Headlong

Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Description

Does blood run thicker than ink?When one of London's best-known literary agents is found dead in strange circumstances, seemingly having fallen from his office window, DCI Slider is under pressure to confirm a case of accidental death. But when the evidence points to murder, the team find themselves uncovering some decidedly scandalous secrets. Every lead seems to result in more questions, and as Slider delves deeper into the publishing world it's up to him to sort fact from fiction.

Informations

• Publié par: Canongate Books
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838853792
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Cynthia Harrod-Eagles is the author of over ninety books, including her acclaimed Bill Slider mysteries and her Morland Dynasty series, which has sold over 100,000 copies. cynthiaharrodeagles.com
Also by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles The Bill Slider Mysteries Dear Departed Game Over Fell Purpose Body Line Kill My Darling Blood Never Dies Hard Going Star Fall One Under Old Bones

 
 
 
The paperback edition published in Great Britain, the USA and Canada in 2021 by Black Thorn, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE Distributed in the USA by Publishers Group West and in Canada by Publishers Group Canada First published in 2018 by Severn House Publishers Ltd, Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY This digital edition first published in 2021 by Black Thorn blackthornbooks.com Copyright © Cynthia Harrod-Eagles, 2018 The right of Cynthia Harrod-Eagles to be identified as theauthor of this work has been asserted by her in accordancewith the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidentsare either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.Except where actual historical events and characters are being describedfor the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitiousand any resemblance to actual persons, 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 378 5 eISBN 978 1 83885 379 2
Chapter One: Miching Mallecho
Chapter Two: Nose Dive
Chapter Three: Can t Help Loathing That Man of Mine
Chapter Four: China Syndrome
Chapter Five: The Regina Monologues
Chapter Six: Brat Worst
Chapter Seven: The Plot Sickens
Chapter Eight: One Nightstand to Remember
Chapter Nine: Science Friction
Chapter Ten: The Time of his Wife
Chapter Eleven: Jab Well Done
Chapter Twelve: No Pizza for the Wicked
Chapter Thirteen: The News, and Whether
Chapter Fourteen: On the Trail of the Loathsome Vine
Chapter Fifteen: No Stoat Unturned
Chapter Sixteen: White Vin Man
Chapter Seventeen: Con, Descending
Chapter Eighteen: A Quiche is Still a Quiche
Chapter Nineteen: All the Little Angels
Chapter Twenty: Notting Hell
Chapter Twenty-One: Love, Actually
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Long Day Closes
Chapter Twenty-Three: Gone to Ground
ONE
Miching Mallecho
S lider jumped into the car, and Atherton peeled away from the kerb and back into the traffic in a movement so sleek and smooth a dolphin would have tried to mate with it. Where to? he said.
Head back towards the Green, said Slider. Don t you know?
I haven t been in yet, said DS Jim Atherton, Slider s sergeant, bagman and friend - lean, fair, and catnip to women. I was just leaving Emily s when I got a message to pick you up from outside the town hall, that s all.
You re staying at Emily s?
Now and then. She doesn t like my house. Too difficult to park.
I wondered how you got here so fast. Emily s flat was in Hammersmith, while Atherton s house was in that part of Kilburn that liked to pretend it was really Hampstead.
So what s going on? Atherton asked.
I don t know much more than you. I was in a meeting with councillors and I got a message. Slider glanced down at the piece of paper. All it says is, 3 Penkridge Gardens. Query accidental death, Edward Wiseman?
The Edward Wiseman?
Should I have heard of him? Wise man - the sage who knows his onions?
I m guessing it might be Ed Wiseman, famous literary agent.
When you put it like that, I seem to have heard of him, Slider said. If it is the same one, he added. Wiseman isn t that uncommon a name.
The Tuesday morning rush was almost over, but there was still plenty of traffic about. They hurtled down Shepherd s Bush Road; but Atherton drove with intense concentration and his whole body, so Slider never minded being driven by him. He watched him out of the corner of his eye, the rest of his attention enjoying the signs of spring - new leaves here, a touch of blossom there - which made Shepherd s Bush suddenly more attractive. He felt one of those rare moments of good-to-be-aliveness, that occurred independently of, and managed to avoid being contaminated by, the Job.
Ed Wiseman, he thought idly. Literary agent. So how does a literary agent get to be famous, anyway? he asked after a bit.
Atherton laid the car round the curve of the Green like a lick of paint. Going to the right parties. Being quotable. It s not really my field, but I think I remember he was a larger-than-life character, bit of a live wire. The Bad Boy of the publishing world?
Something s coming back to me. Isn t he the media go-to man for opinion on anything to do with the book world?
The house expert, Atherton agreed. But if it s accidental death, what the devil do they want us for? It s not a DCI shout.
Query accidental death, question mark, Slider reminded him. The devil is in the punctuation.
Maybe Someone Up There knows he was famous, Atherton said, slipping like a salmon between two cars to enter the white water of the West Cross roundabout. Someone Up There, of course, did not mean the Almighty, but the Metropolitan Police Top Brass - much the same thing to a lowly copper, but without the connotations of forgiveness and mercy. If you re famous, they get the good silverware out.
Don t be bitter, dear, Slider chided him. Left at the end, and left again. Even the rich and famous deserve our best endeavours.
I suppose it s a case of Ours Not To Wassname, Atherton sighed.
Eloquently put.
This is it, said Atherton, turning into the target road. I hope we can park.
Penkridge Gardens was on the side of Shepherd s Bush bordering Holland Park - the posh side. The houses were typical of the 1850s expansion of London. You saw them all over the western boroughs: tall, handsome, yellow stock brick with white copings, three storeys with a semi-basement, generally built in terraces to save space. Number three was in fact an end-of-terrace because, presumably through some historical or geographical anomaly, number one, the corner house, was detached.
One hundred-and-fifty-plus years represents a lot of history for a building, and in value and status these had gone up and down like a Harrods lift at sale time. At the moment they were on their way up from the low point during which most had been broken up into flats, if they were lucky, and rooms if they were not. There was a certain prevailing shabbiness over the street, but improvement was evidently going on. Some had been bought back into single ownership, and were showing new windows and fresh paint, pristine stonework and - sure sign they had made it safely above the high-water mark - trimmed evergreen shapes in tubs on either side of the front door.
Number three was sending mixed messages. It was in single ownership, but needing attention - nothing desperate, but it had evidently been neglected for some years and was showing wear.
Number one, the detached house on the corner, was undergoing major surgery. It was fully scaffolded, with a sign fixed to it that said D.K. Connor, Building Contractors. High safety-hoardings that screened the site from the street were plastered with warnings: KEEP OUT. DANGER, DEEP EXCAVATIONS. PROTECTIVE HELMETS MUST BE WORN. NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY.
A skip and various builders vans were complicating the parking situation. Atherton had to park on the double yellow. Deep excavations? The curse of the iceberg strikes again, he observed as they got out.
London property was expensive, and in limited supply. With these older houses, up was not an option: planning laws protected the look of the street. So the only way was down. It was common to dig out the semi-basement to increase the ceiling height, and extend it backwards under the rear garden, to create a whole extra floor s-worth of rooms. But in some cases - and this seemed to be one - owners were going further, and digging a second basement underneath the first. If the property were valuable enough, and the planning officer could be squared, some even went for a third, so that what was visible of the house was the least part of it - hence the iceberg label.
Slider s architectural sensitivities were offended. These old houses were built with taste, style, and generous proportions, and to undermine them for such ephemera as swimming pool, games room, gym, and/or private cinema just seemed wrong to him. But it wasn t his business what people did with their money, so he merely sighed, I wish they wouldn t. And added, Anyway, that s not our house. We re number three.
But even as he said it, he noted that there seemed to be police activity at both properties - and a lack of building activity where there should be plenty.
Atherton had spotted something else. Bandits at twelve o clock, he muttered urgently. By the pricking of my thumbs Slider quelled him with a look.
It was their immediate boss, Det Sup Porson, his bald top gleaming in the hazy sunshine, his strange, greenish overcoat flapping about his legs; and leading the way was his boss, Commander Dave Carpenter, in a suit so sharp you could peel mangoes with it.
Porson was a tall man, who had, over the years, put the fear of God into generations of underlings; but beside Carpenter he seemed to scuttle in a subordinate semi-crouch like an apologetic crab. Carpenter was big - both tall and muscular - with a head of thick, glossy chestnut hair. Brushed straight back but lifting in its own wave above his scalp, it made him look even taller. And, of course, as borough commander he was big in the spiritual sense, and knew it. He held their lives - or, not to be over-dramatic, their careers - in his perfectly-manicured hands.
Everything about his carriage and expression said don t mess with me, boy . His height a