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  Dying To Read

  Dying To Read

  John Elliott

  Chômu Press

  Dying To Read

  by John Elliott

  Published by Chômu Press, MMXI

  Dying To Read copyright © John Elliott 2010

  The right of John Elliott to be identified as Author of this

  Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Published in April 2011 by Chômu Press.

  by arrangement with the author.

  All rights reserved by the author.

  First Kindle Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Design and layout by: Bigeyebrow and Chômu Press

  Illustration by: Torso Vertical

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Internet: chomupress.com

  In Memory

  John Yuill, Jim Kennedy, Frank Oxberry

  “It’s always such a joy to read a novel which is truly original. John Elliott’s book is fast paced and funny, the plot intrigues, and the characters — many so inventively named — leap off the page.”

  Hilary Bonner

  “It’s always a particular pleasure to chance upon a cunning, erudite, stylish, inventive, unique but relatively obscure writer who, perhaps because of dissatisfaction with their own obscurity, makes a sudden wild attempt to break into the limelight, to write something more commercial, but who actually fails to ’sell out’ because they simply have too much integrity and talent. The result is often a curious hybrid between the popular and the avant garde, the low and the highbrow, with each component doing its best to sabotage its opposite. John Elliott’s brilliant novel falls squarely into this category, but the self-sabotage becomes symbiosis. Dying to Read is a marvellous slide along the high tension wires of a vast imagination with nothing but a frayed belt to keep you above the intertextual chasm. Gut wrenching potboiler, postmodern farce, metafictional improvisation, genuinely wicked satire, it perfectly fuses hot momentum with cool profundity, making extensive use of slick dialogue and puzzling plot devices. A major delight to read and savour!”

  Rhys Hughes

  Contents

  1. A Naughty Deed in the Best of all Possible Worlds

  2. Let’s Have Some Dialogue

  3. The Bones Detective Agency

  4. Self Expression

  5. Antique Dogs and Shall We Dance

  6. Is Love Like Music the Answer?

  7. Alone But Not Unhappy

  8. Norma In Bed

  9. As the Judge Said, Anyone Can Enter the Ritz Hotel

  10. Etiquette for Beginners (1)

  11. Sleuthing Twosome

  12. Etiquette for Beginners (2)

  13. Geraldine in Spankerland

  14. In Which Nothing Much Happens, or is it Simply In Between?

  15. Playtime

  16. A Lady Client Withdraws

  17. The Path I Tread

  18. Confessions of Norma

  19. A Boy’s Best Friend

  20. Synchronicity

  21. Missing You in Montevideo

  22. Afternoon Ices and a Tap on the Head

  23. Busy Busy

  24. Suspect Mourners

  25. Baby Talk

  26. A Good Deed in the Worst of all Possible Worlds

  27. Fare Well

  28. Read Me

  Chapter 1

  A Naughty Deed in the Best of all Possible Worlds

  Augustin Cox opened the fridge door, leant down and picked up the three-quarter empty plastic milk bottle nestled beside its full replacement. He tilted it up to the light and squinted at its content trying to work out if it was curdled or still usable. A preliminary sniff was needed in order to make sure. His fingers moved to unscrew the cap. It was the last voluntary action his body made before a sharp downward blow thudded into the back of his scalp. He crumpled to the floor, while the remnant of a thought — I’d better lie down — vanished as quickly as it had registered.

  Though Augustin was already dead his assailant hit him twice more instinctively until composure took over and a more measured gaze took in the surprising neatness of the cramped galley-style kitchen. There was blood, of course, but not as much as might have been expected. Its faint spray was certain to have permeated the immediate area. The weapon itself was stained. No doubt now particles of skin and hair adhered to its surface. Murder like everything else had its little ramifications, traces which weren’t easily eradicated. However, there was no spilt milk, literally speaking, because, although the bottle lay beside him on the floor, Augustin hadn’t actually got round to unscrewing the cap. Otherwise things were as they should be. His mobile phone located and secured. The dishes piled up in the rack had already been washed. All the burners on the gas cooker were off. No other pots or pans were visible. On the calendar above the fridge next to tomorrow’s date someone, presumably Augustin, had scribbled the initials LR and a time 10.30. No mystery there. The only question was whether to shut the fridge door or leave it open? The intruder giggled. An open and shut case. Why not leave it as it was in a testimony to the victim’s final act? For Gussie baby was a victim now. No longer a person. No longer — but there was no need to actually put it in words. His life in digital terms had become a zero. There was time to afford a glance at the clock on the near wall. Time and space to stand and watch the last number slide away before revealing the next. Exactly three minutes past four am but time waits etc. Plenty though to pop the proverbial blunt instrument into the supermarket bag-for-life. Enough to go whilst this calm persisted. One careful look out the front door. No-one was outside on the narrow walkway. No sounds other than the habitual early morning bird calls of I’m here, I’m here. The door closed behind with a satisfying click.

  *

  The front door bell rang and kept ringing for a good minute. Later the post person shoved junk mail through the letter box. In time it and utility bills lay unopened in the silent hallway. On either side the neighbours delighted in the newfound peace. Gus Cox must be away and long might it continue. Muffled shrieks and hollers no longer came through the walls. No Latino combos, trumpeting their crescendos in the small hours of the morning, caused them to thump through while furniture was dragged back and forth senselessly in an accompanying counter-rhythm. Now the dawn arrived with only the steady drone and roar of aircraft overhead, which was such a given that it passed by virtually unnoticed.

  Day after day this welcome peace reigned such as it was for there never could be perfect peace what with the illegals, the Roms, the dealers’ boltholes and their own relatives for that matter. Through shift work, late hours office cleaning, afternoons down the Wetherspoons, on the mobile to the betting exchanges, visits to the job centre, at the vet with little Rudy, who needed another costly injection, on the raz, up the mother-in-law’s the days passed and no sight or hair of Gus next door, the, wherever he was from, fucker with that accent sliding all over the place which nobody could quite pin down. Simple to say he had disappeared. Unsociable bastard anyway. No cronies called. No girlfriend wanting to know what had happened. No mum or dad from round here. If you could say anything it would be he was one of them and them covered a multitude.

  The accumulating and persistent smell though was different. Sure some people had rung the bell and had rung again as if they thought — I don’t care how long it takes. I’m going to stay here until you bloody well open the door. But they were official in the kind of way they made their inquiries: Housing Association busybodies after rent, all ingra
tiating and trying to make sure they remembered which names were at which number, debt collectors acting tough but weary behind the eyes, assorted psychopaths posing as born-again evangelicals or collecting on behalf of the Rosicrucian Brotherhood and all asking if Mr Cox was likely to be at home later today or if not when. They were easy to get rid of, but that completely new, totally unsettling smell was something that no longer could be ignored. Finally Leonie and Delman at 146 and Bert and Oswald at 148 agreed together in an informal pow wow that the situation was so serious that, much as they might subscribe to live and let live, somebody should inform the council, the priest or, heaven forfend, the law as Leonie, always the bravest of the brave, eventually muttered.

  In the event, Oswald casually dropped a hint to Father Xavier after the early morning mass that a neighbour, whom he scarcely knew and of whose religion or lack of it he knew even less, might, having been unseen for several weeks, be stinking up the place to the discomfort of the righteous. Father Xavier, a cleric much more acquainted in the ways of the world than many of his parishioners might have dreamed of, knew a hint when he heard one. He, therefore, lost no time in contacting a GP friend and the local constabulary. Within the hour they met in situ outside Flat 147. ‘Prepare yourselves,’ Father Xavier said, unnecessarily for the stink told all.

  ‘You hope you won’t see it again,’ the doctor said, ‘but see it again we will.’

  ‘Gentlemen, please stand aside,’ ordered the police sergeant as he motioned to the constable to attack the door with the heavy battering equipment. The experienced among them wondered how dense the flies would be inside.

  Chapter 2

  Let’s Have Some Dialogue

  ‘Feltham young and not so young offenders.’ DS Pat Kirkland grinned across the desk to her new oppo, DC Hamish Ogden, late of Thornton Heath CID, as she stuck the phone to her ear. ‘You want intelligence? Well you’ve come to the right place let me tell you. What we don’t know is the proverbial not worth knowing. We might be stuck away here in Heathrow perimeterville, but we’ve still got our fingers on the pulse and most other body parts if the overtime will allow.’

  Hamish groaned inwardly. Every workplace, or was it still in West London predominantly every factory or even Gawd help us every manor — it was difficult to separate genuine language from the overlay of fictional cop talk — had to have a wise-arse.

  ‘Augustin Cox. Who he, Threepio? No lo parler Deutchygramophon. Well as Frostie the snowman says the clues are there, and I guess you are the smart operator to figure them out? No. Well OK. Remember the DI won’t be back until tomorrow, but we’re on our way. Give me the address again.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘Hamish we’re on the scent, buddy boy. Suspicious death and a partially decomposed ex-inhabitant of Bedfont, beloved hell-hole in song and story. That was Jimmy Houston the SOCO. He’s already there. I’ll get uniform to start a door to door.’

  Set in the Staines, Ashford, Hounslow, Feltham conglomerate with Heathrow the focal point Bedfont was only an adjunct. Another shabby dispersal point for city dwellers relocated to smaller Housing Trust flats it also afforded, temporarily it was hoped, shelter for recently arrived immigrants.

  This was the landscape J G Ballard once loved, Hamish thought, neither one thing nor the other, as he drove the still talkative Pat towards the scene of the crime if indeed there had been a crime committed. A mixture of tawdry built up areas interlarded with scrubby bits of land where gypsies and travellers still occasionally loosed their horses. The old plethora of market gardens now virtually extinct. The once notorious Bath Rd, a former haunt of highwaymen and footpads, rendered insignificant amongst the motorway flyovers and the coils of its connections. A permanent outskirt not of London anymore but of the soon to be greater megalopolis of the airport.

  ‘Half a euro for ‘em,’ said Pat. ‘Don’t go all deep, silent and interesting on me. Remember I’m the skipper and you’re still the fresh-faced kid from Thornton Heath. Not your first decomposed is it?’

  Hamish shook his head. ‘No. Did you ever see the movie Crash? The one where people fetishise about car accidents. I was thinking of the author of the original book.’

  Pat looked at him keenly. ‘I may be kinky, Princess Leia, and certainly horny, but that’s way off my space patrol, and my sister thought you were such a nice boy, too. It’s next right and then second right again into the estate unless you plan to drive us into that wall.’

  ‘You don’t have a sister,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m careful who I work with. Families get in the way.’

  ‘An’ my old man an’ my little Bronco Billy who’re they, Hercule, my slim Belgian amigo?’

  ‘That’s your husband and child. You chose them more or less. I was talking about the other kind. The ones you can do nothing about.’ He swung off the road, took the second right as requested, parked the car then beeped it shut behind them.

  ‘Jesus. I’m getting old. Times are a-changing,’ said Pat approaching the doorway to Block C. ‘Not a single lurchin’ urchin around to vandalise the car. You wonder what the underclass are coming to. Grand Auto Theft 24 is more exciting I suppose. At least it’s on the third floor. A bit of exercise up the stairs will do me good.’

  The estate and indeed its adjacent counterpart could have been situated in any urban sprawl anywhere in Britain. How many times have I been here before, thought Hamish in the dank atmosphere of the stairwell leading to the first, the second and eventually the third floor? And no doubt I’ll be here again and again.

  ‘So no DI then,’ said Jimmy Houston when they entered the cordoned off entrance to 147, put on their protective clothing and adjusted their face masks.

  ‘Full day at a seminar,’ Pat replied. ‘The usual management hanky panky. Young Hamish here still in last place first out. What you got for us, Jimmy, that will let us sleep o’ nights? Phew it doesn’t half pen and ink! Why the neighbours didn’t rumble it earlier only the Obi Wan Kanobe knows.’ She hunched her shoulders and shook her head. ‘Have a quick butchers in the bedrooms,’ she said to Hamish. ‘Two of them?’

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Deceased obviously lived alone. Patho’s late. Another stiff in Hounslow East and the road works buggering up traffic. Uniforms found an empty wallet otherwise not much joy so far. Most probably the deceased’s prints in the majority. State of body doesn’t help. A few others here and in the main bedroom. Kitchen well wiped. Same as milk bottle by corpse. However, I did get a print from the rim of the cap. The boarding party messy, of course, and the clear up bluebottle operation on top. Council quick off the mark on that for once. No sign of previous forced entry by the way.’

  ‘Spot anything?’ Pat asked as Hamish re-entered.

  ‘Second one’s virtually a box room. Everything’s surprisingly tidy for a single bloke. Nothing else in a casual shufti.’

  ‘Well this bloke’s gonna become our bosom buddy by the time we’ve finished getting to know him. Anyway into every life as the judge said to the expert witness. We can’t put it off for ever. Let’s go and see what remains.’ She led the way into the kitchen. ‘The linoleum’s buggered for a start. Whole place’ll have a refit. Poor lamb. Nobody else had a key presumably. It’s gotta be ten weeks or more. Hopefully, the patho when he finally gets here can give us something more definite. Jimmy,’ she called back through to the sitting room, ‘where are our friendly scum the press, the running lapdogs of their mobiles?’

  ‘I texted them myself and offered the pics to the highest bidder,’ came the shouted reply.

  ‘Rascal,’ laughed Pat. ‘Remember us when the divvy comes home. Any of the neighbours in?’

  ‘148. They poked their heads out when I arrived.’

  ‘Be a sweetheart, Hamish. Pop in while they’re there. Cosy up and give ‘em a bit of inside info, you know, whet their appetite and get ‘em co-operating. Attaboy. Don’t just stand there with your eyes on the wall. Get round and have some dialogue.’

  ‘LR,’ said Hamish moving closer to the fridge and looking at the
calendar above. ‘The letters are faded but they’re LR alright. Can’t make the rest out against them under the 19th March. Something to do or someone to meet? Entered by the victim or written by someone else?’

  ‘Or already done? Jimmy, have you finished in here? Got anything else?’

  Jimmy reappeared in the doorway and shook his head. ‘I’ve covered it. Nothing. No doubt some of the victim’s handwriting will turn up, but I haven’t seen anything so far. Bloke next door is Bert Hill, by the way The other one living with him is Oswald something…’

  Hamish left, glad to stand momentarily in the open out of the fug of the murder scene, because murder it certainly was, what with the obvious blow by some kind of serious instrument to the remains of Augustin Cox’s cranium. The scene below in the courtyard, still unencumbered by any of Pat’s vanished urchins, was peaceful in contrast. Its outlines, though, somehow seemed intensified. The parked vehicles and vacant spaces appeared more solid, more empty now. Life and the perception of being alive here outside were sharpened in some way by the death which had occurred inside. A lot of the time I’m on automatic pilot, thought Hamish, but now after I’ve stood over a dead body I feel strangely more alive. Another moment’s contemplation, and the courtyard below slipped back into its usual inconsequential normalcy. He turned and rapped the brass knocker in the shape of a galleon twice on the adjoining door. A bald-headed man dressed in a baggy grey sweatshirt drooping over khaki shorts opened up. Hamish guessed he had been waiting close by for the knock to come. His bare toes poked out of open sandals. ‘Mr Hill? I’m Hamish Ogden, Feltham CID.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘May I come in and have a word?’