by JJ Marsh
Table of Contents
Title Page
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Copyright
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
Message from JJ Marsh
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Contents
HONEY TRAP
By JJ MARSH
Get your free copy of prequel Black Dogs, Yellow Butterflies when you sign up for the mailing list.
See back of book for details.
Copyright
Honey Trap
Copyright © 2019 by Prewett Bielmann Ltd.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
Cover design: JD Smith
Published by Prewett Bielmann Ltd.
All enquiries to [email protected]
First printing, 2019
eBook Edition:
ISBN 978-3-9525077-4-2
Paperback:
ISBN 978-3-9525077-6-6
Chapter 1
The expression on Agusto’s face made his feelings clear. He was not going to change his mind. His white coat, spattered with red stains, was sweat-marked and creased after a long stressful night but his eyes were as sharp as a skewer.
Still, Rami had to try. After all, it was a matter of honour.
“No need, Agusto. I have my Harley and a raincoat. It’s only a fifteen-minute ride.”
“You think I want to call a cab for your benefit? Do not flatter yourself, you young mule! Tell me what happens if you get wet and catch a cold. No, I’ll tell you. The number one restaurant in Naples loses its second chef because you are damn well staying away from this kitchen with any unhealthy bugs. I am protecting my investment. Now I am sick of arguing with you. All I want is to rest my feet and drink a grappa. Take a cab, go home and leave me in peace. See you tomorrow.”
Rami gave in. His exasperated head shake disguised a smile. “Up to you if you want to throw money away on taxis. You’re the boss.”
“I am. And if you remembered that more often, we could save ourselves a lot of hot air. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight. Give Isabella my best wishes.”
“I will.” Agusto unbuttoned his tunic and pulled off his bandana. “And, Rami, if the weather is as shitty as this in the morning, get a cab back. NO arguments! Just keep a receipt. Go, you stubborn goat, have I not suffered enough?” He hurled his chef’s attire into the laundry bin in the alcove and bounced his way through the doors to the dining area.
In a second, the kitchen became a haven of calm. The stainless steel surfaces shone, empty and sanitised. The ovens, now cool and silent, gaped at him with sooty mouths. The room was as soothing as church. Rami reflected for a moment on how the source of all the tension and bustle which accompanied every service had only just left a few seconds ago. Agusto’s presence was a whirlwind, filling every space with a charge of energy so ferocious, one’s senses could scatter to the four winds.
After retrieving his raincoat, Rami let himself out of the back door. His Harley was parked in the open garage, next to Agusto’s Ferrari, but one glance at the raindrops pounding the pavement convinced him a taxi was indeed the best choice. The wind lashed his cheek as he stood under the awning and he hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long.
“Buonasera,” said a voice behind him.
Rami turned with a start. The man wishing him a good evening had come from the garage, but his face was unfamiliar.
“Buonasera,” he replied. “This is private property, you know.”
“I know. I’m your driver, here to take you home.”
“Ah, I see. I was trying to hail a taxi, I didn’t realise he’d already ordered one.”
“The car is over there. Shall we?”
They dashed across the road, heads bowed against the vicious weather. The driver opened the back door and Rami got in. It was a luxury limousine, with wide leather seats and a divider between driver and passenger. Trust Agusto to choose a high-end service.
Rami wiped his face and watched the restaurant disappear as the car pulled away into the traffic. Weariness crept over him. It had been a long and tiring night, and the yearning for his own apartment intensified. Home. Car horns and sirens competed with the thundering sound of the rain on the roof. Street lights and shop signs melted into an indistinguishable blur through the windows and the scent of furniture polish made him think of his grandmother.
After they passed the entrance to Galleria Borbonica, the car turned left instead of right and Rami frowned. He rapped on the glass divider.
“Scusa! We’re going to Miracoli. You need to take a right.”
The driver looked into the rear-view mirror and gave him a thumbs-up. But he made no effort to turn right, passing several other opportunities to join Via Toledo. With no indication, he pulled into the kerb, causing other drivers to hoot furiously.
The rear passenger door opened and a man in a long coat slid in beside Rami. His face was handsome and young, although not one Rami knew. His Italian was formal and he had an odd accent, as if he was foreign or from the north, which amounted to much the same thing.
“I apologise for this interruption, but it is imperative I talk to you.”
“What about?” Rami’s voice gave away his mistrust.
“Let’s call it your annual appraisal.” The man smiled and offered Rami a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke,” he lied. “Who are you and why are you in my taxi?”
The man leant forward and tapped an extraordinarily long fingernail on the divider. The driver glanced in the mirror and with his right hand, drew open the small communication window.
“Did you tell him this was a taxi?” There was a nasty smile in the newcomer’s voice.
“No. My exact words were ‘I’m your driver, here to take you home’. No one mentioned a taxi.” The car turned right. Finally.
Rami’s fellow passenger laughed. “Perfetto! We are indeed here to take you home.” The driver made no comment and closed the divider once more.
“Signor Ahmad, no need for alarm. This is just a friendly conversation.”
“Again I ask you, what about?”
The man continued smoking, as if he had not heard. Rain hammered on the roof and the driver continued in the direction of the city centre, far from Rami’s own neighbourhood. Ahead of them at the lights, a man ran
across the road, a newspaper over his head, splashing through puddles and soaking his trousers.
The man beside him rapped on the divider and when it opened, he spoke in a cheerful tone. “Dino, you hungry?”
“Always got room for some of grandma’s cooking, Luca.”
Ice trickled down Rami’s spine. They knew. He swallowed, feeling the noose tighten. “Thank you for the lift, but I think I would prefer to walk from here.”
Neither man reacted. The man called Luca continued to smoke while Dino navigated the traffic and the foul weather. Rami guessed where they were going. The Spanish Quarter. Luca opened the window and tossed out his cigarette. Without warning, he lunged at Rami, grabbing a fistful of his raincoat and pulling him close. His breath smelled sour and of smoke.
“You can’t have the foot in both stirrups. Time to make a decision.”
“What are you talking about?” Rami tried to prise the man’s hands off him. His question was genuine, borne of confusion rather than innocence. He needed to know which organisation these guys represented.
Luca released his coat and pushed him backwards, leaning on top of him as if coming in for a kiss. His forearm pressed against Rami’s throat. “Listen to me, sfigato. You’re not the first to try this trick. It happens when people get greedy. Not anymore. We know what you’re doing and it stops right now. How it stops is up to you.”
Rami sensed the car coming to a halt and Dino switched off the engine.
Luca increased the pressure on Rami’s windpipe. “No more last chances. Tell us who you’re working for and where the money’s going. Otherwise, I’ll let Dino off the leash.”
“I work for Agusto Colacino at Ecco. You know that!”
The door behind his head wrenched open and Dino dragged him out of the car by his hair. Rami’s torso hit the cobbles, knocking the wind out of him.
Dino placed a foot on his chest and actually snarled, like a Doberman. Rain smeared Rami’s glasses so that he sensed rather than saw Luca loom over him, blocking out the street light.
“You think we have any interest in a stronzo like you? Grow up. All I need is the name of your boss. Fair warning: if you say Agusto Colacino one more time, Dino will kick your teeth out. Who are you working for? Just give me his name and you can go home.”
Rami heaved in some air. “Her name,” he rasped. That earned him a few seconds. Dino removed his foot and Rami managed to scramble onto all fours, still gasping for oxygen.
He took several breaths until Luca’s rain-stained brown shoes stepped into his sightline.
“The name.”
Rami said three words.
That was all it took. The shoes disappeared, doors slammed and the car drove off. If Rami hadn’t rolled away as fast as he did, he would have been under the wheels.
He struggled to his feet and reached in his pocket. Phone and wallet both gone. Thankfully, he’d left nothing incriminating in either. With no cash or cards, he would have to walk. He made for the lights, checking over his shoulder several times. No one was around.
At one in the morning, soaked, physically and mentally exhausted, he turned into Via Vergini Crocelli which housed his apartment block. His long, wet walk had not helped him find a solution. Still he found himself between the devil and the deep blue sea. He would need to sleep on it, and hope against hope that a solution came to him in his dreams.
He trudged the last twenty metres home to his apartment, unlocked the gate and stepped into the courtyard. His mind fogged by his fruitless mental circles and glasses blurred by raindrops, he neither saw nor heard his assailant. The first thing he felt was a blade piercing his ribcage.
Chapter 2
The noise began before dawn. First one moped clattered across the cobbles, followed moments later by two more. Both riders were forced to splash into puddles by the kerb to dodge a taxi driver reversing down the narrow street. They expressed their displeasure by beeping their horns and questioning the driver’s parentage and sanity.
A wooden rumbling reminiscent of mediaeval times bounced off the tall buildings lining the street. Two thickset men manoeuvred a cart onto the marketplace, bringing with them a scent of ripe strawberries, peaches and apricots. One threw off the protective tarpaulin and began tucking hand-written signs saying 3€ per cesto into the strawberry punnets. The other retreated into a recess for the second stall, singing a ribald version of ‘Musetta’s Waltz’ from La Bohème. A third market vendor drove his three-wheeled van to park opposite and carried on a semi-shouted conversation with the fruit vendor as he unpacked his selection of slippers and housecoats for display.
Signora Emilia heard it all from her penthouse at the top of the palazzo, visualising every aspect of the scene below. The same routine as every day. If there was a single note of the street symphony missing, she would know. She slipped her arms into a robe and opened the shutters to look out at the view she knew so well.
The sky lightened to a pure, constant Virgin Mary blue. Yesterday’s rain had washed much of the dog mess and litter into the gutters and steam rose from the small squares of earth around the trees. Pigeons scattered as a battered truck made a three-point turn at the junction, then returned to peck at crumbs beneath the tables outside the Polish supermarket. Beer-bottle tops trodden into the tarmac glinted like fish scales under the morning light.
Signora Emilia began her toilette, listening and watching through the lattice of lemon trees on her balcony. The sound of flesh slapping onto marble ricocheted around the square, telling her the butcher’s shop was taking delivery of the day’s stock. A two-tone police siren could be heard from Via Foria. The fishmonger hosed down her counter, adding actual fish scales to join the bottle tops. Two older women with hair the colour of a fox pelt were already queuing outside the bakery, calling up to the apartment above.
“Leave that poor man alone and get down here. You’re not the only one with an appetite!” They cackled together, handbags swinging from the crook of their arms.
A metal shutter rattled up to a general cheer. The pasticceria had opened and the smell of coffee permeated the air. Signora Emilia sat by the window to apply her make-up and choose her jewellery while keeping an eye on the café. As always, the first customer was the squat, elderly Sicilian with a huge nose and a tiny Chihuahua. He drank his macchiato alone, but shared the sfogliatina with his dog. The pigeons stood by, strutting and cooing like gossipy security guards.
Spaces for market stalls filled up fast and the number of vehicles already double- and triple-parked gave rise to a discordant loop of impatient horn-blowing and curses. Pedestrians threaded their way through the traffic with insouciance, phones pressed to their heads, ignoring the exhaust fumes. Children walked in gaggles to school, some still eating their breakfast pastries wrapped in a paper tissue. Stray dogs skulked under the market stalls, scooping up anything edible or napping in the shade.
Prepared to face the public, Signora Emilia descended to the courtyard of the palazzo, checking her reflection one last time in the neighbours’ window. A well-dressed woman in her sixties, fingers glittering with rings and carrying a faux-Gucci bag, her make-up was nothing short of sculptural. She unlocked the metal gate with a nod to Signor Melle, caretaker in name only.
With a breath to steel herself, she joined the chaos of the morning market. She crossed the street with an imperious hand to stay the idling vehicles and began her morning shop. From the butcher, she purchased two chicken breasts with a polite enquiry after his wife’s health. Chicken bagged, she moved up three stalls to acquire artichokes and asparagus, with a few quibbles over the price. After a brief stop for an espresso and head-shaking conversation with the café owner, she returned home, stepping daintily over a trickle of water flowing from the fishmonger.
Only twenty minutes later, she unlocked the gates to her sanctuary. Once inside the courtyard, she purged the exhaust fumes, fruity scents and whiff of unwashed bodies from her sensitive nostrils. She glanced down at her heels, concerned the fish
y water had come home with her, and noted another trail of liquid, like brown paint, had traced its way across the mosaic floor. The source was the ugly metal trash container she had persistently campaigned to have removed.
One of her lazy neighbours and their rotting waste again. Instead of using the correct bins, they tossed any old leaking bags into the main receptacle, forcing their neighbours to endure the stench till refuse collection day. Pressing her nostrils closed, she opened the dirty metal lid with forefinger and thumb, and then dropped it with a strangled shriek.
She backed away in the direction of the street until she saw the eternally angry face of Signor Melle, at the window of his ground-floor apartment. She couldn’t speak but pointed a shaky finger at the bin.
He lifted his shoulders and shouted, “Cos’é?” but Signora Emilia had lost the power of speech. The caretaker took in the dark seepage across the courtyard and disappeared, only to be replaced by his wife, openly gawping. Their apartment door opened and he came out, scowling and muttering about having better things to do than deal with more complaints about the bins.
Without a word to her, he marched across to lift the lid. He dropped it with the same speed and yelled at his wife.
“Chiama la polizia! Abbiamo un cadavere!”
Chapter 3
Friday mornings weren’t usually Adrian’s favourite time of the week. But today was especially precious. Will had been working on a major case for twenty-three consecutive days and Adrian had seen his husband for no more than an hour in the evenings before the exhausted detective fell asleep. Now it was all over. DS William Quinn’s investigation into a modern slavery network had been resolved, the perpetrators arrested, paperwork filed and Adrian had his husband home again.
A three-day weekend stretched ahead of them. Ideally, it would contain a lie-in, maybe breakfast in bed, and a browse around Borough farmers’ market, followed by a walk along the Thames before returning home for a lazy lunch with whatever goodies they’d sourced. Bliss.
In addition to all these delights, they would be entertaining a guest for dinner. His ex-neighbour and dear friend Beatrice Stubbs had arrived in town yesterday for a girls’ night out with an old mate. Today, she would attend an appointment with her therapist before joining them this evening for dinner, gossip and some excellent wine. Adrian had already made up the spare bedroom, which they all referred to as ‘Beatrice’s Boudoir’.
