thing started again.
Shouldn t we call the police or something?
Waste of time, said Drake. Nothing that would ever stick.
She was looking at him in a strange way, watching him tuck the note into his pocket as if she was considering asking for it back.
Have a nice day, he said, over his shoulder.
The coffee had cooled down to the point where it tasted like washing-up liquid. He drank it all the same. His head was still buzzing. The burger had congealed into an indescribable mass. He wrapped it up again and looked for somewhere to throw it.
The sound of a helicopter closing in overhead made him freeze involuntarily. He looked up as the searchlight drew near. He could hear the high whoop of sirens approaching as the phone in his pocket began to buzz.
CHAPTER 2
D rake had no idea what Magnolia Quays was, let alone where. It turned out to be a development tucked into a bend on the river off the York Road in Battersea, just north of Wandsworth Bridge. As he drew closer he could see that the area had succumbed to the same wave of change that seemed to be transforming every nook and cranny of this city. Where there used to be old warehouses and storage facilities now there was plywood fencing. Cranes, scaffolding and the muddy tracks of large vehicles fishtailing across the road.
It was warm for the time of year. The sky was smeared with a greasy layer of low cloud that sealed the town in. People dreamed of clear, cold nights, pure white flakes of snow tumbling from a starry sky. Something that might turn back the clocks to a time when fairy tales were still believable. Back to an age when black and white was a description of your television set.
Drake had known this river all his life. It had grace if not beauty. Dirty and tired, shuffling along as best it could, like everyone else. People spoke of rivers as timeless, as if they were eternal, but this one was constantly changing. Every day, every minute. The movement of the water, the flow, the height, the slow shifting sediment surging beneath its surface. It carried time like a bad memory. A river was about change, but it was also about the things you could never forget.
DC Kelly Marsh was sheltering by the entrance to the building site. A lanky, awkward-looking figure with jet-black hair cut in a punky, aggressive style. She greeted Drake with a sniff. You look worse than I feel.
And good morning to you, too. Seen Milo? he asked.
He s around somewhere.
Drake felt the rain running down his neck and pulled up the hood of his parka. So what have we got?
The usual. Looks like a couple of kids got in overnight and managed to bury themselves alive. Kelly pointed across the open space of the building site.
Drake glanced back the way he had come. How easy is it to get in?
Well, it s not Fort Kno