by Roger Hurn
Bright Lights, Big City
A Ryan Kyd Thriller
Roger Hurn
© Roger Hurn 2014
Roger Hurn has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons.
Hamlet Act 1, Scene 1
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Extract from Paradise is Murder by Roger Hurn
Chapter One
It was New Year’s Eve and I was standing outside the Tottenham Hale tube station with a broken heart and my mobile phone pressed hard against my ear. Carly, my ex-associate in the Ryan Kyd Private Investigations Agency (proprietor yours truly) and the girl I’d been hoping was going to be my bloody life partner, had just dumped me to go off and run a beach bar in Jamaica with a right herbert called Tyrone. Her loss … but it still flaming well hurt like hell.
But I wasn’t phoning the Samaritans, I was taking a call from a punter who urgently needed my help. I was glad he did because otherwise I was facing a pretty miserable New Year’s Eve on my Jack Jones. However, now I could stop moping because I had a case to get my teeth into.
I checked. They were still there even though Carly had just given them a good kick. But that’s me, I bounce back from whatever life hurls at me.
Until recently, I’d been in the DPG - that’s the Diplomatic Protection Group - and working flat out to keep the great and the not so good safe from whatever threats came their way. And these days that means everything from ordinary folk with a grudge that’s turned them sour to full on jihadists. It was exciting work and I loved it, but then I got crocked playing football for my South London Sunday League team, the All Nations United. The powers-that-be invalided me out on a pension so small you needed a microscope to see it and so, to keep from starving, I set up shop as a Private Eye.
I guess that sounds glamorous, but it isn’t. I operate out of two rooms above a kebab shop in Deptford High Street and spend most of my time doing matrimonial surveillance jobs. That’s the professional term for chasing down randy buggers who are playing away from home. It’s depressing work, but it pays the rent. Still, the guy making the call had grabbed my interest big-time. He wanted me to go to New York on his behalf ASAP.
I told him I’d drop everything and go over to his place right away to see him for a briefing.
‘Well, I have to say I’m impressed Mr Kyd,’ he said in the kind of Estuarine English accent that seems all the rage with posh people these days. ‘Crispian told me you always went that extra mile for your clients and it seems that you do.’
‘It’s all part of the service,’ I said, my heart sinking at the realisation that Crispian Hunt was responsible for me getting this call.
‘Oh, and Crispian also said that your associate, Ms Bloom, could be relied upon to act with complete discretion should you choose to involve her in this matter. I trust that is indeed the case?’
He blindsided me with that remark and it took my breath away for a second as I realised that I was going to have to get used to life without Carly. It was a bleaker prospect than I wanted to admit, but, sod it, life goes on. ‘Ms Bloom is no longer with the Agency,’ I said stiffly. ‘I’ll be handling this matter myself.’
‘That’s excellent. The fewer people who know about this arrangement the better.’
Of course that should have told me that this case was going to involve way more than an all-expenses paid trip to the Big Apple. Nobody who’s pals with Crispian Hunt, doyen of the security services and my bête noire, is ever going to be an ordinary, straightforward bloke. And Jason Mulwhinney proved to be no exception to the rule. But I was too emotionally punch drunk over Carly to really think clearly. All I wanted was to plunge headfirst into whatever it was Mulwhinney had in store for me, so I had nobody but myself to blame when things, as they were bound to, went horribly pear shaped and I found myself caught up in a tangled web of deceit, mayhem, murder and more bloody people telling me to “have a nice day” than I could shake a stick at.
Chapter Two
I took the tube to South Kensington and walked to Egerton Crescent, allegedly the most expensive street in Britain, where the average house will set you back a cool eight million smackers. Not that any of the gaffs on the white stucco terrace was what you’d call average. Still, money can’t buy you love but then neither can poverty … as I’d found out earlier that evening. For that reason, my head was full of thoughts of Carly instead of trying to figure out what a high flyer like Jason Mulwhinney needed me for. I reckoned I’d find out soon enough when I met him face-to-face. So, my mind was still replaying my farewell scene with Carly when I tapped on the ornate brass knocker of his house. However, my attention was wrenched right back to the matter in hand by the girl who opened it and smiled as if she was genuinely pleased to see me. She was, to coin a phrase, small but perfectly formed, and had a twinkle in her dark eyes that promised all kinds of forbidden mischief.
She held out a cool, slim hand to me and said, ‘Hey, you must be Ryan Kyd.’ She paused for a beat whilst I drank her in then added: ‘I’m Carmelita Jones.’ Her voice had a slight musical lilt that came direct from the Rhondda Valley but, judging by the caramel honey hue of her skin, I was guessing her heritage included at least one ancestor from way more exotic climes than South Wales.
I treated her to a rakish grin. I knew that my face in its current battered state was more likely to bring out the mother hen in her rather than charm her pants off, but old habits die hard. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ms Jones. And you’re right … I am Ryan Kyd.’
Before she could reply, the slightly plummy voice with just a hint of an affected Estuarine twang that I’d heard earlier on the phone, rang out from somewhere in the house.
‘Don’t keep our Private Eye friend standing on the doorstep, sweetheart. It’s New Year’s Eve and the poor fellow must be absolutely desperate for a drink.’
She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘You’ve never spoken a truer word, darling. Mr Kyd looks like he’s been in the wars.’ Then she turned back to me, her expression one of tender concern. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me saying that, but you do rather look as if you’ve won second prize in a boxing match.’
I carried on grinning my devil-may-care grin. ‘You should see the other guy.’
She wrinkled her nose in a way that was ridiculously cute. ‘Oh, I think I’d rather see you, Mr Kyd.’ Then she winked and the corners of her mouth twitched up teasingly. ‘But we’d better not keep His Nibs waiting.’
She led me into the house and took me into the kind of beautifully tasteful living room that was an interior designer’s wet dream. The walls were decorated with a powder blue Venetian plaster. A silver framed hazy blue canvas by some achingly hip artist hung on the wall, while the carpet, the sofa and the two armchairs were all in varying tones of pale blue. It was serene … but chilly.
A casually dressed guy in his mid forties, whom I recognised as Jason Mulwhinney, was sitting on the sofa. His T shirt, jeans and loafers were all designer clobber so, despite his carefully cultivated bohemian look, he definitely wasn’t on his uppers. He jumped up and shook my hand vigorously. ‘Welcome, Mr Kyd, it’s good of you to come over.’ Then he stepped back and gave my face a swift shufti. ‘Though I must say my instincts were correct. You do appear to be in need of a drink.’
I didn’t argue and he proceeded to pour me a stiff one from a crystal decanter that I was betting was by Lalique. The whisky wasn’t too shabby either. It was a Macallan single malt and tasted like heaven on my tongue. I settled down in one of the armchairs while Mulwhinney sat back on the sofa and Carmelita perched decorously on its arm. ‘OK, Mr Mulwhinney, what exactly is it you need me to do for you in New York?’
Mulwhinney scratched his head just behind his ear. His hair was cropped close to his skull and a diamond stud winked at me from his earlobe. He had tattoos on his gym toned biceps and he looked like a middle aged guy working hard to stay youthful and edgy. To me, it’s a stupid thing to do because, ultimately, it’s a battle you can’t win. Though, if Carmelita was his current squeeze, I could see why he was trying.
‘I suppose you know I’m a bit of a scribbler by trade,’ he said.
I raised my eyebrows. Yes, I knew who he was all right, and to say he was a “bit of a scribbler” was like David Beckham saying he earned a crust by kicking a football about with his mates. Jason Mulwhinney was the most successful British playwright since Harold Pinter. He’d burst onto the scene back in the late 90s when his play “The Gonnie Man” had taken the Edinburgh Festival by storm and he hadn’t looked back in anger or otherwise since. OK, so he was no longer the enfant terrible of theatreland, but he was a class apart from his contemporaries and anything he wrote was box office gold. According to the tabloids, Hollywood paid him ludicrous amounts of folding money to work his magic on movie scripts and his HBO drama “The Kanes of Ravenscroft” was a worldwide smash. To me it was the bastard love child of King Lear and Lady Macbeth updated from Cawdor to modern day Southern California but, as Shakespeare wasn’t going to be suing for plagiarism any time soon, the guy had it made. However, as I know from bitter experience, there’s always a snake in Eden and I had a feeling I was about to find out which particular reptile was turning Mulwhinney’s world sour.
Chapter Three
‘You’re the guy who wrote ‘The Dark Side of the Dollar’, the biggest grossing art house movie of all time,’ I said. ‘So yes, I’d say I know what you do to pay the rent.’ I glanced around the room. ‘Though I’m guessing with the kind of money you make, paying the rent isn’t something you have to worry about.’ My voice had a slight edge to it. I was nursing a broken heart and this bloke with his beautiful girlfriend, sumptuous pad, designer duds, stunningly successful career and false modesty was getting on my nerves. It wasn’t his fault I was a bitter man, but I wasn’t in a forgiving mood.
He inclined his head slightly. ‘Only the second biggest, I’m afraid … and it was a few years ago now but, yes, you’re right … all in all I’ve done pretty well for myself.’ His tone was irritatingly smug and he reached across and patted Carmelita’s knee as if she, just like the house, was his personal property. I had a mental image of him trying that with Carly. She’d have chucked her drink in his mush and then treated him to one of her legendary tongue lashings. I almost smiled but, instead, I gave myself a metaphorical slap. Carly was gone and the sooner I accepted that fact and kicked her out of my head the happier I’d be. I snapped back into the present. Carmelita was beaming at Mulwhinney and he was beaming at her like they were both loved up to the max. It was only adding insult to injury as far as I was concerned so I gulped the remainder of my scotch and said, ‘Right, Mr Mulwhinney, you’re a guy who’s got it made, but I’m sitting here in your living room on New Year’s Eve and there’s no way you want me for my sparkling repartee … so let’s cut to the chase shall we?’
Carmelita stopped making cow’s eyes at Mulwhinney. She turned to me with a look of complete disdain on her lovely face. ‘You’re here because that complete bitch, Jezebel Montague, has stitched Jason up and we need you to go to New York and sort it, and her, out!’
The name Jezebel Montague rang a bell. One of Carly’s less appealing traits had been her ability to yak on endlessly about celebs. The only way I could get her to shut up was by threatening to talk about football in general and Arsenal in particular. Anyway, I remembered a time when Jezebel Montague had figured in Carly’s z-list monologue. I wasn’t interested in whatever stunt had landed her in the tabloid gossip columns, but I’d said with a moniker like Jezebel it was no wonder she was in trouble. Naturally, Carly had never heard of the dame in the Bible or why Jezebel was infamous, she just thought it was a cool name.
I forced the thought of Carly to the back of my mind and said, ‘OK. But just how has she stitched you up, Mr Mulwhinney?’
He looked a bit discomforted and slightly shifty. I wondered just how much of the truth I was going to hear. No man’s a villain in his own eyes, particularly when it comes to relationships with women, but I suspected Jezebel was going to be on the receiving end of a character assassination of epic proportions, whilst he would come out as the innocent and injured party. I was mostly correct.
‘Err … well I met Jezebel at an awards bash last year. As you may know she’s an up-and-coming actress and she is blessed with a real talent.’
Carmelita snorted at this and scowled. ‘Yeah, a real talent for lying on her back and opening her legs. She can fake better orgasms than Meg Ryan.’
Now I prefer action movies to rom-coms, but I’d actually seen “When Harry Met Sally” so the allusion didn’t go winging over my head. Mulwhinney glared at her and Carmelita quickly changed tack.
‘Not that she needed to fake them with you, darling. You’re the best.’ She flashed him a smile that was a potent mix of adoration and sexual promise. She was good. The smile actually reached her eyes, but something told me it was as phoney as a nine pound note and that if our Jason suddenly found himself without a pot to piss in she’d be gone like a dream in the night. But then maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. I wasn’t in a hearts and flowers kind of mood.
Mulwhinney took Carmelita’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you, sweetie … but I’m only the best because I have you.’ They simpered at each other, and I thought I was going to throw up. Instead, I cleared my throat loudly. Reluctantly, Mulwhinney dragged his gaze away from Carmelita’s big brown eyes and focussed on my unlovely mug.
‘I had a brief relationship with Jezebel. In fact, she persuaded me to let her move in here. It was never intended to be a permanent arrangement, but she was living in a grotty little cold water flat at the time and so I felt sorry for her.’
‘And the fact that she was as hot as a cheap pistol couldn’t have hurt either.’ I couldn’t believe I’d said that out loud, but the looks they both gave me told me I had. OK, so I didn’t see Jason Mulwhinney as an altruistic kind of guy, but I wasn’t being paid to give my opinions. I resolved to button my lip otherwise my chances of going on that all expenses paid trip to the Big Apple were going to go up in smoke.
‘You’re right, Mr Kyd, Jezebel has got a certain trashy sexuality, but that’s not why I allowed her to share my home.’
Carmelita butted in. ‘No, it’s because you’ve got a kind heart, cariad, and always see the best in people. The fact is, Mr Kyd, that bitch Jezebel wormed her way into Jason’s affections and then repaid his generosity by stabbing h
im in the back.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘And how exactly did she do that?’
‘She stole the manuscript of a one woman play I was writing for Carmelita based on the life and times of Shirley Bassey and ran off with it to New York.’
I pulled a face. ‘I don’t see the problem. Presumably you’ve got it all saved on your computer.’
‘I don’t have it saved on my computer, Mr Kyd, for the simple reason that I don’t write using a computer. I write everything in longhand and only when I’m completely happy with it do I allow it to be typed up.’
I blinked in disbelief. ‘Well, that’s delightfully old fashioned. Do many authors do it like that?’
‘Rather more than you’d imagine.’ He smiled patronisingly. ‘Now, you may think I’m eccentric but, for me, writing longhand is an utterly personal task where the outer world is closed off, and I have just my thoughts and the movement of my hand across the page to keep me company. The whole process keeps me in touch with the craft of writing. It's a deep-felt, uninterrupted connection between thought and language which technology seems to short circuit once I begin to use it.’ He chuckled self-deprecatingly. ‘Quite honestly, Mr Kyd, if everything is done on keyboards and fibre-optic wires, we may as well be writing shopping lists or investment reports.’
I wished I hadn’t asked. The smug bastard had the air of a man who’d never lose a race to be the first hand patting his own back. ‘Right, thanks for the insight, Mr Mulwhinney, but I’m a private detective not some highbrow journo interviewing you for the Sunday supplements.’
‘No, you’re certainly not a highbrow.’
Mulwhinney and I were definitely not hitting it off. I thought he was a pseudo bastard who’d got lucky in more ways than one. He obviously thought I was just a bastard. The thing was, I needed the job and he was the client, so it was up to me to back down pronto.
