Praise for

THE PAPERBACK SLEUTH SERIES

“An intriguing mystery with an amoral protagonist. Who
knew the world of paperback books could be so deadly?”

Ben Aaronovitch, author of the Rivers of London series

“Andrew Cartmel introduces a new kind of heroine,
entirely immoral, somewhat venal and slightly foxed.”

David Quantick, Emmy award-winning producer of VEEP

“Packed with Andrew Cartmel’s customary wit
and cleverness, the Paperback Sleuth novels make a
splendid successor to the Vinyl Detective.”

Stuart Douglas, author of Death at the Dress Rehearsal and Death at the Playhouses

“Tightly plotted and hugely enjoyable. I raced
to the end to find out whodunnit.”

Nev Fountain, author of The Fan Who Knew
Too Much and Lies and Dolls

“A quirky crime yarn bound to hit the sweet spot for mystery lovers.”

Kirkus Reviews

“Cartmel has never been better than in this darkly
funny series kickoff… Fans of Lynne Truss’s Constable
Twitten novels will find much to love.”

Publishers Weekly Starred Review on Death in Fine Condition

“Devilishly clever… richly suspenseful…
readers will be primed for more.”

Booklist on Death in Fine Condition

Also by Andrew Cartmel
and available from Titan Books

THE VINYL DETECTIVE SERIES

Written in Dead Wax

The Run-Out Groove

Victory Disc

Flip Back

Low Action

Attack and Decay

Noise Floor

Underscore

THE PAPERBACK SLEUTH SERIES

Death in Fine Condition

Ashram Assassin

LEAVE US A REVIEW

We hope you enjoy this book – if you did we would really appreciate it if you can write a short review. Your ratings really make a difference for the authors, helping the books you love reach more people.

You can rate this book, or leave a short review here:

Amazon.com,

Amazon.co.uk,

Goodreads,

Barnes & Noble,

Waterstones,

or your preferred retailer.

The Paperback Sleuth: Like a Bullet

Print edition ISBN: 9781803367941

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803367958

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: June 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 Andrew Cartmel.

Andrew Cartmel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

EU RP (for authorities only)

eucomply OÜ, Pärnu mnt. 139b-14, 11317 Tallinn, Estonia

hello@eucompliancepartner.com, +3375690241

For Stephen Wyatt

“What like a bullet can undeceive”

Herman Melville—Shiloh: A Requiem

1: A MODEST RETAINER

It was a weird house, but then a rock star lived here.

Well, an ex-rock star. A former rock star.

Cordelia felt that handy two-word phrases like “washed up” and “has been” would have been tempting to apply to her prospective client. But there were reasons not to apply them…

None to do with Cordelia having to respect her clients; if she had to do that, she wouldn’t have any. Clients, that is.

But there was no denying that this fellow was filthy rich; certainly a millionaire several times over.

Witness the house. It was actually situated right beside the river in the riverside suburb of Barnes—zeros were already sprouting vigorously west of the decimal point on its market value in Cordelia’s mind—it was a white monolith, three storeys high with a view of the Thames flowing serenely by. And, in Cordelia’s view, a Bauhaus monstrosity which might well have been inflicted on the world by the same mischievous mad architect who had created the local church (St Drogo’s).

If so, Cordelia wondered what had prompted the mischievous madman to create a sunken alleyway that ran around the basement of this house, like a kind of modernist moat, which necessitated an eccentric miniature black iron bridge to cross from the front gate to the front door. It was a sort of permanently fixed drawbridge.

Which, if you thought about it, was a contradiction in terms.

Cordelia thought about it as she clanked across the pointless drawbridge and rang the bell beside the front door.

There was no immediate answer, so she had a chance to inspect the doormat at her feet, which read: Come in, we are awesome.

Cordelia thought it would be awesome if someone answered the damned door. Eventually someone did. It was a small, smartly dressed woman who looked like she came from the Far East and sounded like she came from Birmingham. “Are you here to see Erik?” she said.

“Yes. Cordelia Stanmer.”

“Come in.” The woman led her through a hallway with a bookcase in it—Cordelia almost got whiplash trying to inspect the paperbacks inside as they strode swiftly past—and into a kitchen. It was a large kitchen and equipped with numerous shiny chrome gadgets, most of them with a retro look which had been obviously chosen to go with the general vibe of the room.

That general vibe being 1950s American diner.

Doubtless to facilitate the consumption of burgers and shakes in this gleaming retreat, the main feature of the kitchen was a long tongue of a counter with a mint green laminate top. On either side of the counter were high shining chrome stools with circular seats covered with bright red leather.

The woman indicated that Cordelia should sit on one of these, though she didn’t indicate which one.

“Erik will be down soon,” she said, and left.

This parting declaration should have been reassuring, but unfortunately the word “soon” seemed somehow to indicate its opposite.

All the more reason to take a seat. There were half a dozen of the stools. Cordelia sat down on the one nearest her and discovered that it spun around in a circle, which was fun and gave her a chance for a 360-degree inspection of the kitchen. As she was spinning around on the stool, she noticed there was a gleaming chrome lever jutting from the base of her gleaming chrome seat.

You’d have to be a very boring person not to pull that lever.

Cordelia was not a very boring person.

She pulled the lever.

Which was why she was both rotating on the stool and gradually sinking down when someone came into the room. And, perhaps justifiably, stared at her.

Luckily it wasn’t her prospective client, Erik. Or at least it wasn’t Erik unless he’d undergone a serious transformation since the images she’d seen of him had been posted online. (Always smart to check someone out before you go to their house; and let them hire you for a job.)

Of course, with a rock star, or former rock star, you could never be sure.

In any event, the person who came into the kitchen was a woman. She passed through Cordelia’s vision twice as Cordelia rotated on the stool, before belatedly arresting her spin and trying to look businesslike. This necessitated pulling the chrome lever again and allowing the red cushioned seat to rise slowly and pneumatically back up under her thighs to a sensible height.

All that done, Cordelia and the woman looked at each other.

The woman was wearing a pair of silver-rimmed pince-nez spectacles with lavender lenses. She had a thin face and was thin generally, and tall. She was dressed in flared black knit toledo trousers and a matching black top over a red T-shirt with a white logo which at first glance appeared to be the Coca-Cola slogan. But which, on closer inspection, actually read: Enjoy Cock.

The woman had long blonde hair worn in a braid. Judging by her age, which had to be sixty-ish, it was doubtful the blonde was a natural shade. And the same could presumably be said for the lavender streak in it, which rather nattily matched her glasses.

She was holding a black satin clutch bag which she pointed at Cordelia as if it was non-threatening weapon. Although it was only really non-threatening if you hadn’t clocked it was a Jimmy Choo and cost the better part of a thousand pounds.

“You’re the Paperback Sleuth?” said the woman.

“Cordelia Stanmer,” said Cordelia, resisting the ridiculous impulse to add, At your service.

“We’ve had the Vinyl Detective here,” said the woman informatively, settling down onto a stool immediately across from Cordelia and setting her preposterously expensive clutch bag down on the counter in front of them. Its black satin shape looked particularly lovely on the pale green surface, and Cordelia supressed a tiny but authentic impulse to grab it and run. “But only socially. Never in a business capacity.” She scrutinised Cordelia. “Erik doesn’t collect records.”

“No?” said Cordelia, by way of showing that she was a gifted conversationalist who could hold up her own end.

“But he does collect guitars. And, more to the point, books.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia, demonstrating more conversational excellence.

“In fact, he collects loads of crazier-than-a-shithouse-rat books about World War Two,” said the woman. “So does Bong Cha.”

“Ah,” said Cordelia wisely. Or as wisely as she could under the circumstances. Which included having not the slightest idea who, or what, Bong Cha might be.

The woman came to her rescue. “That was Bong who let you in. She’s Erik’s housekeeper. Our housekeeper, I suppose, now that I live here. Though I’m buggered if I feel comfortable with the notion of having a housekeeper.”

“Mmm,” said Cordelia.

“It doesn’t mean anything to do with a bong,” said the woman. “In case you were wondering. Her name. It’s got nothing to do with smoking a bong.”

“What a shame,” said Cordelia. The first words of sense she’d uttered since the woman had come into the kitchen to find her spinning, and descending slowly, on her stool.

The woman smiled at her and Cordelia felt some cannabinoid bonding commencing between them. “It means virtuous daughter or something. Bong Cha. In Korean. I suppose her poor parents had to call her something. I’m Helene, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Helene,” said Cordelia. She made a lightning decision and took a chance by extending her hand for a handshake.

Luckily Helene didn’t leave it hanging humiliatingly in midair and they shook hands briefly above the Jimmy Choo, Cordelia taking advantage of the opportunity to surreptitiously rub her bare wrist across the black satin. Christ, it felt soft.

“So, you’re going to be looking for some books for Erik?” said Helene.

“Just paperbacks,” said Cordelia. “I only find paperbacks. Hence the name.”

“Well thank feck for that,” said Helene. “No more giant hardcovers please about the war in the Pacific. Just to name one theatre of operations. Don’t get me wrong, Erik has a shitload of money and he’s earned it. If he wants to throw it around, he’s more than welcome to do so. I don’t mind him buying nutty war books. I don’t even mind him paying through the nose for them. Within reason.” She peered closely at Cordelia. “Do you intend to make him pay through the nose for them?”

“Within reason,” said Cordelia.

“Fine,” said Helene. “However, that’s not why we’re having this conversation.”

“Why are we having this conversation?” said Cordelia. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I wanted to get a look at you,” said Helene, adjusting her pince-nez. “Before Erik had a chance to. And I’m glad I did.” Helene picked up the black satin bag—Cordelia was sad to have it removed from her immediate vicinity—and pointed it at her again. “Because you’re very good looking.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

“Okay,” said Cordelia.

“What it is, potentially, is a problem.”

“Why?” said Cordelia.

“Take a wild guess.”

“Because of Erik?” suggested Cordelia.

Helene took a deep breath. Or perhaps sighed a profound sigh. “Erik and I have got a good thing going.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t interrupt.”

“Okay,” said Cordelia.

“Please. I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a difficult enough conversation as it is.”

“I won’t interrupt.”

“You just did. Sorry. I really don’t mean to be rude…”

“But this is a difficult conversation,” said Cordelia.

“Yes.”

“Let me make it easier for you,” said Cordelia. “This is only a wild guess, but given that Erik is a retired rock star…”

“Who said he’s retired?”

“Please don’t interrupt,” said Cordelia, delighted to turn the tables. “But given his carefree bohemian rock lifestyle and his, ah, no doubt extensive romantic history, you’re concerned he might try and sleep with me because I am, as you said, irresistible.”

“I never said irresistible.”

“So, you’re warning me off,” said Cordelia.

Helene shook her head vigorously. “Of course I’m not warning you off. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that.”

“Why not?” said Cordelia.

“Because if I warned you off, that would only make you more likely to do something, out of bad temper, vindictiveness and spite.”

Wow, this woman is good, thought Cordelia.

“Therefore, I am not warning you off,” said Helene. “What I am doing is paying you off.”

Oh boy, thought Cordelia as Helene opened her black satin clutch bag and took out a chequebook. “Do you know what this is?” she said, waving the floppy rectangle at Cordelia.

“Chequebook,” said Cordelia.

“Just checking, no pun intended. You can never be sure with young people these days. Did I just say ‘young people these days’? Christ, I’m turning into my parents. Anyway, you probably think it’s antiquated. Having a chequebook.”

“Not at all,” said Cordelia politely. “I’m thinking of getting one myself.”

Helene inspected her closely. “Are you taking the piss?”

“Far from it. An old-style paper cheque is a super-secure form of payment these days compared to the electronic options, which are vulnerable to the predations of any bored pre-teen with a smartphone.”

“That’s exactly what I think,” said Helene, slapping the chequebook on the countertop to emphasise her point. Then, suddenly, “Would you like a drink? We have an astounding selection of vodkas.” She hopped off her stool, showing laudable nimbleness in a woman of her years, and crouched on the floor. A fleeting impression—both terrible and gratifying—that she was about to worship Cordelia from this position was dispelled as she popped open the door of a kitchen cabinet fitted under the countertop.

Helene emerged with a clinking clutch of bottles and set them out on the counter. They were an eccentric variety of vodkas, which she proceeded to itemize. “Marshmallow, salted caramel, lemon birthday cake… and toffee popcorn. Lemon birthday cake used to be my favourite, but then I discovered the toffee popcorn. And, oh my gawd.” She gave Cordelia a bright, hopeful look. “Would you like one?”

“Better not, before I talk business with Erik.”

Helene sat back down, seeming only mildly disappointed.

“Fair enough. Sensible. Where was I?”

Before Cordelia could reply—she wasn’t even sure she remembered herself—Helene spotted the chequebook lying on the counter. “Ah, right, speaking of business.” She looked Cordelia squarely in the eye in a no-bullshit kind of way and Cordelia did her best to return that gaze.

“Now, what I want to do is make sure there’s no chance of anything rocking the boat with me and Erik. Erik is only human and you’re sufficiently cute to potentially trigger some boat rocking. Potentially a lot of boat rocking. Now, I’m not saying he would try anything, or that you’d even be amenable…”

Thank god for that, thought Cordelia. This was a former rock star old enough to be her grandfather, millionaire or not. Plus, he was a World War Two nut. Talk about turn-offs.

“But one thing can lead to another,” said Helene sagely. She picked up the chequebook and flopped it around in the air. The poor little chequebook must be getting dizzy. “So, I’m paying you to guarantee that one thing—should there even be one thing—does not lead to another.”

Helene delved into her clutch bag, took out a pen, and proceeded to write in the chequebook with firm, angular handwriting. She tore a cheque out of the book and handed it to Cordelia. It was a sum in the low three figures, worth getting out of bed in the morning for, certainly, but rather an annoyingly low price to put on one’s virtue.

Helene seemed to agree. “That’s just a modest retainer,” she said, returning pen and chequebook to their Jimmy Choo residence.

“So that I retain my modesty,” said Cordelia.

“Nice one. Yes. While you interact with Erik, correct. And, if at the end of your assignment—finding whatever dumb war paperbacks Erik is after—if everything is still hunky dory, then I’ll pay you a bonus which is considerably larger than that. Fair dos?”

“Fair dos,” said Cordelia, folding the cheque and putting it carefully in the pocket of her jeans. She wondered if she should offer to shake hands again, but this quandary was resolved by Helene standing up from her stool in a meeting-ending sort of way.

“Don’t tell Erik we had this little chat.”

“I won’t.”

“Right, bye,” said Helene. And she was gone. Leaving Cordelia to read the fine print on the vodka bottles, for want of anything more edifying. She had reached the point of wondering if she could sneak out into the hallway to check out the paperbacks in that bookcase when there was finally the sound of an approaching rock star.

Erik Make Loud—he had been christened Eric McCloud but his sensible, normal name had been just one more rock and roll casualty—strode in, radiating good health and fitness, which were the last things Cordelia had expected him to radiate.

He was wearing a green shirt with a small, pointed collar and two large chest pockets. It would have looked quite military but for the fact it was sleeveless. That and the Calvin Klein logo, which was almost as large as the chest pockets. The shirt revealed surprisingly well-muscled arms, which was no doubt the whole point of the sleeveless thing. But no tattoos, which was also surprising. Erik’s black jeans were stylishly torn at the knees and he wore pink Converse high tops. Apparently, this was a rock star in touch with his feminine side.

He sat down opposite Cordelia, on a stool which would have still been warm from its erstwhile occupancy by Helene if he hadn’t made his guest hang around waiting for so long, and smiled at her.

Erik possessed a rather bulging and slightly asymmetrical nose, but otherwise he wasn’t too far from being handsome. His face was a trifle ravaged by the years and the onslaught of assorted pharmaceuticals, but much less ravaged than you might expect. He had long hair, quite grey and entirely undyed, which also seemed to count in his favour. It was gathered into a braid no doubt deliberately intended to resemble the one Helene had. His facial hair was the same grey but thankfully was limited to a small moustache and a neat little square patch under his lower lip.

He smiled at Cordelia long enough for her to register that his teeth were perfect.

Then he said, “You’re Stinky Stanmer’s sister.”

Cordelia winced inwardly. It was her cross to bear that her detestable brother Stuart aka Stinky was a DJ and minor celebrity. And detestable. That couldn’t be mentioned too many times. “Let’s not talk about that,” she said.

“Okay,” said Erik. “And apparently we have a mutual friend. Jordon.”

Cordelia was about to ask who the hell Jordon was when it clicked. “Tinkler?”

“Yeah, right. Jordon Tinkler. Good mate of mine. Apparently, you guys were going out.” Erik suddenly noticed the vodka bottles. “What the hell is this?”

“Vodka.”

“I can see that. Why isn’t it in the vodka cupboard? Did you get it out?”

“Of course not,” said Cordelia, truthfully.

“Why won’t people leave things in their proper place?” enquired Erik rhetorically. He scooped the bottles up and knelt more or less at Cordelia’s feet, in a similar posture to the one recently adopted by Helene, as he returned them to the cupboard beneath the counter. This gave Cordelia the chance to inspect the top of his head, on which there was no sign of any incipient male pattern baldness. Good for Erik.

He slammed the cupboard door shut and hopped back onto the stool opposite Cordelia.

“Where was I?”

“You know Tinkler,” prompted Cordelia.

“Yes, that’s it. So naturally I had a word with him when I was thinking about hiring you.”

“What did he say?”

“Please come back to him. He misses you.”

“That’s sweet,” said Cordelia.

“I’ve edited out some of the smut,” said Erik.

“Naturally.”

“Do you think you will go back to him?”

“I couldn’t really go back to him because we were never really together.”

“Fine with me,” said Erik breezily. “Anyway, I checked you out with Tinkler and do you want to know what he said? He said you have absolutely no moral compass.” Erik seemed enormously amused to be imparting this information.

“He’s one to talk,” said Cordelia.

“But if you’re looking for rare paperbacks—and I am—he said there’s no one better suited to the task of finding them.”

“But you already knew that,” said Cordelia.

Despite this being their first face-to-face meeting, Erik had been a client of hers, purely in a mail order capacity, for some years now. And Cordelia had sporadically found him some very nice items. Hence, she’d assumed, her summons to appear here today. “What about those Sven Hassels I located for you?” she said.

Sven Hassel was a Danish novelist who had supposedly fought with the Wehrmacht and wrote a series of bestselling pulp novels about the bloodthirsty adventures of a group of tough misfits in a penal Panzer regiment. A Panzer was a kind of tank. The books had sold in huge quantities despite being unmoored from any recognisable reality; Cordelia was particularly fond of the soldiers’ pet cat who had his own Obergefreiter (private first class) uniform. Although she was herself a dog person, Cordelia felt that a cat deserved a higher rank than that. Anyway, Sven Hassel, despite being dead for decades, still had a thriving cult following.

Including the man sitting opposite her.

Erik’s face lit up at the mention of the paperbacks Cordelia had found for him at a charity shop in Putney and had sold on to him at an enormous profit. If he’d known how enormous, his face might not have lit up quite so brightly.

But as it was, Erik emanated unguarded, childlike delight. “Oh man, they were brilliant,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

Cordelia basked in the glow of his praise.

“They were in absolutely mint condition,” said Erik.

Cordelia didn’t correct him by telling him that books were actually graded “fine” not “mint”. Why be a dick?

“Thank you,” said Erik again.

“You’re welcome”

“Would you like a drink?” Sudden puzzlement and a hint of frustration supplanted the delight on Erik’s face. “Shit, did I just put the vodka away?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, no problem, I can take it out again. Would you like a drink?”

As a matter of fact, the toffee popcorn tipple did sound tempting—so much so that Cordelia was worried her stomach might betray her and start rumbling, something it had never done in connection with booze before—but she decided it was best to retain a businesslike demeanour. And who knows, if they started necking vodka, one thing might lead to another…

And she had just been paid a retainer to make sure it didn’t.

So she said, “No thank you. A bit early in the day.”

“Is it?”

“And I want to keep a clear head for the no doubt cutthroat business negotiations which are about to take place.”

Erik gave a gurgling giggle and settled comfortably onto his stool once more, dutifully forgetting about the vodka so enticingly close at hand. Or, given its location, close at foot.

He leaned a little nearer to Cordelia across the counter, bringing about both an air of conspiracy and the aroma of costly perfume.

“You’re right. You’ve found me some great books in the past. Some of them pretty rare. Some of them fairly valuable. But this is different. This is a whole different level of rare and valuable. This is the big one.”

2: EDIT WAR

“What do you know about the Commando novels?” said Erik.

Cordelia had done her homework. “They’re a series of British paperback originals, written by someone under the hilarious pseudonym of Butch Raider.”

Erik grinned at her. “It is pretty hilarious. But they are really good.” He assumed a serious expression. “More than good. Brilliantly written.”

Well, Cordelia reflected, Erik had to believe this since he was about to be separated from some fairly large sums of money in pursuit of these dumb books. He was watching her carefully so she made sure these sardonic musings didn’t show on her face. Or at least she thought she did, but judging by the way Erik suddenly grew defensive, either he was better at picking up on this stuff or she was worse at concealing it than she’d thought.

“Have you ever read any of them?” he demanded.

“Any of Butch Raider’s oeuvre?” said Cordelia.

Erik grinned again. “Okay, it’s a stupid name and the covers are a bit off-putting. You know, lurid.”

Cordelia shook her head and said, “The cover art is actually great. In this case, lurid is good.”

“You think so?” he said.

“It’s aimed at a certain market,” said Cordelia. “And it’s ideally suited to that market. And at least it isn’t photographic.”

Cordelia had a particular loathing for photographic “art” on paperback covers. With a few key exceptions (Adrian Flowers, Bob Brooks, Harri Peccinotti, Brian Duffy), give her a painting any day. Even these lurid, to quote Erik, examples.

She took out her phone and went through some of the Commando covers, showing them to him on the other side of the counter. “Admittedly, it’s somewhat amusing, the little flames coming out of the barrels of their little guns,” she said.

Erik barked with laughter. “I didn’t realise you were so familiar with the series,” he said.

Cordelia put her phone away. “Only because I did some research before I came over here. Based on your initial email.” His initial email had been, essentially a list of titles he was after, and a request—actually, it was more like a demand—that they should meet up in person to discuss the deal. “And,” said Cordelia, “it should be fairly straightforward to get virtually all of the books you requested.”

Erik brightened visibly when he heard this. “They have to be in good condition, though. When I say ‘good’ condition—”

“You don’t actually mean ‘good’ condition,” said Cordelia swiftly, because if someone was going to state the thunderingly, boringly, numbingly obvious it was going to be her. “Because in book-collecting terms, ‘good’ condition means bad condition. Shitty condition in fact.”

Erik was nodding like a nodding dog in a car. Cordelia’s dad had one of those. But then Cordelia’s dad was weird. Anyway, that was how Erik was nodding. “You want copies in mint condition,” said Cordelia, who then took a metaphorical deep breath and followed it by taking the equally metaphorical plunge, “Which incidentally, boring fucking book pedants actually call ‘fine’ condition. Not ‘mint’.”

She threw in the swearing because she thought Erik would appreciate it, rock star and all.

And he did.

“They do, do they?” he said.

“Yup. ‘Mint’ is for coins and stamps. And comics.”

“And records,” said Erik.

“Yes,” conceded Cordelia.

“Then what I want is copies in fine condition.”

“But of course,” said Cordelia.

“Because the copies I’ve already got are knackered.” He grinned at her, showing those expensively perfect choppers again. “In other words, they’re only in good condition.”

“I’ll make sure we put that right,” said Cordelia.

“Brilliant,” said Erik. “Now, how about some vodka?” He kicked the cupboard containing the exciting and varied bottles of spirit, but it was a gentle, affectionate sort of kick.

“Not just yet,” said Cordelia. Or indeed ever, she added silently, thinking of the cheque in her pocket and a much larger one to come, down the line. If she was good. Which meant no vodka. Especially since they hadn’t finished talking business yet. Erik’s look of crestfallen disappointment was brief, boyish and rather touching. “There’s one more crucial thing to discuss,” said Cordelia.

“Yeah?” he said, unconvinced. Then he mimed chagrin at his own absent-mindedness, stopping short of slapping himself on the forehead, but not far short. “Oh, you mean we need to talk about money.”

“Well, yes, that too,” said Cordelia, feeling a warm glow at the mention of remuneration. But it was a premature warm glow and she knew it, because she was about to disappoint her prospective employer and that never made for generous paydays. “But there is one title on your list that I’m not sure I can help you with.”

Erik was surprisingly philosophical when he heard this. In fact, he anticipated her. “You mean Commando Gold.”

“That’s right,” said Cordelia, careful to show the correct amount of surprise. Which was to say sufficient to indicate she was impressed with his penetrating shrewdness, though not going quite so far as eyelash-fluttering.

“How did you know?” she said.

“Because it’s the rarest book on the list. Bloody rare. And valuable. Like I said, the big one.”

“Yes, you did say that, come to think of it…”

“So, it will be hard to find, sure,” said Erik. “But I’m counting on you to find it.”

The look he gave her was one of such touching faith in her abilities—Tinkler must have really bigged her up—that Cordelia found she was reluctant to let him down. But let him down she must. She did her best to do so gently.

“The thing is, Erik. May I call you Erik?”

“What the fuck else would you call me, darling?”

“Well, Erik, the thing is, while I can find any book in existence…”

“That’s my girl. And when I say girl, I mean woman. No sexism intended.”

“Thank you. None taken. But while I can find any book in existence, what I can’t find is any book not in existence.”

Erik blinked at her. It was a long slow blink. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t find a book that doesn’t exist.”

“Of course not. So what? What a bloody obvious thing to say.”

Cordelia made a note of how quickly Erik could become tetchy. This was the corollary of his boyish enthusiasm, which is to say, swift transitions to childish bad temper.

“So, I’m afraid I won’t be able to find you a copy of Commando Gold.”

“Why not?”

Cordelia didn’t wince or sigh, though both of those would have been good reactions at this point. “Because it doesn’t exist.”

“Oh yes it does,” said Erik belligerently.

Now Cordelia did wince, because it was obvious that the rest of their interview wasn’t going to go easily or well. She dug in and started talking.

“I’m afraid not, Erik,” said Cordelia, remembering to use his first name as often as possible. Just like you would with a mad gunman. “I’ve done some research…”

“Oh,” said Erik. He relaxed instantly and dramatically. He even chuckled. All of which rather baffled Cordelia. So she just sat tight and waited for more from him. She didn’t have to wait long. He leaned forward over the counter, intimate and conspiratorial and fragrant again.

“You mean Wikipedia?” he said.

“Well…” Cordelia didn’t like to be found out like this. Found out for being so obvious and banal, that is. But there was no point denying it. “Yes.”

“You looked up the Commando books on Wikipedia.”

“Yes.”

“When did you look it up?” said Erik.

“A few days ago…”

“No,” said Erik impatiently, drawing back and reducing the level of conspiracy and perfume. “I mean what time of day?”

“Late at night.” Cordelia did much of her online research in the wee small hours.

This was, for some reason, the right answer, because Erik was suddenly all smiles and leaning forward again. “Yeah,” he said. “That makes sense. So, you looked on Wikipedia and it said that there was no such book as Commando Gold, that it had been announced or something but never actually printed.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “Something like that. But they were very emphatic…”

“Very emphatic that there were rumours it had been printed.”

“Yes.”

“But those rumours were false.”

“I think the word ‘hoax’ was used,” said Cordelia.

“The word ‘hoax’ was most definitely used,” said Erik. “Did you see the bit about the fake cover image that had been posted online?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“And did you have look at the fake cover?”

“No,” said Cordelia.

“Okay,” said Erik. “Let’s have a look at it now.” He took his phone out of one of the big pockets on his Calvin Klein sleeveless army shirt. He was positively jovial. Even a brief spell of frustrating wrestling to get his phone switched on—Erik clearly wasn’t a tech savant—didn’t dent his joviality. Eventually he got it going and found what he wanted. He showed it to Cordelia.

It was a book cover for, yes, a paperback called Commando Gold by Butch Raider. The art, if you could call it that, was a crude imitation of the other covers in the series. Although those themselves could also be described as crude, or at least primitive, they were also vivid and vigorous. And a number of other adjectives beginning with ‘v’. Notably ‘violent’.

But this one lacked any of the energy or raw, naïve talent on show in the others. It was obvious, even at a glance, that it was the work of other hands.

Or perhaps other feet. Or another mouth.

It really was that bad.

“What do you think?” said Erik.

“It’s a fake,” said Cordelia.

“Right,” said Erik, happily. “Isn’t it just?”

“It’s a total, obvious fake.”

“Right, darling, right.” Erik seemed triumphant. But Cordelia could see no reason for this triumph.

“But…” she said.

“Yes darling?”

“It’s supposed to be a fake. I mean, that’s what it says on Wikipedia, isn’t it? That the book was never published and accounts of its publication are a hoax and that there are fake covers online.”

“That’s what they said, all right,” said Erik. He was still triumphant. And happy.

“And this is a fake, an obvious one, so that bears all that out.”

“Does it?” said Erik. He was doing his best to look like a wise old sage. And he certainly looked old.

“Doesn’t it?” said Cordelia.

Erik smiled at her and resumed struggling with his phone. After a relatively short period of time, he snorted with satisfaction and showed her what he had found.

It was another image of the cover of Commando Gold.

But this one obviously—obviously to Cordelia, at least—was the work of the real artist.

“Hang on,” she said.

“Right,” said Erik. “Hang on. Bloody well hang bloody on.”

“Can I see the other cover? The fake?”

“Sure,” said Erik and began to laboriously do things on his phone.

“Erik,” said Cordelia.

Something in the tone of her voice caused Erik to pause and look at her curiously. “Yes, darling?”

Now Cordelia actually did flutter her eyelashes. It seemed called for. Essential, in fact. “Would you mind if I borrowed your phone for a moment?”

“Borrow it?”

“I’d like to see both covers side by side.”

“Oh, well. Good luck with that, darling. Rather you than me.” He handed the phone over readily. In gratifyingly few seconds Cordelia had both covers on the screen. “Bloody hell,” said Erik. “You’re good.”

“All part of the service,” said Cordelia, making a mental note to increase her bill by at least ten per cent.

They studied the two covers. The logo and the lettering were identical on both. And the paintings were similar. Quite closely similar. They depicted the same scene, rubber dinghies, moonlight, a frogman cutting an enemy’s throat, gold spilling into dark water. But one was clearly the work of the artist who did the Commando book covers, and the other was the work of some chump—or possibly even some chimp—imitating the artist who did the Commando book covers.

And doing a very bad job.

“A remarkably bad job,” said Cordelia softly.

Apparently too softly for someone who had spent his lifetime on festival stages beside gigantic speakers. “What was that, love?” said Erik.

“I was remarking on what a lousy imitation the lousy imitation is.”

“Right,” said Erik.

“It’s almost like it’s deliberately a lousy imitation.”

“Now you’re starting to get it,” said Erik.

Get what? thought Cordelia. And she almost said it out loud. But it seemed like it would be more impressive to Erik, and more gratifying to herself, to work it out on her own. “So, it’s deliberately a fake,” said Cordelia.

“Yeah,” said Erik encouragingly.

“And people are supposed to spot that it’s a fake.”

“Unless they’re absolute drongos, right,” said Erik.

“Okay,” said Cordelia. “Which means someone wants people to believe there never was a print run of Commando Gold. They want people to buy into the hoax theory.”

“So, it’s a theory now, is it?” said Erik.

Cordelia had to smile. He had her there. “Now that I’ve seen the other cover…” she said.

“The real one,” said Erik.

“It certainly looks real,” said Cordelia.

“Believe it,” said Erik.

Cordelia handed the phone back to Erik. It was such an expensive phone that she forgave the way he polished it on his shirt, to remove any residue of her fingerprints, before putting it away. But she added an additional five per cent to his eventual bill.

“So why would someone plant an obvious fake cover and want people to believe the book doesn’t exist?” said Cordelia.

“I don’t know,” said Erik. “But I do know it’s bloody annoying. And I know it’s what that idiot is doing on Wikipedia.”

“What idiot?” said Cordelia.

“Whoever keeps editing that page to say the book doesn’t exist.”

“But doesn’t Wikipedia…”

“Try and prevent that kind of thing?” said Erik. “Of course they do. That’s why I asked what time of day you looked at it.”

“Ah,” said Cordelia. Enlightenment began to dawn on her.

“You looked at it late at night, right?”

“Right.”

“And it said the book didn’t exist. Try taking a look at it first thing in the morning.”

“And it will give a me a different story?” said Cordelia.

“It certainly will, along the lines of the book being printed but withdrawn.” Erik gazed at her, eyes shining with happy excitement. “It’s what they call an edit war.”

“Right,” said Cordelia.

“The two people editing the page live in different time zones,” said Erik. “Judging by the time of day when it changes.”

“And one of the people is telling the real story of Commando Gold.”

“Yes,” said Erik. “And the other one is a lying twat.”

3: GOOD BOOKS

It was a beautiful autumn day and the dark masses of cloud flowing overhead split up at regular intervals to let a lazy pearly blaze of light through to shine on the river below. Cordelia watched seagulls dip and dive over the water as she walked home from the abode of Erik Make Loud.

It was a short walk home, past the pub, around the corner, down the High Street and turn left. And then Cordelia was at the house she shared with her landlord, Edwin. And, better yet, his dog Rainbottle. It was quite a big house, or at least it had seemed so before she’d visited the Make Loud mansion. Cordelia let herself in, was greeted by a bark of acknowledgement from Rainbottle in his (and Edwin’s) flat at the back of the house, and made her way upstairs to her own cosy little attic room.

Where she set about consolidating her knowledge of—it was difficult to even contemplate the name without spluttering—Butch Raider. And his Commando books.

First of all, Butch himself. Or possibly even herself. Clearly a pseudonym. No one could actually have the misfortune of being christened with such a moniker. And even if they did, for them to end up writing a series of novels about World War Two commandos, the definitive example of butch raiders, was too much to ask of nominative determinism.

So, the name almost certainly masked another name. But Cordelia had no luck working out who the real person behind the pseudonym might be. In her online research, the biographical and bibliographical information went around in an unilluminating loop: the Commando novels were written by a person called Butch Raider. And Butch Raider was the person who had written the Commando novels.

And that was about all she could learn.

As for the books themselves, they had sold in their millions in their heyday, but they were now out of print and showed no signs of returning from oblivion. There was still a thriving secondhand market for them, though. And while battered examples, which were virtually all the examples to be found, changed hands for a few quid, more pristine copies rapidly escalated in value, plateauing at a few specimens optimistically offered for sale online at several hundred pounds each.

Cordelia decided that somewhere between fifty and a hundred quid was right for a fine copy of a first printing of any of the titles. Which didn’t necessarily mean this was what she’d end up charging Erik Make Loud, if and when she found them.

And ‘any of the titles’ actually meant any of the titles except Commando Gold. If this book really existed—and now that Cordelia had seen the cover art, she was inclined to believe that it did—and if she found a copy for Erik, and if it was in immaculate condition—a cumulative lot of ifs—then all bets were off.

At least regarding what she would charge him for it.

One thing Cordelia was sure of, having seen how much money Erik had, how rare the book was, and how much he wanted it, was that she’d be asking for thousands rather than hundreds of pounds.

All this for a silly, brutal, simple-minded little tale of wartime derring-do.

Or at least, that was the impression she’d formed of Butch Raider’s books. She hadn’t actually read any of them.

And, perhaps surprisingly, this was an omission she intended to rectify.

Cordelia had a policy of reading the books she was looking for, if there was sufficient incentive. In other words, if they were sufficiently rare and/or valuable. It was helpful to know exactly what she was hunting for and what sort of people might be excited by it. Excited enough to pay Cordelia her premium rates to find copies.

That didn’t mean she’d plough on with a book if it was a total unreadable dud. But she’d definitely give a book a chance. And as a result, she’d become acquainted with some odd and interesting titles. The hippy mystical odysseys of Avram Silverlight, for instance.

And now she proposed to go adventuring with Butch Raider’s commando team.

It helped that Erik had insisted she check the books out and had even pressed some of his personal copies on her. So, she’d come back from his house with half a dozen very dogeared—that reminded her, she must get some treats for Rainbottle—and yellowing paperbacks from his personal library.

Just how personal she discovered when she changed into sweatpants and a big baggy sweater and curled up on the padded bench in front of the large bay window in her room and, here in the excellent autumn light, started reading the first of these books, Commando Dagger. She opened its garish and much-creased cover and there, on the top right-hand corner of the first page, was a name, written carefully and clearly.

Eric McCloud.

It was rather touching. This had been Erik’s own copy from his pre-rock-star days.

And it also explained why he was so eager to acquire a flawless, exemplary collection of the books. Nostalgia. He was buying back his youth and trying to render that perfect, too.

But, as Cordelia began to turn the brittle pages, she discovered that wasn’t Erik’s only reason for wanting these novels. They were actually highly readable, and quite compelling, in a have-another-mouthful-of-junk-food kind of way. And Butch Raider could actually write. Admittedly, the book was full of sentences like, “The Sten gun bucked in his hand as it barked staccato death.” But there were other sentences, many of them, which were pretty good.

Butch Raider could evoke a sense of place and conjure up atmosphere. He had a terse gift for description. What’s more, he actually seemed to know a thing or two about warfare in general and commando warfare in particular. It always helped have at least some tenuous acquaintance with the subject matter you were writing about. But this was far from being always the case in pulp fiction. In Tarzan of the Apes, for instance, Edgar Rice Burroughs had happily included tigers roaming among the indigenous fauna of Africa.

As far as Cordelia could tell, no such howling errors were perpetrated by Butch Raider. When he found himself writing about something that was beyond his knowledge, he simply became vague about it, but vague in an adroit, fast-moving way that kept the reader reading. And elsewhere he dropped in telling little details which made the whole narrative seem authentic.

At least he’d done some research. Enough to keep his whole pulp fiction enterprise moving at a brisk and engrossing speed.

And above all, he could create characters. This is where Butch Raider really excelled. His books were populated with tough men with silly names and perfunctory descriptions, but once they started interacting with each other, some real quality began to show. And a faint outline of the author himself, and his attitudes, began to emerge.

See, for instance, the commandos’ commanding officer, Major Desmond Bradawl (a bradawl was a pointy tool which you wouldn’t want someone to stick in your eye). He was an aristocratic idiot who had no idea how to run a miliary operation. For this he depended on his second-in-command, the resourceful and almost pathologically valiant Captain Jim Gimlet (a gimlet was another pointy tool; you’d want this one kept away from your peepers, as well).

Jim Gimlet, a clever working-class lad made good, was the real hero of the novel. Or anti-hero.

The book was mostly told from his point of view. Captain Gimlet had no illusions about his commanding officer. He hated Major Bradawl and the major in turn hated him.

Cordelia, who had been expecting lots of saluting and male camaraderie, stopping just short of sodomy in the showers, found this rather refreshing and no doubt realistic. The cynicism about the command structure, and indeed the whole enterprise of warfare, was something which was unlikely to have occurred in novels of the 1940s or 1950s, or even the early 1960s, when patriotism and deference to authority (or, as Cordelia liked to think of it, licking the boots of the power structure) had still been the order of the day.

But by the time the first Commando novel had appeared, in 1966, the winds of change were beginning to blow. And they were scented with patchouli and marijuana. And the heady aroma of revolution. People had even started to question the wisdom of sending American kids halfway around the world just to burn down grass huts in Vietnam.

So, while war stories were still popular, they had to display a measure of scorn, pessimism and anti-establishment values. And Butch Raider’s tale had all these in abundance.

Hence Major Bradawl and Captain Gimlet were stuck with each other, and they both had to make the best of it. Bradawl was murderously incompetent and always on the verge of getting his men killed. Much worse, he was ambitious, which meant he would send his team on extravagantly dangerous missions solely because they would reap glory for him. Bradawl had ambitions to rise high in the army, and then the government, when the war was over.

Which, of course, meant surviving the war in the first place. So, although theoretically the major was supposed to be in the thick of the fighting with his men, he invariably managed to find a way to remain behind on the MTB (motor torpedo boat), or similarly weasel out, when the bullets began to fly. Leaving Gimlet to try and succeed in the operational objectives, while keeping his men alive, and also keeping himself alive, against horrendous odds.

And the worst part was, if Gimlet did manage against all those odds to succeed and survive—and of course, he had to, if the stories were to continue—all the glory and acclaim and commendations went to Major Bradawl.

All poor Jim got was to keep his skin (relatively) intact, receive a brief few days of leave when he would meet a promiscuous barmaid, air raid warden or dispatch rider (who would always have a “red slash” of lipstick and “jutting” breasts) and make her “cry out in a torment of passion in the twisted sheets” of some seedy hotel. Then he’d go back to his unit and the major, who would be grinning at him, an evil gleam in his eye, and have another suicide mission to send Jim Gimlet and his men on.

Cordelia was a quick reader, especially when she was caught up in a story, and good old Butch Raider managed to get her thoroughly caught up. And Commando Dagger wasn’t a long novel, probably about 50,000 words. Cordelia managed to finish it in less than ninety minutes.

It was so moreish, in the aforementioned junk food kind of way, that she moved right on to the second book in the series, Commando Blood. The following day she read three more.

Now the basic pattern of these novels began to reveal itself. Always one big mission with a couple of subsidiary missions. And, while the primary enemy was the Axis military, the secondary enemy was always Gimlet’s commanding officer. Despite herself, Cordelia began to find that she was really beginning to share Jim’s hatred of the major, and also share his resigned despair that there was nothing to be done about the situation. There was no way a working-class captain could unseat a posh shit of a major, no matter how unsuited to his job the latter might be.

And as much as he despised his captain, the major knew he needed him, because the captain actually knew how things worked and how to achieve the goals that were set for the commando unit.

This ritual dance of mutual necessity and class war involving the two men became rather fascinating to Cordelia.

She had just finished that fifth book, Commando Hell, and was looking wistfully at the sixth in the series, Commando Vendetta, because it was the last one she had to hand—she would soon be experiencing junk food withdrawal—when the phone rang.

It was Tinkler. To describe him as Cordelia’s ex would have been misleading because he had never been her current, in any serious way. “So you met Erik,” was his opening gambit.

“And Helene,” said Cordelia.

“Oh, really? She was there?”

“She was not only there, she paid me good money not to sleep with Erik.”

“Really? Holy shit. Really?”

“Well, I assume it’s good money,” said Cordelia. “The cheque hasn’t actually cleared yet.” This was one downside of the good old unhackable retro payment system.

“You weren’t going to sleep with Erik, though, were you?” said Tinkler forlornly.

“No, of course not,” said Cordelia. “Which is why it makes it so gratifying to get paid not to do it.”

“When you weren’t going to do it anyway.”

“You follow me like a bloodhound,” said Cordelia.

“Have you been reading P. G. Wodehouse again?” said Tinkler.

“No, as a matter of fact, I’ve been reading the collected works of Butch Raider.”

“The Commando books,” said Tinkler. He said it so smugly and knowledgably that Cordelia smelled a rat.

“Did Erik tell you?” she said.

“He might have done,” said Tinkler. “How’s the hunt going for fine copies? I almost said ‘mint’ just to annoy you.”

“I see you’ve been very thoroughly briefed. Since you ask, the search is going okay. Copies in fine condition are very difficult to come by at a reasonable price…”

“By reasonable, you mean with enough headroom for you to mark them up savagely when you sell them to Erik?”

“I wouldn’t say savagely,” said Cordelia. “And I’ve already found half a dozen I’m thinking of scooping up.” This was true. Between bouts of reading, Cordelia had been a busy little bee online.

“I thought you said they were difficult to come by.”

“Here in the U K. There are quite a number of copies for sale on Etsy in New Zealand. It seems we shipped a lot of bloodthirsty pulp novels out to the colonies in the 1960s and 1970s, and it seems the Kiwis took better care of them than we did. And even allowing for being gouged on the postage from the antipodes, I should be able to make a healthy profit on them.”

“A savage profit,” said Tinkler.

“By no means,” said Cordelia.

“Well don’t buy them just yet,” said Tinkler. “I can find you a source of Commando novels closer at hand.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not,” said Cordelia. “Not yet. But I’m willing to be convinced.”

“Good. I like it when you’re willing.”

“So, you claim you know someone who has copies of these books?” said Cordelia, ignoring the lumbering double entendre.

“I do know someone who has copies,” said Tinkler. “Loads of copies. Multiple copies. Duplicates.”

Cordelia found she was beginning to get a little excited. Guardedly excited. In a purely professional capacity. “Why would they have multiple copies?”

“Because they’re a collector. They’re a nerd. They’re obsessive.”

“They’re an obsessive collector nerd,” said Cordelia.

“Good summary.”

“And they’re obsessed with the Commando books.”

“I think it’s safe to say that,” said Tinkler.

“And how is it that you suddenly know such a person?” said Cordelia.

“What makes you think it’s sudden?”

“Because,” said Cordelia, “I have discovered that you and Erik Make Loud are old buddies.”

“We are,” said Tinkler. “We’re mates. From way back. From back in the day. We’re bosom chums.”

“So how is it,” said Cordelia, “that you’ve known your bosom chum Erik all this time and yet never bothered to tell him about a source which you say can provide plentiful copies of the rare books he’s so eager to acquire?”

“Okay,” said Tinkler. “I submit to the remorseless force of your logic.”

“Good,” said Cordelia.

“You’re right, I do suddenly know about this person with the books. It is sudden. I’ve only just found out about them, and all their lovely rare Commando books. And as soon as I found out, did I go to Erik, and cut you out of the loop? I did not. Of course I didn’t. I came to you instead. Do you know why?”

“Because you want to sleep with me.”

“Well, right. First time. Very much so. In fact, it would be hard to convey in words how much I would like to do that.”

“So, you’re eager,” said Cordelia.

“Yes,” said Tinkler.

“In fact, you’re desperate.”

“No, of course not. Oh, all right. Yes, I’m desperate.”

Cordelia sighed.

“Was that a sigh?” said Tinkler.

“Yes.”

“It didn’t sound like a good one.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Why are you sighing bad sighs?” said Tinkler.

“Because I’m thinking that someone who is desperate to sleep with me has managed, in a remarkably short time, in a matter of hours, to find a source of exactly the rare books I’m looking for.”

“This is me we’re talking about, right?” said Tinkler.

“Yes, it’s you.”

“And you’re thinking, what are the odds?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I’m also thinking that it’s vanishingly unlikely that you could have actually achieved this.”

“Because I don’t operate in the world of rare paperbacks,” said Tinkler.

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“Let me ask you this,” said Tinkler. He sounded remarkably cheerful. Indeed, suspiciously cheerful, and Cordelia wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. “What world would you say I operate in?”

“Not wishing to give offence…” said Cordelia.

“Heaven forbid,” said Tinkler.

“But I would describe you as a computer… person.”

“You were going to say ‘nerd’, right?” said Tinkler. “That’s all right, you can say ‘nerd’.”

“All right then, I’d say you’re a computer nerd,” said Cordelia. “And you operate in the world of computer nerds.”

“So, you think that makes me unlikely to move in the same circles as crazy rare paperback-collecting nerds.”

“No need to throw around words like ‘crazy’,” said Cordelia. “But, yes. Essentially, yes.”

“And you don’t think these two worlds—paperback nerd and computer nerd—would overlap?”

“Not a great deal, anyway,” said Cordelia. “Excuse me, Tinkler, but I’m starting to get a little impatient with this spoon-feeding explanation and your general air of mystery…”

“That’s a pity,” said Tinkler, still sounding suspiciously cheerful. “Because I always wanted to be a man of mystery. But let’s cut that bit short.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’ll just ask you this: where might a rare paperback nerd display their computer nerd side?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“You don’t think it might be, I’m just doing blue-sky thinking here, on a web-based collaborative platform that enables users to share, update and edit information?”

“Holy shit,” said Cordelia. “Holy fuck. Oh my god.”

“Yes, yes and yes,” said Tinkler.

“Wikipedia,” said Cordelia.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Tinkler.

“The edit war,” said Cordelia.

“I’ve got me a witness,” said Tinkler, trying to sound like a gospel preacher and not, in fairness, doing an entirely terrible job.

“The people who edit Wikipedia pages are computer nerds,” said Cordelia.

“If you want to be offensively reductionist and stereotyping about it,” said Tinkler primly. It seemed the gospel preacher was gone.

“But they’re also likely to be passionate about the subject matter they’re editing,” said Cordelia, thinking it through.

“Passionate is putting it mildly,” said Tinkler.

“That’s why they take an interest in a page in the first place,” said Cordelia.

“Right, because they’re obsessed,” said Tinkler. “Sorry, it’s now me being offensively reductionist and… what was the other one?”

“Stereotyping,” said Cordelia. “So, the page about the Commando novels is being edited by people who are simultaneously computer nerds and Commando novel nerds.”

“I think the word ‘nerds’ begins to lose its usefulness around about now,” said Tinkler.

“So, there are two opposed Commando novel obsessives, having an edit war with each other on Wikipedia, because they’re also computer obsessives and have the skillset to do that,” said Cordelia.

“It really isn’t that difficult editing a Wikipedia page,” said Tinkler. “Try it sometime.”

“I’d rather slash my wrists,” said Cordelia. But she said it cheerfully. It seemed that Tinkler, against all the odds and every principle of human reason, had come up trumps.

“When I heard about the edit war from Erik,” said Tinkler, “I got exactly that idea. Not slashing my wrists, but that the people involved must know, and care, about these books, or why would they be doing it? Doing it perpetually and endlessly. So, I did some investigating, and I reached out in the community, and I tracked down one of the Wiki editors involved in that war. I found out who they really are.”

“Where are they based?” said Cordelia. She remembered Erik’s remark about the two edit warriors being in different time zones.

“In England. In Cambridge, in fact.”

“And you say they have multiple copies of the Commando books?”

“Categorically. Unequivocally. Like, totally, man.”

“This is very good, Tinkler. You’re being extremely helpful.”

“That’s because I want to get back into your—”

“Knickers?”

“I was going to say ‘good books’. I want to get back into your good books. But obviously I want to get into your knickers, too. That would be the whole point of getting back into your good books.” Then he added, hastily, “Not the whole point. I didn’t mean that. Obviously I enjoy your company and respect you as a person. And want to go walking in the rain with you, holding hands. But it would be a large part of the point. Of getting back into your good books. To get back into your knickers.” Then he added, not so hastily, “Are you wearing any, by the way? Knickers, I mean.”

“Tinkler, I’m not going to have phone sex with you.”

“Why not?” whined Tinkler. “Haven’t I been helpful? Aren’t I going to be even more helpful?”

“Oh, all right.” Cordelia checked the time.

This wouldn’t take long.

4: EDEN STREET

It turned out that the person Tinkler had tracked down, who was an avid fan of the Commando novels, and obsessively edited the Commando Wiki page, wasn’t a person at all.

It was two people.

“The Ballas brothers,” said Tinkler. “Ossie and Fin. Oswald and Finian. They might as well be one person.”

“Why do you say that?” said Cordelia. She was in the passenger seat of Tinkler’s primitive little red car, a few days later, as he drove them past the duckpond, across the railway tracks and along the Upper Richmond Road. Heading towards Kew and Chiswick.

And ultimately, Cambridge.

“They share a house, they work in IT. They don’t get out much.”

“You work in IT,” said Cordelia.

“But I don’t share a house with my brother. You wouldn’t want to share a house with your brother, would you?”

“That’s unfair,” said Cordelia. Tinkler knew her brother was Stinky Stanmer. Everybody knew her brother was Stinky Stanmer. And nobody would want to share a house with him.

“And I get out,” said Tinkler. “I’m getting out now, aren’t I?”

“Indubitably,” said Cordelia. “Now, these brothers are expecting us, aren’t they?”

“Yes. And they’re very excited about having a woman come to visit them. I’m not sure they’ve ever seen one before.”

“Oh, Christ,” said Cordelia.

“At least not in real life,” said Tinkler. “Not up close.”

“Trust me, it will not be up close,” said Cordelia. “And they do know that we’re coming to purchase Commando paperbacks from them?”

“Yes, they said they’ll have their duplicates ready for your perusal.”

“I can hardly contain my excitement,” said Cordelia.

They’d got through the traditional traffic jam in Sheen and were now heading across Chiswick Bridge. And she actually did feel some faint stirrings of excitement as they crossed the water, heading north, at the beginning of an adventure…

With paperbacks waiting at the other end.

She tried to catch a glimpse of the river as they drove over the bridge. And, as she failed to do so, a thought occurred to her. “Both of these brothers are Commando novel fans?”

“You bet.”

“And they both do Wiki editing?”

“Like I say, they are virtually a single entity.”

“And they’re combatants in the edit war?”

“Oh yes.”

Cordelia swivelled around in her seat to get a better look at Tinkler while he was driving. Admittedly, not an especially enriching spectacle. “So, is it possible that they’re on opposite sides?”

“What?” said Tinkler.

“There’s an edit war, being conducted by two Wikipedia editors, against each other…”

Tinkler hooted with laughter. “And you think the Ballas brothers are in an edit war against each other?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“Well, it would be great if they were,” said Tinkler. “Just imagine it, living in the same house, bitchily changing the Wiki entry each time the other one changes it, and then changing it back. What fun. What a rich and rewarding existence. But I fear it’s not the case. They only have one Wikipedia editing handle which they share, and their opponent in the edit war is definitely working under another handle.”

“And in another time zone, come to think of it,” said Cordelia. “So much for that theory.”

“But it was a great theory,” said Tinkler.

“No need to be sycophantic, Tinkler. You’re already about as far into my good books as it’s possible for you to get.”

“Okey doke,” said Tinkler. “Glad to hear it.”

They turned onto the M4 by way of a particularly ugly motorway junction in Chiswick and headed westward. “Remind me to stay clear of West Drayton,” said Tinkler.

“Why?”

“The last time I was there I nearly got killed. I’d tell you more, but I’m a man of mystery.”

“Okay,” said Cordelia. “Now, we know these Ballas brothers are embroiled in the edit war…”

“Embroiled is a nice word for it.”

“But do we know which side they’re on?” said Cordelia.

“This is all about whether a certain book exists, right?” said Tinkler.

“That’s right,” said Cordelia. “Commando Gold, the thirteenth and last in the series.”

“Thirteenth and last?”

“Yes.”

“Spooky,” said Tinkler.

“Not particularly,” said Cordelia. “So which side are the brothers on?”

“They’re on Team Book Does Not Exist.”

“So, they’re liars,” said Cordelia.

“Why? Does the book definitely exist?” said Tinkler.

“Nothing is definite, at least at this stage,” said Cordelia. “But I have a strongly held view that the book does exist.”

Tinkler shrugged.

“Don’t shrug while you’re driving,” said Cordelia.

“Why? It doesn’t affect my driving,” said Tinkler.

“It looks slovenly,” said Cordelia.

“I was merely shrugging to emphasise what I was about to say,” said Tinkler, “which is that perhaps the brothers have an equally strongly held belief that the book doesn’t exist.”

“Personally, I just think they’re liars,” said Cordelia.

At the Iver Interchange they got off the M4 and onto the M25, and then at Hatfield they joined the A1(M). Whatever the hell that was. A long boring road which led to Cambridge, but at a reasonable clip, even in Tinkler’s antiquated car. They arrived at the city of dreaming spires—or, wait a minute, was that Oxford?—just under three hours after Tinkler had picked Cordelia up in Barnes.

They drove into town on a road called Regent Street and turned right at a pleasant patch of green like a giant lawn, called Parker’s Piece. “The brothers used to work near here,” said Tinkler, “at a cutting-edge CAD-CAM company. That means computer aided design and computer aided manufacture.”

“How fascinating,” said Cordelia. “Please tell me all that again when I’m having trouble falling asleep. Hang on, you said they used to work at this place?”

“Yes.”

“Then where do they work now?”

“At home. They’re freelance.”

“Freelance what?”

Tinkler shrugged again, then quickly looked at Cordelia in case she reprimanded him. But she was too distracted and, to be honest, too excited. They were almost at their destination and their destination promised to be a paperback jackpot. “I don’t know,” said Tinkler. “Possibly coding. There are all kinds of things you can do at home…”

“Watch pornography, eat pizza and smoke weed,” suggested Cordelia, a trifle cynically.

“And get paid for, I mean,” said Tinkler. “And I suspect the brothers only do two of those. No drugs on the premises, I fear. The Ballas brothers are boring straight-arrow Boy Scout types.”

“How do you know so much about them?”

“Friends of friends,” said Tinkler. “Or, to be more precise, acquaintances of acquaintances.”

They took a left, continuing along the perimeter of Parker’s Piece (his piece of what?), and then took a right turn onto Clarendon Street. They passed a pub and then a former pub that was now a vet’s but still with a pub-style sign, which must have puzzled many a drunken reveller who reeled in by mistake hoping for tequila shots but instead came out with worming tablets.

Then they turned into Elm Street and were almost at their destination.

Which was called Eden Street.

It was rather a lovely name, though the bit they’d actually reached was called Eden Street Backway.

“I like going in through the backway,” said Tinkler.

“Skip the obvious pornographic double entendres. Is this the right way in?”

“I thought you said to skip the obvious pornographic double entendres,” said Tinkler. “Actually, I think it’s the next entrance along—hah! Another one!” They continued along Elm Street, just long enough for Tinkler to say, “This is a nightmare. Get it? An obvious quip, true…”

And then they were in Eden Street proper. Which consisted of a row of brick terraces on either side, divided into low and narrow but quite picturesque houses. Cordelia didn’t know if they were Georgian or Victorian, but presumably they were something like that.

She did know that the occasional, much larger and much more modern buildings—these were slim white Bauhaus monoliths like junior siblings of Erik’s rockstar pad—must have been built a century later. Given the random distribution of such modern intrusions, and how few there were, Cordelia concluded that they were replacements for missing houses in the old style which had been bombed out during the Second World War.

Interesting how the Commando novels had got her thinking in these terms.

And it turned out that the Ballas brothers lived in one of these modern invaders.

Of course they did.

The thing about the modern white buildings was that they were so tall as to be about twice the size of every other house in the street. Which suggested that the Ballas brothers must be very well heeled.

So, whatever they were doing when they worked at home, it clearly paid liberally.

Tinkler had to drive some distance past their destination to find a parking space, finally securing one by a handsome old green-and-white pub called the Elm Tree at the corner of Eden Street and Orchard Street. It was no hardship walking back to the house from here. It was a brilliant Sunday afternoon, chilly but bright with the smell of cooking in the cool air, an enticing roast meal aroma from the pub following them on the breeze.

“Can we hold hands?” said Tinkler, walking beside her.

“No, of course not,” said Cordelia. “What a weird question.”

“I was just thinking it would blow the Ballas brothers’ minds even more than seeing a real live woman, seeing a guy who’s actually holding hands with one. A glimpse of the nirvana they’ll never know.”

“Sounds like vindictive fun,” said Cordelia. “But no.”

They were now outside the thin white modernist building which jutted from the red-brick terrace, towering over its neighbours. The neighbours must love that, thought Cordelia. Before Tinkler could ring the bell, the door sprang open and a young man looked at them. He’d evidently been watching their approach and waiting for them. But watching them how? Cordelia couldn’t see a camera over the door or anywhere on the front of the building. Maybe he’d been watching them old school—peering out from the narrow rectangular upstairs window. If he had been watching them from this, he must have run down the stairs to get to the door before them.

He was certainly sweaty enough for this to be a possibility.

The young man had curly black hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a pointy black goatee. The glasses and goatee were clearly intended to be retro hip, but somehow just missed. As did the Hawaiian-style shirt he was wearing with hula dancing cartoon girls on it. The chinos didn’t help. And the tartan slippers he was wearing sealed the matter.

“What’s up?” he said. “I’m Finian. You can call me Fin.”

“Okay Fin,” said Tinkler. “I’m Jordon.”

“I know that,” said Finian immediately. It was clear he didn’t like to be told anything he already knew, which must represent a problem for people, since he was also clearly a know-it-all. “I was waiting for an introduction to your charming friend.”

It dawned on Cordelia, with equal measures of amusement and horror, that Finian thought he was some sort of a ladies’ man. Managing through an exercise of will to actually neither laugh nor shudder, though both seemed equally called for, Cordelia said, “I’m Cordelia.”

“Well, Cordelia,” said Finian smiling such an extreme and artificial smile that the corners of his mouth were in danger of meeting his ears, “please come inside.”

He stepped back to let Cordelia in, grudgingly also allowing admission to Tinkler. They entered a brightly lit foyer with a staircase rising from it and a narrow hallway that led further into the house. It was carpeted in a rather agreeable white and duck-egg blue zigzag pattern. That was just about the last agreeable thing Cordelia encountered in the house, though.

They had hardly stepped inside before a figure, who had been sitting on the bottom of the stairs, rose to his feet. As he got up, the stairs made a loud and almost animal sound of creaking torment. The erstwhile sitter didn’t seem embarrassed by this. Perhaps he was accustomed to it. And now that he was on his feet he loomed towards Cordelia with alarming speed and suddenness. He was a large figure. Massive in fact. And none of it apparently muscle.

Clearly Finian’s brother, he had distinctly similar facial features. However, as if to minimise this family resemblance, he’d shaved his head and grown a full beard. Though oddly enough he was wearing virtually identical horn-rimmed spectacles to Fin’s. Maybe they’d got a bulk discount on them.

He was wearing blue jeans and a baggy tunic of matching blue denim, with brass buttons.

Oh, and plastic sandals of a strange shrimp pink colour which contrasted unpleasantly with his hairy toes.

“I’m Ossie,” he said, barging right into Cordelia’s personal space and then—to her genuine horror and alarm—suddenly seizing her. In the pocket of her jeans, Cordelia had a self-defence device which basically consisted of a small but usefully tapered metal bludgeon she’d fondly nicknamed the killer dildo. Correctly deployed, it could provide a devastatingly painful disincentive for just the sort of assault that seemed to be taking place right now.

Unfortunately, the very nature of said assault meant that this enormous oaf had wrapped his proportionately enormous arms right around Cordelia, immobilising her own arms by pressing them flat against her sides. In fact, she couldn’t move anything at all except her head, and so the only option seemed to be biting. Cordelia was just making a split-second calculation about where best to bite this fat fucker, and had more or less decided on the side of the neck, despite the overpowering smell of cheap aftershave which seemed particularly strong in that vicinity and a very uninviting skin rash.

Then suddenly Ossie released her and muttered, “Welcome.”

And Cordelia realised that this assault had actually been a hug of greeting. Ossie now turned to Tinkler, who was trying to back hastily away, but ran out of backing away space very quickly as he hit the now-shut front door and Ossie closed in on him inexorably.

The look of naked terror on Tinkler’s face as he was engulfed in Ossie’s embrace was so hilarious that Cordelia quite forgot her own offended outrage and just watched with amusement.

Finian also watched, but without amusement. “Ossie likes to hug people,” he said. He said it in such a way as to indicate that he knew such behaviour wasn’t cool. Because he, Finian, was cool.

Not so cool, Cordelia noticed, that he wasn’t wearing the same dreadful pissy-smelling aftershave as his brother. Again, perhaps they bought it in bulk.

“Welcome,” said Ossie, releasing poor Tinkler at last.

“Come into the lounge,” said Finian, still exuding ladies’ man cool, or at least his own odd idea of what that might be. Cordelia made no move to budge when he gestured for her to do so, so he shrugged and set off alone down the narrow corridor. After a moment his brother followed him, completely filling the space, and leaving Cordelia and Tinkler to bring up the rear. Cordelia had taken pity on Tinkler after the Ossie-hugging, and indeed now took his hand. He was still so traumatised by the denim-clad giant’s embrace, though, that he hardly registered this.

A doorway on the right led into the lounge, which was a surprisingly large room. It had a single wide picture window which would have allowed in ample daylight it if hadn’t been sealed off with heavy knitted white drapes. Now the only illumination came from recessed LED lights in the ceiling which had been dialled down to an atmospheric dimness.

On the floor of the room was the same attractive zigzag blue-and-white carpeting, but Cordelia was now beginning to feel that this was too much of a good thing. Not least because the furniture in the room—a large sofa, a smaller sofa attached to it to create an L-shape, and three big armchairs—had all been upholstered with the same material, giving the impression that they had risen up out of the carpet like volcanic islands out of the ocean.

In a central position relative to the seating was a low oval table of red lacquer with gold highlights painted on it. Behind the sofa, and occupying most of the rest of the room, was a similar but much larger red lacquered table, a dining table with spindly matching chairs.

The red lacquer theme with its gold decoration put Cordelia in mind of a Thai brothel, not that she’d ever been in one.

The smaller Thai brothel table had an assortment of food on it, but Cordelia hardly looked at this because the larger table also had something on it. Something covered with a sheet. And that something, she could see by its contours and the edges peeking out from under the sheet, was a shitload of paperback books, in shallow stacks and spread out across the entire tabletop.

“Would you like some sushi?” said Finian, now the master of ceremonies, sitting on the big sofa in the middle with his legs spread wide in what was apparently some kind of alpha male power stance he’d learned about in an online video, and gesturing at the food in front of him.

Cordelia transferred her attention to this—the sheet covering the paperbacks clearly indicated that they weren’t for inspection just yet, so she might as well.

The sushi actually looked pretty good. There were two different selections, all attractively arrayed on black rectangular trays. “The classic and dragon roll platters,” said Ossie to Cordelia confidingly. “From M&S.”

He sat down beside his brother, causing the sofa to sag slightly in the middle and Fin to surrender his power pose. Cordelia and Tinkler by mutual silent agreement chose the two armchairs nearest the sushi but furthest from the brothers and their pissy aftershave.

Set before them were small square black plates and chopsticks, all of which apparently came with the sushi, so were pristine and hygienic, and Cordelia had no hesitation about using them. She was just about to start tucking into the food when Fin suddenly said, in a peremptory and commanding voice, “Play music.”

For an embarrassing instant Cordelia wondered whether this was directed at her—and Tinkler—and if they were supposed to provide a floorshow in return for the sushi. But then music began to play in the background and she realised that Fin had been addressing a smart speaker concealed somewhere in the room. Any relief connected with this realisation vanished when the music revealed itself to be loud, metallic hammering techno.

“Could you turn it down, please?” said Cordelia.

“What?” said Fin.

“Turn it down please,” said Cordelia as Ossie simultaneously mouthed the same words at his brother.

Fin looked petulant for a moment and then said, in his peremptory and commanding voice, “Turn down the music.”

But the music was so loud that he had to say it several times, and at increasing volume, before the speaker finally obediently complied. The music was now just some tinny, distant, somehow insect-sounding science fiction soundscape that nagged at the edge of Cordelia’s awareness like of something out of a William Burroughs novel. But at least it was quiet enough to permit food consumption.

Cordelia availed herself of the chopsticks and plate and got stuck in, as did Tinkler. Every time Cordelia selected some delicacy, Ossie helpfully identified it. “Spicy tuna. Katsu chicken. Pickled carrot maki.” At first this put Cordelia off a little, knowing that whatever she chose was going to be narrated to her. But the food was sufficiently good, and she was sufficiently hungry after their early start and long drive, that she soon ceased to find Ossie’s commentary off-putting. It became almost comforting.

“Green bean California rolls. Hoisin duck dragon rolls. Korean chicken.” It was even sometimes helpful. “King prawn and avocado California rolls. Cured Scottish salmon nigiri. Cucumber and green bean California rolls.”

Finally, they finished eating and Ossie reached into the capacious pockets of his denim tunic and drew out some small packets and passed them around. At first Cordelia thought these were after-dinner mints, but instead they turned out to be individually wrapped lemon-scented hand wipes. How thoughtful. Cordelia cleaned her fingers and added the used wipe to the debris on her plate.

She was ready to handle some books now.

“Well,” she said, “I believe you have some paperbacks to sell?”

As soon as she said it, Cordelia realised she’d made a tactical blunder. This was Finian’s show and he had to run it, setting the agenda and timetable. By the stubborn petulance which settled on his face, she knew that all she’d done was delay her chance to get her hands on the books.

“Hmm,” said Fin in his attempt at a cool, hip, man-of-the-world manner. “I’m given to understand that you’re actually a fan of the Commando novels by Butch Ripper?” He was positively smirking at her, and even exchanged a quick glance with his brother.

This was intended to be a glance of conspiratorial amusement. But Ossie at least had the good grace to look sheepish.

“Do you mean Butch Raider?” said Cordelia coolly. Did the idiot really think she would fall into such an obvious trap? But even if she had, what was the point in setting it? The trap, that is.

“Oh yes, that’s right,” said Finian, all sardonic enjoyment. “Butch Raider.”

“Why did you try to trip me up?” said Cordelia.

The bluntness and suddenness of this question actually tripped Finian up. “Ah… what?”

“Why use the wrong name of the author? What made you think I wouldn’t know what I was talking about?”

“I, well, ah…”

“Did you think Jordon and I drove up all this way to waste your time?” said Cordelia.

“No, no…”

“Because it seems to me that you’re wasting our time.”

“I didn’t—”

“Maybe we should just go back to London now.” Cordelia shot a look at Tinkler, who was watching her with every sign of approval. “We’ve had our sushi. Let’s go.”

“No, wait…”

Cordelia considered actually rising from her chair at this point. But she didn’t. Partly because she was quite comfortable where she was, digesting her lunch and tormenting her hosts. Partly because she had no intention of leaving. And partly because Finian and his brother had themselves risen from their seats, in naked alarm.

“Don’t do that,” said Ossie. “It’s just that Tinkler said you were a massive fan of the Commando novels.”

Tinkler had indeed told the brothers that. He’d been briefed to do so. There was no advantage, and many a disadvantage, in the Ballas siblings knowing that she was a dealer out to purchase books for resale. So instead, Cordelia was presenting herself, through Tinkler, as an enthusiast looking to buy titles for her own collection.

“And you didn’t believe him?” said Cordelia.

“It’s just that, it’s just that,” said Ossie. He was so tongue tied that Cordelia almost took pity on him.

“It’s just that it didn’t seem likely,” said his brother, cutting in.

“Because I’m a girl?” said Cordelia. She considered leaning back in her chair at this point to emphasise her jutting (copyright Butch Raider) breasts, but decided this was a bad idea for any number of reasons. Though it would have been fun to watch their faces…

“Well,” said Finian, wrongfooted to have his sexism dragged out into the open with so little ceremony.

“It’s just that,” said Ossie, reprising his favourite opening gambit but actually getting out of the starting gate this time. “It’s just that we’ve never met a girl who liked the books before.”

“Shall I tell you exactly what I like about them?” said Cordelia, suddenly all sweetness, which baffled the fools even further. She then proceeded to give a pretty much entirely honest account of her feelings about the first six novels in the series (she’d now got around to finishing Commando Vendetta). She perhaps exaggerated her enthusiasm for the books a little, but not by much, and she was entirely candid about what she saw as the occasional flaws in the stories. Above all, she was quite sincere when she told them how much she’d come to hate Major Bradawl.

“Oh, he’s a complete bastard, isn’t he?” chirped Ossie. And even Finian was about to utter some kind of spontaneous agreement, but he managed to stifle it because he thought it wouldn’t be cool.

Cordelia held forth for fully five minutes, thanking her lucky stars every second that she’d actually taken the trouble to read the books. And by the time she’d finished, everybody in the room believed she was a dyed-in-the-wool fan of Butch Raider. Even Cordelia, who found that she’d talked herself into it, rather in the manner of someone who fakes a cold over the phone to get off work, then hangs up only to begin to feel the symptoms taking hold…

By the time she stopped talking, Ossie was staring at her worshipfully and Fin had clamped his jaw shut and was squeezing his cheeks around his eyes to avoid any sign of looking impressed. “What about the rest of the books?” he said.

“That’s as far as I’ve got,” said Cordelia. “I only have the first six.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat,” said Ossie jauntily. “The others are awesome.”

Or at least he tried to say that, but Finian was speaking over him, saying, “So you want to buy the other books from us?”

“I also want copies of the ones I’ve already got,” said Cordelia. “Because my copies are all knackered. I want to upgrade them to ones in better condition.”

The brothers exchanged a look. This was something which they, as obsessive book-collecting nerds, could completely understand. And Cordelia felt, for the first time, that she’d really broken the ice here and convinced them she was who she was.

Or rather who she was pretending to be.

“In that case,” said Finian, finally fully recovering his version of sophisticated suaveness, “Ossie’s right and you are in for a treat.” He didn’t actually add the words “little lady”, but Cordelia felt somehow they were implied. Finian and his brother had gradually sunk back down onto the sofa after initially rising in alarm when Cordelia had threatened to leave. Now Finian stood up and Ossie tried to do the same, although this involved a considerable amount of struggling to get his bulk up from the low seating position.

As he was floundering, Cordelia spoke up. “There was just one other thing.”

Finian, who had already begun to move towards the dining table and its sheet-covered paperback cornucopia, paused and looked at her. Ossie gratefully abandoned the battle to stand and allowed himself to settle back onto the sofa. “What?” said Finian.

While she had them warmed up, so to speak, Cordelia wanted to hit them with the million-dollar question.

“I wanted to ask about Commando Gold,” she said.

The brothers exchanged a lightning glance. Ossie was clearly alarmed. Finian was equally obviously angry, apparently both at his brother and her. He fixed his gaze on Cordelia. Evidently the same coaching he’d received about sitting in a power posture had told him that to stare without blinking would establish dominance.

Good luck with that, thought Cordelia.

“What about Commando Gold?” said Finian. He was remarkably tight and tense. If Cordelia had been a poker player, she would have leapt at the chance to play against someone with as many tells as Fin here.

“Does it exist?” she said.

5: THAI BROTHEL BOOKCASE

“Commando Gold?” said Finian. “The putative thirteenth Commando novel?” He was clearly playing for time, though he did deserve some marks for knowing the word ‘putative’. Then he pulled himself together and sneered, giving it his best cool guy superiority. “Of course it doesn’t exist.”

But, having just witnessed Finian’s face in all its mendacious metamorphoses, Cordelia was absolutely certain for the first time that the book did exist.

“Why do you think it doesn’t?” said Cordelia.

“Why do you think it does?” said a mild voice from the sofa. Ossie was making a surprise contribution to the discussion.

“For a start,” said Cordelia, feeling a ticklish rising mischief, “it says so on Wikipedia.”

“What?” said Ossie. He sounded like he’d sat on a needle.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Fin. He said it really quickly, the way people say things that aren’t true but they’re trying hard to get them across.

“It does half the time,” said Tinkler, also now making a surprise contribution to the conversation.

“It’s because of that butt-eating bastard,” said Ossie, then casting a worried glance at Cordelia in case she disapproved of the profanity. In fact, if anything, she approved of the alliteration. “He keeps changing the page,” said Ossie.

“And we have to keep changing it back,” said Fin. “To the truth.” And in case anyone hadn’t been paying attention he added, “Which is that there never was a book called Commando Gold.”

“There was supposed to be one,” said Ossie hesitantly.

“Yes, yes, there was supposed to be one,” said Finian. “But it was cancelled.”

“Why would they cancel a book?” said Cordelia.

“Because, you see…” said Ossie. He sounded like a child who’d been schooled in the old-fashioned way. In other words, forced to memorise a lesson by rote. And given a sound beating if he didn’t. “…in the manuscript—that’s what they call a book before it’s published…”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. She didn’t feel the need to be any more scathing than that, because she found she was actually growing rather fond of poor Ossie.

“…in the manuscript, Butch Raider killed off Major Bradawl.”

Cordelia’s response to this statement was manifold and complex. For a start, there was an instant and unpremeditated delight in hearing that the bastard—the entirely fictional bastard—had finally got what he deserved. But against that was her determination to believe that everything the Ballas brothers said on this subject must be a lie.

Yet there was a sort of ring of truth about this.

It made so much sense.

“Killed him off?” said Cordelia.

“Yes,” said Ossie, looking solemn and nodding.

Fin was watching him tensely, as if to make sure his brother got the messaging correct, and was ready to step in if he didn’t.

“Well, he certainly deserved it,” said Cordelia. And she laughed. And the Ballas brothers laughed, too, something she imagined them not doing much of, especially at the same time. It might almost have been a bonding moment, if the three of them weren’t here busily trying to deceive and outmanoeuvre each other.

Only Tinkler wasn’t laughing. Tinkler looked bored. Well, he could just be bored, for as long as was necessary.

“That’s what Butch Raider thought,” said Ossie. “He’d finally had enough of the major. So he decided to kill him off.” He was gazing at Cordelia with his large and rather pretty eyes. “But you can see the problem with that?”

“No more books,” snapped Fin. He’d obviously been left out of the conversation for too long and had to assert himself now. “You kill off Major Bradawl, the boss villain in the series, and you kill off the series.”

“Not necessarily,” said Cordelia. “You could kill Bradawl off and replace him with someone else as your running villain.”

“Someone else would never be as good,” said Fin. Cordelia hated to admit it, but he was making quite a lot of sense. “So, the manuscript of Commando Gold was rejected by the publisher because it would have been the goose that killed the golden egg.”

Ossie winced. “He means…” he said.

“She knows what I mean,” hissed Finian savagely.

And of course, Cordelia did know what he meant, but she was gleefully making a note to file away his goose-based malapropism for future use. And hilarity.

“That was why the publisher refused to publish the book,” continued Fin. “But Butch Raider was insistent they should go ahead. And his publisher refused, so Butch Raider said to shove it, and that was the end of the Commando novels.”

“Which was really sad,” said Ossie. And he did sound really sad.

“And no one knows what happened to that manuscript,” said Fin. “It’s missing, presumed destroyed.”

“Missing in action,” said Cordelia.

“That’s right.”

“So the book was never published,” added Ossie needlessly. “And it doesn’t exist,” he added, even more needlessly. His brother was giving him a shut-up look. Even he seemed to realise that Ossie was overdoing it.

“But some troublemakers are pretending that it does exist,” said Fin quickly.

“Ah, that’s right,” said Ossie, belatedly picking up his cue.

“They’ve even created a fake cover and put it out online,” said Fin.

“That’s right,” said Ossie again.

“There’s another cover out there,” said Cordelia. “Besides the fake one?”

Fin shrugged. “So what? So there’s more than one fake cover.”

Ossie shrugged as well.

“This one isn’t a fake,” said Cordelia.

“How can you tell?”

“By looking at it,” said Cordelia.

“You can tell it’s not a fake by looking at it?” Even more odious than Fin’s amusement at this statement was his elaborately polite attempt to hide that amusement. Even Ossie was amused. “Have another green bean and avocado California roll,” he suggested, apparently by way of consolation.

Cordelia set aside her rage for the time being. If Tinkler could be disciplined and keep things on track, so could she. “I believe you had some books to show me?” she said.

Fin looked surprised for an instant, then annoyed that he’d lost track of what he was doing. “That’s right,” he said. “If you hadn’t interrupted me, we would have been looking at them already.”

More rage for Cordelia to set aside, but that was easily done now as Fin strolled up to the dining room table, grabbed the sheet lying across it, and pulled it away in the manner of a very bad stage conjurer. Cordelia was on her feet immediately and hurried to join him. The table was, not entirely unexpectedly, covered with copies of the Commando novels. All twelve—setting aside the argument about Commando Gold for the moment—of them.

Several copies of each, in little stacks, spread out for her appreciation.

Cordelia’s appreciation didn’t last very long. She picked up the nearest book—Commando Dawn—and ostentatiously inspected it. The book had been dented at every corner, had dirty fingerprints all over it, dirty fingerprints which had become indelible many years ago, and its spine was not only rolled, but it was also very thoroughly broken, in a number of places.

Cordelia didn’t say anything, she just silently examined the book for a moment more and then set it back down on the table. Her silence apparently spoke eloquently because Ossie was lurching to his feet, gradually extracting himself from the sofa, Fin wouldn’t meet her gaze—a first—and even Tinkler was beginning to take a sardonic interest in things.

“I’m not sure what Jordon told you…” said Cordelia, in a reasonable, measured, conversational tone.

“I told them that you were looking for Commando paperbacks. In fine condition,” said Tinkler, cheerfully emphasising the adjective.

Cordelia picked up the copy of Commando Dawn again and held it out at arm’s length, as if its odour was too disagreeable to be allowed any closer. She spoke with formal politeness. “This is not in fine condition.”

Cordelia opened her hand and let the book drop back onto the table. It was only a short drop, but it made her point rather well, she thought, while not risking any damage to the book. Not that this book was capable of being damaged much more than it already was.

The dropping of the book was like a signal which started both the Ballas brothers talking at once.

“Well, these are our duplicates,” said Finian.

“That’s just one book,” said Ossie lumbering towards the table, spreading his arms out thankfully not to offer a hug but to illustrate how many more paperbacks there were.

“Our duplicates,” repeated Finian. “You can’t expect us to sell our personal library copies.”

“See,” said Ossie, rummaging among the titles on the table. “The other books are…”

“The other books are all junkers, just like this one,” said Cordelia. “These aren’t your duplicates…”

“Yes, they are,” said Finian, glaring at her.

“They’re your discard pile,” said Cordelia, and was gratified that he dropped his gaze when she looked him in the eye.

“No, no, look,” said Ossie desolately, “some of them are nice…”

Cordelia let Ossie root among the books on the table while she went back and sat in her chair beside Tinkler. He gave her an approving elevation of the eyebrows, as much as to say, Nicely handled ma’am. Cordelia remained sitting, haughtily aloof like visiting royalty, while Ossie selected some books from the table and brought them over to her.

Finian was watching the proceedings with naked fury, but couldn’t seem to come up with an alternative course of action. Ossie loomed over Cordelia. “Excuse me,” he murmured, bending down in a cloud of cheap aftershave and carefully clearing the sushi debris from the table in front of her. Then he spread out his offering before Cordelia.

He’d selected, with OCD scrupulousness, one copy of each title. So, a dozen books. “Thank you, Ossie,” she said.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” said Ossie in surprise, as if no one had ever thanked him for anything before. Living with his brother as he did, this seemed entirely possible.

“Aren’t you going to come and have a look for yourself?” said Finian from over by the dining table where he stood rooted, unable to move because that might seem like a defeat and a climbdown.

“No thank you,” said Cordelia brightly. “I’m sure Ossie will have chosen the best copies of each title.” And she was, in fact, sure of this. Good old Ossie, knowing the books as he did, had just saved her a lot of time.

Ossie beamed at this praise. Finian, on the other hand, looked like he was grinding his teeth.

Cordelia gathered up the books Ossie had stacked in front of her and spread them out on the small table like a hand of cards. And, like a hand of cards, she began to select and discard. Mostly discard.

By the time she’d finished, closely watched by the three men in the room, she had retained just five books, and then after a careful second inspection of Commando Blaze, reduced this to four.

She stacked the eight rejects neatly on the table as far from her as possible, again as if they were potentially contaminated.

Finian marched over and inspected the books she’d chosen. “So, you want those ones?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘want’,” said Cordelia. “I’d say ‘be willing to settle for’.” None of the books were in fine condition, though they were all in pretty good shape, otherwise Cordelia wouldn’t be wasting her time.

And it did indeed take some time, the haggling which then ensued. When Finian—of course it was Finian who fired the opening salvo—suggested his asking price for the books, Cordelia let loose a joyful girlish bubbling laugh and then stared at the brothers with every appearance of innocence and said, “Oh my gosh. You weren’t joking.”

And so it began.

*   *   *

By the time Cordelia had finished beating them down in price, or rather beating Finian down since Ossie sensibly sat the negotiation out and watched from the sidelines with Tinkler, Finian really did look like he’d taken a beating. In fact, a more forgiving soul might have begun to feel somewhat sorry for him.

Cordelia felt no qualms at all, however. The price they finally settled on, fifty quid in total for all four books, was just about right. Finian had been hoping for ten times that amount, but in this regard Finian had cartoon bluebirds flying around his pointy little head.

And when it looked like he was going to say no, Cordelia had told him, quite truthfully, that she was completely willing to head back to London with no paperbacks at all. “And thank you for the sushi,” she added, perhaps not entirely kindly.

The fact that she wasn’t bluffing had apparently conveyed itself. And so Finian caved.

Cordelia offered to pay in cash, since cash usually talked in these situations, but both the brothers stared at the bank notes as if she was offering them cowrie shells, so she settled up by electronic bank transfer using her phone instead, and that seemed to reassure them.

Everybody relaxed at that point and sat down again. Tinkler and Ossie began searching through the wreckage of the sushi for any survivors. And Cordelia excused herself to use the bathroom. “Up at the top of the stairs,” said Ossie, who was preoccupied with some Korean chicken he’d unearthed.

“First door on the right,” said Fin. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to get up and come with her, but then he seemed to decide that this behaviour would be too creepy even for him. He contented himself with merely glaring at her suspiciously as she left the room.

Cordelia was relieved he hadn’t elected to accompany her, because Fin had every reason to be suspicious…

She went up the stairs, the bottom step creaking melodramatically when she stepped on it, just as it had when Ossie had risen from sitting there. That seemed like about ten years ago now. Cordelia went upstairs and used the loo, then resisted the temptation to give the bathroom a good nosing around. She fully expected that if she had, she would have found an unopened twenty-year-supply bulk pack of condoms.

But she was saving her nosing around for more important matters.

She left the toilet unflushed—as long as no one had heard the sound of it flushing, she would still be assumed to be innocently occupied in here.

But she wasn’t going to be in here and she wasn’t going to be innocently occupied.

Cordelia exited the bathroom and had a quick look around the rest of this floor. There were two other rooms opening off from the corridor, both apparently home offices, each equipped with its own very large computer screen. One was at the back of the house and had a window looking out on the garden, with the curtains open, admitting plenty of daylight, and houseplants in colourful pots everywhere. The other was at the side of the house and sealed in perpetual darkness, illuminated only by a screen saver of some footage from the latest Alien fiasco.

No prizes for guessing who belonged to which office.

After a quick glance into each of these, Cordelia went up the stairs to the next floor, setting her feet down carefully on each carpeted step to make sure there were no more treacherous squealers. There weren’t. Here, at the top of the house, was another bathroom, two bedrooms—she felt grateful that poor Ossie didn’t have to share with his brother—and one other room.

She opened the door to this.

Jackpot.

It was the library.

Perhaps that was rather too grand—and kind—a word for the room, adorned as it was with numerous action figures mostly of implausibly pneumatic super heroines. But the walls were certainly lined with bookshelves. Admittedly a lot of these books were graphic novels, but many of them were also proper novels. Almost all of them were arrayed on uniform matte black shelving, but there was also a narrow central section, in a place of honour, which consisted of a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves in a different material. In fact, it was the same red lacquered wood as the tables in the sitting room.

Yes, it was a Thai brothel bookcase.

As soon as she saw that it had twelve shelves, Cordelia began to get a tingly feeling. And even from across the dimly lit room—for obvious reasons she hadn’t switched on the lights—she could see that the books on each shelf were the same. Multiple copies of the same title. Perhaps thirty copies per shelf. Twelve shelves, twelve different books.

And Cordelia was familiar enough with the Commando novels now to recognise them by their spines, from a distance.

So here was a complete set, apparently in pristine condition—even at first glance from across the room she could see the spines were flat, even and unbroken.

Our library copies.

The bastards had been offering her the dregs of their collection when all the time they had literally dozens of immaculate copies of every title.

Every title…

Complete set…

Cordelia took a step towards the Thai brothel bookcase.

She could already see that the top shelf had copies of Commando Dagger, the first book in the series. The second shelf had copies of the second novel, Commando Blood, and so on. Right down to the bottom shelf, the twelfth shelf…

But there was something not quite right about the bottom shelf. Cordelia couldn’t see exactly what wasn’t right, because it was too dim in the room. She had a choice between turning on the lights or simply getting up close to the shelf and having a look. She moved forward to do the latter.

That was when she heard the sound.

It was like the shrieking of a very small damned soul in a miniature and low-budget hell.

It was in fact the sound of someone putting their foot on the bottom step of the staircase on the ground floor.

Cordelia froze, wasting precious microseconds.

Then she snatched her phone from her pocket, selected the camera function, shot without really taking aim—there was no time. The flash lit the room with glaring light for an instant, the shutter click noise sounded, then Cordelia pocketed the phone, and turned and fled the library, closing the door behind her as she had found it.

She lunged to the staircase, grabbing the top of the handrail and pivoting on it, going down the carpeted steps three at a time. She’d thoroughly established on the way up that they were silent. Unlike the one downstairs, which had cued this sudden activity.

She hit the landing on the next floor, pivoted again, stepped towards the bathroom but didn’t enter it, and was just closing its door behind her as if she’d emerged from it as Fin’s face—his alert, suspicious face—rose into view on the staircase to the ground floor.

Fin stared at her.

She stared at him.

He came all the way up onto the landing. His rising up from below like this—like a pantomime demon from under the stage via a trapdoor—meant he could look Cordelia over from head to foot, something he apparently had been wanting to do ever since she arrived. Although in this case he had to look her over from foot to head, as he gradually came up the stairs.

Cordelia suddenly remembered something, turned away from Fin, and went back into the bathroom, a move which baffled him. Inside the bathroom, Cordelia flushed the loo—manners—and came back out again to find Fin waiting for her.

She gave him her blithest smile.

He wasn’t looking any less suspicious. “You’ve been gone a long time,” he said.

“Women’s problems,” said Cordelia.

Fin blanched.

Judging by the gratifying look of horror on his face, the subject of what she’d been doing up here was now firmly and permanently closed.

*   *   *

On the drive back to London, Cordelia examined the books she’d purchased. “Are you gloating?” said Tinkler, from behind the wheel. He didn’t turn to look at her, which was always reassuring in a driver.

“I’m gloating in a qualified way,” said Cordelia.

“Because the books aren’t in fine condition.”

“The books are certainly not in fine condition,” said Cordelia. “They are, however, in what I would call pretty darned good condition.”

“Good enough to give to Erik?”

“Good enough to give to Erik in a pinch, but I fully intend to find better copies of these titles for him.”

“Why buy these ones, then?” said Tinkler, reasonably enough. “Did you feel you owed it to the Ballas brothers for their sushi?”

“No, fuck them and fuck their sushi,” said Cordelia, although she felt a little bad being so brutally dismissive about Ossie. “I bought the books partly as an emergency contingency in case Erik gets impatient and I haven’t found anything better for him at that point. Unlikely, but it’s always good to have a fallback plan. Plus, and I don’t want to sound mystical here, but in my experience if you have one copy of a book then you’re more likely to find another and better copy of it.”

“Well, if you didn’t want to sound mystical, you thoroughly failed,” said Tinkler. “But don’t sweat it. The Vinyl Detective has exactly the same philosophy. As, come to think of it, do I. When it comes to looking for records.”

“Right,” said Cordelia. “And then there’s the fact that these are all titles which I haven’t read yet.”

“And you actually want to read them?” Tinkler sounded vastly amused.

It was Cordelia’s turn to shrug in a slovenly fashion while seated in a car. “What can I say? When I get home I’m going to tuck into them like a filthy takeaway burger and fries…”

“And shake,” said Tinkler.

“And shake,” agreed Cordelia, “from some loathsome fast-food joint.”

“I can get behind that,” said Tinkler. “Both as a simile and as an actual meal.”

“And, finally, I must admit, part of my thinking was to give the Ballas brothers something. Or rather, not to give them nothing. By making some kind of a purchase, I might have kept the lines of communication open for future, and better, deals.”

“Better deals?” said Tinkler. “I don’t see you ruthlessly screwing their asking price down any further than you did back there. That was jaw-dropping, by the way.”

“No, I didn’t mean in terms of getting a lower price. I meant in terms of getting better copies of the books. The fuckers have numerous examples of every one of the Commando titles, in utterly unsullied condition.”

“How do you know?” said Tinkler.

“Because I snuck upstairs and had a look.”

“Aha, sneaky. Well done. I thought you were gone rather a long time.”

“So did Fin, but it was the easiest thing in the world to allay his suspicions. If necessary, I would have waved a tampon at him.”

Tinkler chuckled. “Then it would have been vampire-crucifix time.”

“It would rather, but luckily it didn’t come to that.” Cordelia took out her phone. “However, he did interrupt me before I could have a proper look…” She found the photograph she had taken and swiped to enlarge it.

There was a long silence in the little car.

Cordelia said nothing because she was staring at the photo on her phone. Tinkler was silent because of the way she was staring at it.

The flash photo had caught the Thai brothel bookcase at an odd, drunken angle, but the main thing was that the bottom shelf was included.

More importantly, the far right-hand corner of the bottom shelf was included.

This was important because, although almost the entire shelf was taken up with duplicates of the twelfth Commando novel, Commando Hell, there was one book at the far end which was different.

And, even on the blurred photo, the title of this single book was readable.

Commando Gold.

6: COMMANDO DAGGER

Despite the sushi banquet they’d consumed at the Ballas brothers’ house—and at the Ballas brothers’ expense, come to think of it—all the talk of junk food had made Cordelia and Tinkler rather hungry. So they stopped for a meal on the way back to London.

Thus, what with one thing and another, by the time they got to Tinkler’s little house on Putney Hill it was dark.

So, they didn’t immediately see what was on the front door.

Tinkler, it has to be said, was thoroughly distracted anyway because he was trying to inveigle Cordelia into coming inside for what he called “a proper visit”. Which, of course, meant carnal hijinks.

For her part, Cordelia was busy demurring and insisting that she just wanted to pop in to quickly use the loo and then perhaps he’d be good enough to drive her home.

With his back to the door, Tinkler was giving her his best chat-up lines, and his best beseeching-puppy look. The first of these stopped when Cordelia abruptly fell silent. And the second stopped when he saw the odd expression that had come over her face.

The direction of her stare caused Tinkler to turn around and look at his front door.

Someone had stuck a photo on it.

The photo had been printed on A4 paper, apparently with an inkjet printer. It was an image of Cordelia. In fact, an image of Cordelia dressed as she was today. Exactly as she was today. It was a head-and-shoulders shot and she was talking and smiling. The unseen person she was talking to, cropped out of the photo, was no doubt Tinkler.

Because the photo had been taken this afternoon, when they were walking from the car after parking it at the Elm Tree pub, as they were heading to the Ballas brothers’ house in Cambridge.

It was rather a nice photo, but definitely spoiled by the knife stuck into it.

Into the middle of Cordelia’s face, in fact.

Perhaps there was some basis for arguing that the knife was necessary, since it was the means by which the photo had been affixed to Tinkler’s door.

But really, did it need to be right in the middle of her face?

And as for the blade itself…

To her own surprise, Cordelia recognised it as a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife.

Standard issue for commandos.

*   *   *

“You know,” said Edwin. “I’m not sure that the old Dualit generic milk frother wasn’t better for making hot chocolate than their fancy new model specially designed for making hot chocolate.” He was gazing at the gleaming copper cylinder which was the object of his criticism as he laboriously and painstakingly measured spoonfuls of Tesco’s Finest Santo Domingo Indulgent drinking chocolate into it.

In spite of this running critique, Cordelia awaited the resulting beverage with impatience and eagerness.

Edwin made a good hot chocolate. He made the best hot chocolate. Indeed, her landlord was something of a dark horse.

Despite apparently being a Rohan-wearing, crossword-puzzle-solving, opera-listening bore, he was actually just the sort of person you wanted at your back in a risky situation. Better yet, stay away from the risky situation altogether and send good old Edwin in on his own to sort it out.

Edwin quite liked risky situations. Despite all appearances, he was a bit of an adrenaline junky in his own quiet way.

While they waited for the hot chocolate to finish heating and whirring around in the copper cylinder, Edwin sat back down at the table with Cordelia. They were in the kitchen in his little flat on the ground floor at the back of the house, with Rainbottle the dog carefully situated between their feet.

There was a steady gentle tapping of September rain on the window, making it feel all the more warm and cosy in here. Not to mention dry.

Edwin picked up the commando dagger which was lying on the table along with the photograph it had pinned to Tinkler’s door. “Someone was sending you a message,” he said.

He turned over the dagger in his hand. The blade was what they called leaf-shaped—though it would have to be a very long, thin and stretched-out leaf. And it was sharp and smooth. With no serrations. All of which meant that it was designed for one purpose.

Killing people.

Cordelia knew all about this for the same reason she knew about the Fairbairn-Sykes designation. From reading Butch Raider’s books.

“It was rather an expensive message,” she said.

Edwin looked at her, a flicker of puzzlement altering to understanding. “Because this is a collector’s item?”

“Among war paraphernalia buffs,” said Cordelia. She took the knife from Edwin, still warm from his touch. Under the table, Rainbottle made a small, thoughtful sound as though acknowledging the seriousness of this discussion. Cordelia turned the knife over in her hand. It gave her a very odd feeling to look at this thing and then look at her photograph, with the neat incision in the middle of her forehead, slicing down through the bridge of her nose, and know this was the implement that had made it.

“I could sell it online for a shitload of money,” she said.

“There are strict laws about selling knives these days,” said Edwin. He said it in a manner which was both censorious and approving—censorious about selling knives and approving of the tighter laws. Which was pretty rich, considering the number of people he’d killed. Some of them quite possibly with knives. Cordelia had never wanted to enquire too closely.

Cordelia’s landlord was what a more judgemental person might call a serial killer.

Despite that, Cordelia had no misgivings about living under his roof. He wasn’t that sort of serial killer. The people he dispatched always had it coming, at least from his point of view. And he only killed out of necessity. Again, from his point of view.

Cordelia had learned about this hinterland to Edwin’s existence when he’d helped her out of a very tricky spot. And at that point he had been transformed, in her eyes, from a dullard and drone of a landlord with a nice dog to a very interesting guy with a nice dog.

And living in his house had become a more agreeable and pleasant experience. Indeed, quite relaxing.

Although she did immediately and completely alter her old policy of trying to dodge the rent and pay it as late as possible.

Edwin picked up the photograph and studied it carefully. “The message seems pretty clear,” he said.

“A warning,” said Cordelia.

“Yes.” He lowered the photo and looked at her. “But a warning about what?” He glanced at the hot chocolate maker and saw that the light had gone out, signalling completion of its task.

Cordelia sighed. “True. They could have been a bit more specific, considering all the trouble they went to, to get that picture of me and pin it to the door. But it seems pretty clear that I’m being warned off dealing with the Ballas brothers.”

“Buying books from them,” said Edwin, pouring the hot chocolate.

“Well, not just that. I also had a little chat with them about Commando Gold.”

“The book your rock star client has hired you to find.” He handed Cordelia her mug.

“The most important of a number of books he’s hired me to find.”

“All in the same series.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. She tried her hot chocolate. Still a bit too hot.

“So, we can safely assume,” said Edwin, picking up the knife again, “that this is somehow commando-related.”

“We can safely assume that,” said Cordelia. “And Commando Gold does seem to be the nub of the matter. It’s not only the rarest and most sought-after book, but the Ballas brothers are actively involved in a campaign to spread disinformation about it. They’re promulgating the falsehood that the book was never published. That it simply doesn’t exist.”

Cordelia took out her phone and showed Edwin the photo of the Thai brothel bookcase, and enlarged it so he could see the spine of the book on the bottom shelf on the far right. The title Commando Gold was blurry but quite legible. “But it does exist.” Cordelia put her phone away. “And they have a copy of it.”

“Just one copy,” said Edwin. “Whereas they appear to have quite a few copies of the other books in the series.”

Cordelia was impressed that Edwin had noticed this in his single quick glance at the picture. It was a secondary but important fact. Edwin was really quite perceptive.

“Right. Which implies something.” Cordelia tried her hot chocolate. It was ready to drink now, and drink it she did.

“What does it imply?” said Edwin.

“That they’d have more copies of Commando Gold if they could.” Cordelia set her mug aside, still half-full, to pace herself. “So, this book really is rare.”

“But why are they actively involved in denying its existence?” said Edwin.

“We don’t know, but my best guess is they don’t want anyone else looking for copies of it. No competition, thank you. So, they’re discouraging that by making people think there are no copies to look for.”

“A bit of a dog-in-a-manger attitude,” said Edwin. A dog under the table whined as if concurring. “Trying to stop anyone else finding the book while they greedily seek duplicates for themselves.”

“It’s completely reprehensible, not to mention nuts,” said Cordelia. “But it certainly fits with their obsessive collector profile.”

Edwin took the photo in one hand and the knife in the other. He was evidently about to insert the blade through the slit it had made, which gave Cordelia a very strange feeling and not a nice one. Edwin must have picked up on this because he gave her a quick glance and turned the photo over, so the blank side of the paper was uppermost, and proceeded to fit the knife through the slit in that.

Which was very considerate of him; Edwin was like that. Cordelia drank some more of the excellent hot chocolate he’d made for her.

“And do we think the Ballas brothers are responsible for this?” he said, removing the knife from the photograph and setting them both down on the table again.

“I suspect they’re responsible for the photo,” said Cordelia, setting her mug aside, with just one delicious mouthful left in it. “Or a least one of the brothers is.” No prizes for guessing which one. “Judging by the angle, it looks to me like it could have been taken from their house. From the upstairs window as we were walking towards it.”

Edwin frowned. “So, what’s our thesis? That they took the photograph, that they had the knife to hand, and that, when you left Cambridge, they somehow managed to race back to London before you got there and leave this on Jordon’s door as a warning?” He gave her one of his serious looks, like a professor encouraging a student in a seminar. “Would that even be physically possible?”

Cordelia certainly thought so. “Tinkler’s car isn’t very fast,” she said. “And we dawdled coming back. We stopped for a bite to eat.”

“So, in a faster car, driving at a more determined pace…”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “Someone could have set off from Cambridge at the same time as us, or even after we left, and reached London before us. No problem. But I don’t even know if the Ballas brothers can drive.”

“They wouldn’t necessarily have to,” said Edwin. “Someone else could have driven them. But…” he assumed a faraway look, as if listening to a Puccini aria. “But if someone else could drive them…”

“Then they wouldn’t even need to come,” said Cordelia. “If there’s someone else involved who could handle the business in London…”

“Why would they even need to leave Cambridge?” said Edwin. “Excellent point. And we shouldn’t necessarily assume whoever wielded the knife came from Cambridge. They could be London-based.”

“And merely in touch with the Ballas brothers back in Cambridge,” said Cordelia.

“Yes,” said Edwin. “So, in that scenario, the brothers took the photo, sent it electronically to someone in London who printed it out, took the knife, which they had on hand, went to Jordon’s house and stuck the photo on the door in rather a grisly manner to warn you off. Or perhaps to warn Jordon off.”

“What do you mean, warn Jordon off?” said Cordelia. “It’s a photo of me.”

“Yes, true, and we’ve been assuming all along that warning was directed at you. But if someone wanted to intimidate a bloke, it would be even more effective to threaten the bloke’s girlfriend than to threaten the bloke himself.” Edwin smiled at her. “If you see what I mean.”

“I do,” said Cordelia. “Of course, I’m not actually Jordon’s girlfriend. But they’re not to know that.”

“Correct,” said Edwin, in his best professorial manner.

“And in Jordon’s case, they would probably have been better off threatening him directly, since he’s very fond of his own skin.”

“Poor Jordon,” said Edwin. “Are you certain you’re not selling him short?”

“Reasonably certain. But again, they’re not to know that.” Cordelia paused to drain her hot chocolate. It always tasted great and it was always such a shame when it was gone. She went and put the mug in the sink, rinsed it and left it there, feeling that a burial with full military honours would have been more appropriate for the receptacle of such a splendid beverage. She sat down at the table again, Rainbottle shifting on the floor to make room at her feet.

“Not that it makes any difference,” she said, “whether it’s me or Tinkler they’re aiming the warning at. The warning still has the same meaning. Don’t come looking for Commando Gold.”

“Yes, that sounds right,” said Edwin.

“Have I got a hot chocolate moustache, by the way?” said Cordelia.

“Just a bit of one. It looks rather stylish.”

While Cordelia was daintily wiping her gob with a tissue, Edwin drummed his fingers on the photograph and stared at it hard. “I don’t suppose anyone saw anything at Jordon’s? For example, someone walking up to the front door and attaching this to it with a knife?”

“True,” said Cordelia, putting the tissue back in her pocket, “that would considerably simplify matters if someone had seen that. But you suppose right. No one saw anything, as far as we know.” It wasn’t as if Tinkler lived in a lovely small village where everyone talked to each other and kept an eye on each other’s property through their net curtains.

Edwin was getting his frowny, sceptical look. Cordelia recognised it from when he was labouring over the Guardian crossword and had become doubtful about one of his answers. “But are we absolutely certain the photo was taken by the brothers?” he said.

“No,” said Cordelia. “It looks about the right angle to have been taken from the upper floors of their house. But it could have been taken from somewhere else.”

“By a drone, for example,” said Edwin. “Flying overhead.”

Cordelia was about to say she hadn’t heard a drone, but instead she said, “Drones can be silent, can’t they?”

“I believe so, unfortunately. So, I fear we’re left with the possibility that photograph was not necessarily taken by les frères Ballas.”

“But why would someone be flying a drone around Cambridge, photographing me?”

“You said you were walking towards the Ballas house. Well, the brothers might themselves be the subject of surveillance. And completely unaware that any of this is going on.” Edwin picked up the dagger and studied it, pressing his finger against its razor-sharp tip. Pressed it very gently against it. Then he inspected his fingertip to make sure the skin wasn’t broken. “You and Jordon may simply have walked into something else entirely,” he said. “Some situation we know nothing about.”

“Oh shit,” said Cordelia, who hadn’t thought of that. It opened up new possibilities. And new complications. And suddenly things seemed a lot more murky than they had before.

“So, I fear nothing is certain,” said Edwin.

“One thing is certain,” said Cordelia.

Edwin put down the knife and looked at her. “What’s that?”

“That the Ballas brothers have the book I want.”

Edwin gave her a long, serious look.

“You’re not going to do anything foolish?” he said.

“I wouldn’t call it foolish,” said Cordelia.

*   *   *

The following day Cordelia was in her attic room when Edwin texted her from downstairs to say she had a visitor. He didn’t actually bother to say who the visitor was, because they had an arrangement that he’d only do this and hold them at the front door if it was someone unknown. Or potentially dodgy. Like Cordelia’s brother.

This wasn’t her brother. It was Tinkler. He arrived on the landing outside her room, grinning at her. He had a rather stylish green rucksack flung over one shoulder and looked a little outdoorsy, which was an odd way for Tinkler—such an indoor creature—to look. His hair was even fetchingly disarrayed by the wind. Or at least it had been fetchingly disarrayed on the short walk from his car to the house.

Cordelia invited him in and, Tinkler being Tinkler, she offered him some dope-infused green butter on sourdough toast.

Tinkler, being Tinkler, promptly accepted and chomped on it as they talked.

“I’ve been thinking about that photo,” he said, mouth only partially full of sourdough crumbs and cannabis-saturated sweet Normandy butter.

“The one of me with a knife in my head,” said Cordelia. “My pretty little head.”

“Well, that too of course,” said Tinkler. “I’ve been thinking about that one a lot. But the one I’m actually talking about, and the one I’ve come here to talk to you about, is the photo on the phone.”

“The Thai brothel bookcase?”

“What the hell is that?” said Tinkler.

“Private designation,” said Cordelia. “Sorry.”

“Is that the bookcase with the copy of Commando Gold in it?” said Tinkler.

“Yes.”

“Then that’s the one I mean. I’ve been thinking about that photo and the implications of it.”

“What implications would those be?” said Cordelia.

Tinkler finished crunching on his piece of toast and proceeded to lick the remains of the butter off his fingers. Cordelia wasn’t offended. She would have been offended if he hadn’t licked his fingers. There was several quids’ worth of weed in that bit of butter.

“You’re going to steal it, aren’t you?” said Tinkler.

“What?” said Cordelia, trying to inject the correct note of outrage into her voice.

“The book,” said Tinkler. “Commando Gold. You’re going to steal it from the Ballas brothers, aren’t you?”

“Why on earth would you say that?” It wasn’t so difficult sounding outraged. She was outraged. That Tinkler had seen through her so effortlessly.

“Because there’s no way they’re going to sell it to you,” said Tinkler. “Since they were tying themselves in knots denying it even existed.”

“They really were tying themselves in knots, weren’t they?”

“So, they’d never consider selling it to you,” said Tinkler. “Certainly not for any sum that would allow you a healthy profit margin when you sell it on to Erik.”

“They wouldn’t sell it to me at any price,” said Cordelia. “You can be sure of that. But what makes you think I would steal it?” Time for a bit more outrage.

“Because you want it. And never get between Cordelia Stanmer and something that she wants.”

“That’s all quite complimentary, I suppose, if one likes being depicted as a remorseless force of nature. But how dare you suggest I’d steal—”

“I dare suggest because you’ve done it before, and I know you’ve done it before.”

Cordelia reflected that he’d got her there. She’d not only stolen rare paperbacks before, she’d stolen them from people considerably more dangerous than the Ballas brothers; an escapade which had landed her in exactly that tricky situation she’d needed Edwin’s assistance extracting her from.

“So that’s why you’ve come here?” she said, looking at Tinkler, who had finished licking his fingers. It was a relief, actually, not having to sound outraged. “To try and talk me out of it?” said Cordelia.

“No, don’t be crazy,” said Tinkler. “See my earlier comment about coming between you and something you want. I’ve come here to offer my help.”

Despite herself, Cordelia was rather moved. “That really is sweet of you,” she said.

“It is, isn’t it?” said Tinkler complacently.

“But,” said Cordelia, “I’m afraid I can’t let you help me.” She thought about that commando dagger, now residing downstairs with Edwin. Just because someone had stuck it into a photograph, didn’t mean they would stick a knife into a real person…

But, on the other hand, it didn’t mean that they wouldn’t.

And while the Ballas brothers themselves clearly weren’t dangerous, the dagger-wielding person (or persons) might well be.

So, all in all, having Tinkler involved in Cordelia’s proposed paperback theft would be a very bad idea. He wouldn’t be much help, if any, especially in a tight corner. And he might well get hurt. And Cordelia didn’t want the poor fool to get hurt.

Now, as gently as possible, she explained all this to him. She needn’t have bothered doing it gently, because he started laughing almost immediately.

“When I said I was offering my help,” said Tinkler, “I didn’t mean I was actually going to join you in your book-burglary extravaganza.”

“How were you going to help, then?” said Cordelia, somewhat irked.

Tinkler looked down at the green rucksack he’d set on the floor by his chair. He nudged it gently with his foot, as though to awaken some slumbering entity within. “By bringing you this,” he said.

Now Cordelia was intrigued. “What is it?”

“Okay,” said Tinkler. “I assume you have a burglary kit.”

Cordelia, who did indeed have just such a kit, said, “I am neither confirming nor denying that.”

“Well forget about using it this time. Because whatever else the Ballas brothers might be, they’re tech-savvy. So, if you plan to break into their house, you’re going to need to overcome some fairly high-end security hardware, and you’ll need something more than your usual paltry burglar’s tools.” Tinkler smiled and leaned forward and patted the green rucksack. “Which is where this little treasure trove comes in. Everything the twenty-first-century thief needs in terms of electronic countermeasures.”

“Where did you get it?” said Cordelia, moving towards the rucksack, drawn inexorably by its illicit allure.

“From a friend.”

Cordelia lifted the rucksack. It had a smooth, silky feel, and it was impressively heavy.

“You borrowed this from the Vinyl Detective?”

“I borrowed it from the Vinyl Detective’s beautiful girlfriend.”

“She really is beautiful,” said Cordelia.

“She really is,” said Tinkler. Then, swiftly, “But not as beautiful as you.”

“You got in there just under the wire.”

7: HYBRID BURGLARY BAG

Cordelia got a lift to Cambridge with Edwin.

Because, whereas Tinkler wouldn’t be of much help in a burglary, her landlord would be a great deal of help.

For a start, although his car was almost as old as Tinkler’s, it was considerably faster, and a smoother ride, too.

It would still take well over two hours to get to Cambridge, despite them setting off around midnight and the roads being relatively empty. But that was fine. It meant they would be arriving at their destination at a time when most people could reasonably be expected to be asleep.

“Things might be a little complicated,” said Edwin, “if the Ballas brothers turn out to be night owls.” He was taking a different route to Cambridge from the one Tinkler had used. For a start, Edwin stayed on the Upper Richmond Road, aka the South Circular, long after Tinkler had turned off. Cordelia didn’t interfere. If someone was good enough to give her a ride, she just let them get on with it.

“Do you know if they’re night owls?” said Edwin, glancing at her, passing headlights reflected on the lenses of his spectacles. Edwin didn’t normally wear glasses, but night driving was apparently an exception.

“I checked with Tinkler,” said Cordelia, “but unfortunately he couldn’t offer a definitive answer.”

“Well, if we arrive and it’s obvious they’re still wide awake, with lights blazing in every window, we’ll just have to sit tight,” said Edwin. “And wait until they do go to sleep.” He glanced at Cordelia again, and then back at the road ahead. “If necessary, we can always return another night.”

“This really is very good of you, Edwin,” said Cordelia.

“My pleasure.” Edwin was grinning toothily; apparently it genuinely was his pleasure.

“I mean not just taking me all this way,” said Cordelia, “but being willing to do it all over again.”

“Well, better safe than sorry,” said Edwin. Which might have been his motto. For others, a very boring motto, but considering what Edwin got up to when he did deem it safe, not boring in his case at all. “My only regret is that we can’t bring Rainbottle with us. Poor chap. I hope he doesn’t get lonely.”

Rainbottle certainly wouldn’t get hungry, judging by the number of doggie snacks which had been left out for him. And, as for lonely, Edwin had thoughtfully left Radio 3 on, currently playing a Mozart concerto when they left, so it would be almost as if his master was in residence.

They continued on the South Circular and then the North Circular all the way to Ealing, where they drove onto the giant Hanger Lane roundabout, a fiendishly complicated construction which was currently so choked with traffic that it might as well have been just after noon instead of just after midnight. “Even if the Ballas brothers are night owls,” said Cordelia, resuming their earlier discussion, “that might be an advantage.”

“How so?” said Edwin, finding his way around the nightmare topography of the Hanger Lane gyratory with no apparent strain.

“Okay,” said Cordelia. “You see, the library is on the top floor and so are their bedrooms…”

“Ah,” said Edwin, comprehension dawning. “So, if they’re in bed, they’ll be in close proximity to where you’re operating.”

Cordelia liked the idea that she’d be operating. “That’s right,” she said. “Whereas, if they’re up late, they’ll inevitably be sat in front of their computers…”

“Which are where?” said Edwin.

“On the floor below,” said Cordelia. “It’s a three-storey house.”

“So, if they are night owls and are using their computers…” said Edwin. They were now driving north on something called the A405, which comprised three lanes of fast-moving vehicles. “…you just need to sneak past that floor of the house, then you’ll be upstairs in the library.”

“And it won’t take long once I’m up there,” said Cordelia. Words like ‘snatch’ and ‘grab’ came to mind. Snatch Commando Gold and grab one copy each of the immaculate versions of all the other titles. Or, actually, two copies. One for her rock star client and one for herself. Cordelia had become rather a fan of the collected works of Butch Raider. Which meant it was a shame the Ballas brothers only had one copy of Commando Gold for her to steal.

But she didn’t even consider the possibility of keeping that for herself.

The interests of her client came first, she thought virtuously.

Plus, of course, the thousands of pounds she was going to extract from him for that rare, rare paperback…

“How close is the room with the computers to the stairway?” asked Edwin, ever the practical one.

“Rooms, actually. Two,” said Cordelia, “and they’re both a fair distance away. It won’t be any trouble getting up to the next floor past them unheard.”

“And what if the brothers are, in fact, up on the top floor, in their bedrooms?” said Edwin, in probing professorial mode.

“We’ll just have to hope they’re sound asleep,” said Cordelia.

*   *   *

They turned off the A405 at Walthamstow, of all places, and joined the M11.

There then ensued a period of intense, fast driving, with Edwin concentrating fully on maintaining lane discipline and Cordelia drifting in and out of sleep. She snapped fully awake when they reached the outskirts of Cambridge, though. Edwin navigated past Parker’s Piece and down assorted side roads, and then all at once they were in Eden Street.

Edwin slowed the car to a crawl. “Which house is it?” he said.

Cordelia pointed. “That one there.”

“Bit of a monstrosity,” said Edwin.

“My feelings exactly. Can we pull over while I sort myself out?”

“Certainly,” said Edwin. They stopped at the side of the road, about fifty metres from the brothers’ house, and Cordelia opened the rucksack Tinkler had given her. It was a very nice rucksack, made of some kind of silky-smooth synthetic fabric, stylishly shaped, and with nice little details like ceramic magnets sewn into it, to fasten it closed.

Cordelia rather wished she could keep it when this job was over.

Not to mention its contents.

She drew out a small handheld device and quickly checked it over. It was a black rectangle about the size of a packet of cigarettes—remember those?—with two thin cylinders sticking out of the top, like pens sticking out of some kind of fancy pen case. She couldn’t see its logo in the darkened car, but she knew it was called the Stone Circle Three Band Bug Sniffer Pro, and she knew from some online research that it cost about fifteen hundred quid, so she handled it with care.

“Okay,” she said. “Can we creep the car forward so we’re in front of their house? And maybe even stop there for a moment, if we can do that without it looking suspicious.”

“We can stop outside for as long as you like and it probably won’t look suspicious,” said Edwin, sounding remarkably relaxed and cheerful.

“How come?”

“Because there’s apparently no one awake for it to look suspicious to,” said Edwin. He gestured towards the Ballas brothers’ domicile. “No lights,” he said.

He was right. Cordelia hadn’t noticed that, but it seemed as if the brothers were not night owls after all.

Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen.

Edwin started the car and they drove forward a short distance and pulled in again, directly opposite the house. He somehow managed to do this in a brisk, businesslike way as if he was just changing one parking space for a better one. All completely above board and not at all likely to arouse suspicion in even the most distrustful.

But what Cordelia was doing now was liable to arouse suspicion in even the least distrustful, if seen, as she aimed the Bug Sniffer Pro at the Ballas brothers’ residence and pushed various buttons on it. The device had come with a brief instruction manual, thoughtfully downloaded and printed out by its owner, and Cordelia had also watched some useful instructional videos online.

Edwin sat patiently beside her as she ran the device again, and again, and again.

“Is something wrong?” he said, finally.

“Not as far as I can tell,” said Cordelia. “But…”

“But?”

“If I’m using this thing correctly,” said Cordelia, “and I think I am, then the brothers’ house is as clean as a whistle.”

“You mean there are no devices detected?” said Edwin.

“That’s what I mean,” said Cordelia.

“No alarms, or cameras, or sensors?”

“Nothing,” said Cordelia.

“Of any kind?” said Edwin.

“None.”

“Are you sure it’s working?” said Edwin.

“That’s the question,” said Cordelia. “Let’s find out. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind in the slightest,” said Edwin. He first drove the car forward, paused there, and then reversed it forthrightly backwards and stopped again, for all the world like a respectable burgher still seeking the perfect parking place.

And while he did so, Cordelia scanned houses on either side of the brothers’; and for one of these—the one on the left—the Bug Sniffer Pro immediately flagged up an assortment of tech. For the other, the house on the right, Cordelia again drew a blank. Edwin obligingly stopped in front of three more houses along the street and, of these, one showed positive, the other two negative.

Once she’d finished doing this sample, Edwin pulled away and drove a hundred metres up the road, then definitively stopped the car and switched it off. Just for the hell of it, Cordelia scanned the house opposite where they were now parked.

Again, assorted devices were flagged up as active inside it.

Edwin, who occasionally had the annoying habit of stating the obvious, said, “So, it seems the device you’ve borrowed—what’s it called?”

“The Bug Sniffer,” said Cordelia.

“A singularly uninviting name,” observed Edwin. “Anyway, it seems to be working.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“And, on the basis of our little informal survey, more houses in this street than not are undefended…”

“And the Ballas brothers have an undefended house,” said Cordelia.

“And hence you’re clear to go in,” said Edwin.

*   *   *

Cordelia walked the short distance back down the street from Edwin’s car. She was dressed all in black: jeans, sneakers, Puffa jacket and slouch beanie cap, none of which made her look shady, it merely made her look fashionable. The only exception to her all-black ensemble was the borrowed rucksack, which was dark green and therefore still also perfectly acceptable for the low visibility required for nefarious nocturnal activity.

In addition to the rucksack—her burglary bag—Cordelia had her phone with her, in her pocket.

She’d arranged with Edwin that, once she was inside the house, he’d give her five minutes. At that point either she’d send him a prearranged and prepared text message—of a purple heart emoji, as it happened—to indicate that everything was okay. Or she wouldn’t send him a text, because everything was not okay.

Which would give rise to Edwin coming in pursuit of her. All guns blazing.

Edwin hadn’t actually said the last bit, and Cordelia didn’t even know if he had a gun with him. Probably not.

But still, it was a comforting way of phrasing things.

All this elaborate preparation was just overkill, though. The brothers had no idea she was coming, had no idea she was even likely to be coming since, unlike Tinkler, they had no idea of her larcenous ways. What’s more, they also had no idea she even knew they possessed a copy of Commando Gold.

On top of which, the Ballas brothers were essentially harmless idiots.

Although you wouldn’t want to spend too long breathing their aftershave.

On the other hand, someone had stuck a knife through that photo of Cordelia…

So perhaps it was worth taking a few precautions.

When Cordelia reached the Ballas brothers’ house, she didn’t go up to the front door. Instead, she went along a paved path to the left, leading to a narrow wooden gate which in turn led into the back garden. This gate wasn’t locked. Indeed, didn’t appear to be lockable.

On top of that, it was well oiled and didn’t even creak when she opened it.

Grateful for such small blessings, Cordelia closed it quietly behind her and looked around at the back garden of the house. It had once been an expanse of lawn with an ornamental pond in the centre, surrounded by paving stones.

Some person—Cordelia assumed Ossie—had tried to convert this into a more elaborate garden, and had done a very bad job. Irregular patches of ground had been dug up as if someone had been looking for buried treasure beneath the lawn. The only thing spoiling this impression was the fact they had planted the exposed earth with bulbs, shrubs and flowers. Most of which were now dead or dying. Poor Ossie would have to make do with the potted plants in his room.

This thought prompted Cordelia to look up at the house, at the window which would correspond with Ossie’s home office. It was dark, as was that of his brother. Above that, their bedroom windows were both also dark.

Cordelia knelt on a patch of surviving lawn, now grown long and unruly, feeling the damp grass through the knees of her jeans, and opened her rucksack. She out took the Bug Sniffer and pointed it at the back of the house. This wasn’t strictly necessary, but, to quote Edwin, you couldn’t be too careful.

The Bug Sniffer repeated its all-clear message and Cordelia tucked it back into its home. Then she took out a bubble-wrapped pouch which contained her own collection of old-fashioned but useful tools. She’d added these to the rucksack of hi-tech goodies Tinkler had given her, creating a hybrid burglary bag.

The first item she took out was her head torch. She put this on and immediately felt very professional, and moved briskly to the back of the house. This consisted of a narrow patio area with paving stones matching those around the pond. Facing out onto the patio was the darkened kitchen, visible through a window and the glass panels of the back door.

The back door had the kind of low-tech lock Cordelia had taught herself to pick, and she was confident she could get inside quickly. She switched on her head torch and went to work, remembering to first try the door to make sure it hadn’t been left open.

It hadn’t.

Cordelia had picked locks of this kind before and fully expected to get it open in a couple of minutes.

But she’d overestimated her skill in this area, and she had to text Edwin the purple heart twice before she finally got the damned thing sorted and opened the back door—she was wearing gloves, of course—and stepped inside. The silence in the kitchen was compromised by the buzzing of a big refrigerator doing its thing, but not by Cordelia moving soundlessly and stealthily across its tiled floor in her black sneakers.

The door at the far end of the kitchen was ajar and she opened it very carefully in case of creaking hinges. There were no creaking hinges, but, as it swung open, it revealed the hallway running towards the front of the house…

And, on the left of this passage, a faint glow.

Orientating herself, Cordelia realised the glow was coming from the doorway of the lounge where they’d sat eating sushi the other day. She started down the hallway, approaching it with caution, the gleaming spot from her head torch advancing before her, showing her the way. There was no sound in here. The floor was carpeted with the omnipresent blue-and-white carpet and her tread was utterly silent. But then Cordelia heard something.

Just at the very edge of perception, so faint she wasn’t sure if she was imagining it.

But as she drew closer to the doorway of the lounge it grew more definite.

It was the tiny, tinny sound of techno music turned very low. Turned very low indeed.

Cordelia stopped dead.

Was someone—Fin being the obvious candidate—sitting in the lounge listening to techno at three in the morning? Listening to techno turned down to the very edge of audibility? Why would anyone do that? Admittedly, why listen at any volume, but why at such a low level you could hardly hear it?

Maybe the smart speaker, not being very smart, was playing to an empty room.

This seemed the most plausible explanation.

But there were also lights on in the lounge, though these were turned down very low.

Which, again, could indicate occupancy.

Cordelia switched off her head torch and moved towards the open doorway, approaching with extreme caution. She drifted towards the lounge, as silent as a wraith. The house was big and dark and quiet all around her, just this one faint patch of light and sound on her left…

And now directly in front of her.

She stood in the open doorway of the lounge. The LED lights recessed in the ceiling had been turned down just about as low as they would go, providing only the faintest ghostly illumination. And the microscopic bouncing beat of the techno was hardly louder in here than it had been out in the hallway.

Cordelia stared into the room.

It appeared quite empty.

She was just starting to get annoyed at whichever of the brothers was responsible—her money was on Fin—for retiring to bed and leaving the lights and the music on just enough to get her really worried, when she noticed a patch of shadow on the floor near the small table where the sushi feast had been served up.

Cordelia tried to make out what it was, but she couldn’t.

She switched on her head torch and leaned forward.

The small, neat patch of white light landed squarely on Fin’s face.

*   *   *

Fin was staring at her, or rather he wasn’t really staring because his eyes clearly weren’t seeing anything.

They gleamed in the beam of light from her torch, but not the way the eyes of a living person would gleam. Presumably because they were unnaturally dry.

Also, there was the matter of the strange angle of Fin’s neck.

When she first glimpsed him, Cordelia had jerked in shock, causing the beam of her torch to flash across his body, lying there on the floor. And she’d seen enough to know that his head was oddly twisted.

Cordelia had seen enough altogether.

She turned around and moved quickly back down the hallway, her heart beating so loudly that it seemed to echo off the walls on either side of her. She walked back through the kitchen, out the back door—remembering to close it behind her—turned left, went through the garden gate, remembered to close that, and then out onto the street and back to the car where Edwin was waiting.

She opened the door and got in beside him. Edwin was listening to classical music on the car radio, but he turned it off as she got in.

“How did it…” said Edwin. He didn’t get as far as “go”. Edwin was anything but slow. He took one look at Cordelia and said, “What is it?”

“Fin,” said Cordelia. Was there something strange about her voice, or did it just sound strange to her? “He was lying in the sitting room. Dead.”

“Are you sure?”

Cordelia described his dry, open eyes and his oddly angled neck, and Edwin nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “He certainly sounds dead all right. And that would explain the lack of defence measures.”

Cordelia was suddenly snapped out of the flow of her thoughts. “What? Sorry?”

“That would explain why your box of tricks didn’t detect any technology to protect their house. Someone had already knocked all that out.”

“Someone went in before me…”

“Yes,” said Edwin gently. “They turned off all the sensors and alarms, and they did for poor Fin.” He paused. “What about his brother?”

“I didn’t see him. I just got out of there,” said Cordelia.

“Did you get the book?” said Edwin.

8: A PICTURE OF RAINBOTTLE

Cordelia couldn’t believe it. She’d completely forgotten about the book. Now, sitting here in the car with Edwin, she’d had a chance to recover from the shock a little…

And she felt like a fool.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t even think of going after the book.”

“Quite understandable,” said Edwin sympathetically.

“But I should have, shouldn’t I?” said Cordelia, turning to look at him.

“It’s not easy to think clearly under such circumstances,” said Edwin.

“I really should go back in, shouldn’t I?” said Cordelia.

Edwin shrugged. “Well, we’ve come all this way…”

“I’ll go back in,” said Cordelia decisively. “Just give me a minute to get myself together.”

“Of course,” said Edwin soothingly. “I wish I could come with you. If I could accompany you, I certainly would.”

Cordelia nodded obediently.

“But your DNA is in the house already,” explained Edwin. “Because you recently paid a perfectly legitimate visit, which would explain its presence there, should the need arise. Which I very much doubt it will. Anyway, it won’t do any harm for you to add some more DNA now.”

He took off his glasses, inspected them critically, then began to methodically clean them with a cloth he took from the pocket of his Rohan jacket. “But, by contrast, my DNA would be much harder to explain.”

“Of course,” said Cordelia.

“For that reason, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay in the car,” said Edwin.

“Of course,” said Cordelia. “Just give me a minute or two.”

“Take as much time as you need,” said Edwin.

*   *   *

To her chagrin, it took Cordelia fully five minutes to stir from where she was sitting beside Edwin in the car. It was like getting out of a nice warm bath, or a nice warm bed.

And stepping into icy cold.

Finally, she decided it was now or never, and forced herself to move.

“Ready?” said Edwin.

“As I’ll ever be,” said Cordelia. She’d meant this to come out sounding brave and offhand, but instead it sounded scared and reluctant.

“Be careful,” said Edwin. “And remember what we agreed.”

What they’d agreed, while Cordelia had been sitting there willing herself to move, was that they’d continue with the protocol of her texting every five minutes.

The unspoken subtext of this texting being: who knew what else she might find in the house?

But they’d also arranged that Edwin would message her if anything untoward happened. Such as the police suddenly turning up in the street outside.

After all, they now knew the Ballas brothers’ house was a crime scene. Indeed, a murder scene.

And the police did have a habit of turning up at murder scenes.

Anyway, if Edwin thought it was advisable that Cordelia get out of the house in a hurry, he would send Cordelia a photo of Rainbottle.

“Good luck,” said Edwin.

Cordelia got out of the car. She walked back to the house, went through the gate into the back garden, went through the kitchen door—it had flashed through her mind as she’d fled that maybe she should have locked it again behind her, to cover up any trace of her visit. Now she was very glad she’d left it unlocked and could just walk through.

She just walked through it and crossed the kitchen and went into the hallway.

Now for the difficult bit. She switched on her head torch and marched swiftly down the passage to the open door of the lounge. Cordelia really, really, really wanted not to look in here and see Fin again.

But she made herself do so.

And it was exactly as she’d seen it before.

Which was good. Because if anything had changed—for instance, the corpse disappearing in good old horror movie fashion—Cordelia was going to get the hell out of there, and fast.

But poor Fin was still there, just like before, and now she left him there, alone on the floor in that uncomfortable position, and walked through to the front of the house. She was just about to set foot on the bottom stair when she remembered it made a hellishly loud and tortured sound if you stepped on it.

So she stepped carefully over it.

It was only when she was halfway up the stairs that she realised the implication of what she’d just done.

Not making any sound only mattered if there was someone in the house to hear her.

Was there someone in the house to hear her?

*   *   *

When Cordelia reached the landing at the top of the first flight of stairs, she had a decision to make.

If she was here solely to get the book, then she needed to continue up to the next floor, go into the library to grab it, and get out of here as fast as possible.

But she couldn’t do that.

She owed it to Ossie to at least find out if he was here, too. Even if he was as badly off as his brother…

She checked the loo and the two home offices. Ossie wasn’t in any of these. Sweating with relief, she continued up to the top floor of the house. Here, she hastily checked the bathroom and two bedrooms.

No Ossie.

The steadily accumulating relief began to be replaced by a wildly gyrating sense of panic about what had happened to him, if he wasn’t here. Cordelia repressed this panic, and as she did so, a thought suddenly flitted through her mind.

Fin was dead and Ossie was gone.

What if it was Ossie who had killed Fin and then fled?

This thought, appalling as it was in its fratricidal extremity, unfortunately also made perfect sense when you considered what a shit Fin had been. Maybe poor, put-upon, long-suffering Ossie had finally just flipped out.

But of course, and on the other hand, there was still one more place Ossie might be…

Cordelia squared her shoulders and went into the last room on the top floor, the library.

She was braced for that final possibility, that Ossie might be in here.

But he wasn’t.

Cordelia moved to the bookcase. The Thai brothel bookcase. She crouched down in front of it, the beam from her head torch dropping with her as she moved, sweeping down over the rows of Commando paperbacks. Cordelia knelt on the carpet, staring at the bottom shelf.

The shelf which, when she’d last looked at it, had contained multiple copies of Commando Hell and a single copy of Commando Gold.

Well, it still contained multiple copies of Commando Hell…

But Commando Gold was gone.

And it looked as if it had never been there. The copies of Commando Hell seemed to fill the entire shelf with no gaps.

Feeling utterly foolish, but unable to resist the impulse, Cordelia took out her phone and checked the photograph she’d taken the other day—as if there was some possibility of a mistake.

But there was no mistake. In the photo, blurred and tilted as it was, the same bottom shelf contained a copy of what was unmistakably Commando Gold on the far right-hand side. Now there wasn’t even a gap to indicate where it had been.

Then a thought occurred to Cordelia.

She reached down with her gloved hand and carefully compressed the books on the shelf, starting at the far right. The books obediently shifted along, creating a space at the far end.

A space just big enough to have contained the missing copy of Commando Gold.

Someone had taken that book and then adjusted the others slightly to make it appear as if it had never been there.

Cordelia was still holding the phone in her other hand, so when it came to life with an incoming call, she almost jumped out of her skin.

And she didn’t get any calmer when she saw it was a message from Edwin.

He’d sent her a picture of Rainbottle, looking very appealing and photogenic. Normally Cordelia would have paused to admire it with fondness and affection.

There was no time for any of that now.

She rose from her crouching position and stood in front of the bookcase, the beam from her head torch veering wildly as she hastily searched each shelf. But Commando Gold was not on any of them.

She knew it wouldn’t be.

And she knew she had to get out of the house now.

But how could she leave empty handed?

Surely there was time to implement at least part of her original plan?

Take one copy of each of these immaculate editions. No, two copies…

Just then she heard a sound approaching in the distance.

A police siren.

Cordelia reached out to the shelf directly in front of her, blindly grabbed one book, and turned and fled.

*   *   *

Back down the stairs, the carpeting absorbing the sound of her frenzied footsteps, onto the landing on the next floor. Down the next flight of stairs, jumping at the bottom to avoid the noisy step—what did it matter now?—running down the hallway, resisting the absurd impulse to take one last glance into the lounge to check on Fin, and into the kitchen. Through the kitchen, out the back door.

Relock the back door?

No time.

Across the patio, through the garden gate. Shut that. Nice, noiseless gate.

Although the sounds of shrieking sirens would have drowned it out, no matter how loud it might have been. There was definitely more than one siren now, all coming this way.

Cordelia tried to ignore them and just kept moving. Quickly out onto the street and remembering then to slow down, to saunter, in fact. Sauntering along the pavement as if she was just out for a stroll. A nice, law-abiding young woman out for a stroll… Dressed all in black with a rucksack slung over her shoulder. At three thirty in the morning.

Ahead of her, she could see the taillights of Edwin’s Volvo gleaming red. He had the engine on and was ready to go.

It seemed to take her several eternities to walk the tiny distance to the car, with the sirens growing ever louder. Finally, she reached out a shaking hand and opened the car door. The light inside went on and Edwin was looking at her quizzically, seat belt already fastened. Cordelia got in and briskly fastened her own seat belt. They were already moving away.

They drove back past the Elm Tree pub, where they had to pause for a fleet of police vehicles which roared by, lights and sirens blazing and blaring. They weren’t going down Eden Street, though.

They were going the other way. Back towards Parker’s Piece and the centre of town.

“Hmm,” said Edwin as he watched the cops recede in the distance. “It seems like it was a false alarm. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry,” croaked Cordelia.

“I’m sorry I cut short your endeavours,” said Edwin.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Cordelia.

“Do you want to go back and…”

“No,” said Cordelia. She said it rather emphatically, aware that the pungent sweat of fear was vying with her deodorant for supremacy in the confines of the car, and the deodorant was losing. “Let’s just go home.”

“All right,” said Edwin. He pulled away smoothly and they were soon headed out of town and back towards London.

Edwin glanced at the copy of Commando Dawn which Cordelia was clutching in her hand.

“You got the book, though?”

“I got a book,” said Cordelia.

She slumped back in her seat, quite exhausted, and trying not to cry.

*   *   *

It was only when they got home again, to be greeted by an ecstatic Rainbottle, and Cordelia had drunk a well-earned hot chocolate and retired up to her room, getting ready for bed, that she actually paused to inspect the book she’d stolen. It was in beautiful condition.

But that wasn’t the notable thing about it.

Written on the first page, in peacock blue ink from a fountain pen, was the following inscription:

With kind regards, Monty Harrington. AKA Butch Raider.

9: BETTIE PAGE

Now, just because someone signed a book, purporting to be its pseudonymous author, didn’t mean they were necessarily telling the truth…

This is what Cordelia told herself. But it honestly did nothing to dampen the feeling of wild elation which had arisen within her.

Here, in the single book she’d impulsively snatched at the last moment from the house in Cambridge (from the murder scene in Cambridge), was the first real clue to the man who’d actually written the Commando novels…

Of course, Cordelia immediately went online and looked up Monty Harrington.

No luck with a Wikipedia entry or anything comparable. But there certainly were traces of a writer by that name. He’d apparently been a minor poet—a very minor one—who’d published his work in some of the dozens of small poetry magazines which had sprouted like mushrooms—magic mushrooms—in the 1960s, in Oxford and London. Indeed, he was listed as the editor of more than one of these bijou journals.

A poet?

The man who had penned such immortal lines as “the Sten gun barked staccato death”?

Well, why not?

Other than the credits in the poetry journals, there were no biographical details to be gleaned about Monty online. But that didn’t mean it was the end of the trail.

Because in Cordelia’s library, which naturally consisted almost entirely of paperbacks, there was also an anomalous, enormous hardcover volume. Acquired some years ago at a jumble sale, it was called The Writers’ Directory, and it consisted of alphabetic entries for professional writers working in Britain at the time (the 1970s), giving a list of their books and other useful information, such as the contact details for their agents.

And, in a lot of cases, the home addresses of the writers themselves.

Monty Harrington was in the book.

And so was his address.

In London.

In West Kensington.

Or, rather, his address from fifty years ago…

What were the odds that Mr Harrington would still be alive and living there, in that same place, after all these years? Not good.

Only slightly better were the odds that someone currently living at that address might know of him and be able to provide details about his current whereabouts—which might well include residing peacefully six feet under the loam, in the boneyard…

Still, nothing ventured nothing gained, so Cordelia composed a brief, polite letter.

In it, she represented herself as a blogger about paperback fiction—which was all true enough, and had provided useful leverage in the past when searching for copies of rare books. She said she was an ardent admirer of the Commando novels, which, come to think of it, was now also true, to some degree. And that she’d be eager to interview the man who’d written them.

Which was probably the truest thing of all.

She wondered if she should include any explanation as to how she knew—or suspected —he was the man behind the Butch Raider pseudonym. But she decided it would be better, not to mention more fun, to project an aura of mystery.

Mystery and authority.

So she said nothing about that.

Cordelia printed out the letter, signed it with her finest fountain pen, folded it carefully, and stuck it in an impressively high-quality envelope and neatly addressed this by hand, again using her finest fountain pen.

As an afterthought, she added the words “Please forward if necessary” at the bottom of the envelope and underlined them.

Then she bought a stamp, or rather cadged one from Edwin, stuck it on the envelope, went out for a pleasant autumnal stroll, and carried it to the post box outside the post office in Church Road and mailed it.

As she did so, she reflected it was like throwing a message in a bottle into the sea.

And, just like when you did that, there was an exhilarating sensation when she let go of the message, releasing it on the beginning of its long journey (in this case into the bowels of the red pillar box).

And then, of course, silence.

*   *   *

There was nothing in the news about the body of Fin Ballas being found in his house in Cambridge.

“Not that that necessarily means anything,” said Edwin. “From what you’ve told me, the Ballas brothers weren’t exactly outgoing sociable types.”

“No, not exactly,” said Cordelia.

“I mean, not the sort to have frequent callers dropping in at their house, and that sort of thing,” said Edwin.

“No, I reckon Tinkler and I were the first visitors they’d had in a long, long time,” said Cordelia, remembering the grand ceremony of sushi which had been on offer.

Speaking of food, she was currently making lunch in Edwin’s small kitchen—they had an arrangement that she was free to use this whenever she wanted.

Edwin and Rainbottle had already eaten, so they were just keeping her company, although Rainbottle wasn’t above trying to cadge some of the meal Cordelia was preparing (Bold Beans “Rich Tomato” baked beans on buttered Poilane sourdough—not buttered with dope butter, of course; she had work to do—topped with grated gruyere, all on a bed of rocket).

While Edwin sat at the kitchen table and Rainbottle lay under it, Cordelia prepared this quick but nutritious repast. She stirred the beans in the saucepan until they began to bubble and thicken, and then switched off the heat and spooned them onto her toast. Next, a bit of brisk gruyere-grating.

While waiting for the yellow flakes of cheese to melt on the beans, Cordelia sat down at the table and joined Edwin for a chat.

Although “chat” seemed a little informal considering the seriousness of their discussion…

Fin Ballas might not have been a very likable man, but he was now a very dead one. And probably still lying all alone in a dark sitting room in Cambridge, with a not very smart speaker quietly playing music for his dead ears. Yet in death he commanded a certain respect Cordelia would never have accorded him in life.

In addition to which was the unsettling fact of Ossie’s disappearance.

Cordelia tried not to think too much about Ossie, and tried to tell herself this was none of her business. But she couldn’t forget his lumbering, silly embrace, or the reek of his lousy aftershave. Nor could she forget that empty house—empty except for the mortal remains of his brother.

And Ossie now vanished without a trace.

It gave Cordelia an unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach.

A feeling she needed to get rid of soon, if she was going to be able to do justice to her rather nice lunch.

“So, what do we know?” said Edwin, in his best, businesslike, opening-the-meeting manner. “I mean, about the circumstances surrounding your unpleasant discovery at the Ballas house.”

“Not very much,” said Cordelia.

“Except that someone murdered Finian. I assume it must have been murder?” Edwin gave Cordelia one of his serious, questioning looks.

Cordelia shrugged, although something with a bit more gravitas than a shrug seemed called for in this conversation. “I guess so. I don’t know.”

“What I’m getting at is, it couldn’t have imaginably been an accident?” said Edwin.

“I don’t see how,” said Cordelia. “I don’t think it’s possible to break your neck by falling a metre or two onto a carpeted floor.”

“You’d have to be very unlucky,” said Edwin. “And we do believe his neck was broken?”

Cordelia studiously tried to avoid actually conjuring up the image in her mind; after all, she wanted to be able to eat those beans sometime soon. “It certainly looked like that. His head was twisted in a way you’re not going to see on any living person.”

“And we assume this injury was the cause of death?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“Unless it was inflicted post-mortem and he was killed in some other way.” Edwin suddenly looked at her lunch, sitting there on the table, and then at Cordelia. “Sorry. Not a discussion likely to promote a healthy appetite.”

“That’s all right,” said Cordelia, appreciating that at least he’d picked up on this.

“Now, do we have any ideas who might have been responsible for dispatching Finian in the first place?” said Edwin.

“Well, one,” said Cordelia, hesitating.

“And what’s that?”

“It’s sort of simultaneously blindingly obvious and totally implausible…”

“Well, please do share,” said Edwin. “And at this stage nothing is too far-fetched. All suggestions are very welcome.”

“Okay, so Finian—at least from what I saw, on an admittedly brief acquaintance—he treated Ossie very badly.”

“Physically?”

“No, but verbally,” said Cordelia. “I mean, his attitude was always sort of scathing and contemptuous, and I got the impression that Ossie was scared of him, or at least intimidated. Like I say, it’s just an impression, but it’s a pretty strong one. I’d say Fin was abusive towards his brother.”

Edwin was nodding thoughtfully, as if in time to an opera overture only he could hear. “And then one day the worm turned?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Cordelia.

“Hmm,” said Edwin. “Cain and Abel in Cambridge?”

“I suppose that’s what it would amount to.”

“Would Ossie be physically capable of breaking his brother’s neck? I mean, is he big enough and strong enough?”

“Well, he’s very big. He probably weighed about twice what Fin did. And if you’re that big, you have to be pretty strong just to move around.”

“And you have the advantage of all that bulk,” said Edwin.

“I guess so,” said Cordelia.

“You don’t sound entirely convinced.”

“Oh, I’m convinced that Ossie would have the physical wherewithal to have done it,” said Cordelia. “It’s not the physical side that bothers me.”

“It’s the mental?” said Edwin.

“Ossie just doesn’t seem the type.” Cordelia remembered the touchingly feeble attempt at creating a garden in the back lawn, and all those plants in their colourful pots in his bedroom. She felt a random, foolish flutter of worry—was anyone watering them now? “He’s such a gentle soul,” she said.

“Well, you never can tell,” said Edwin.

Under the table, Rainbottle made a sound, as if to say, Take the man talking to you, for example. Cordelia certainly never would have pegged Edwin as a killer, and quite a prolific one at that.

“That’s true,” she said.

“And besides motive,” said Edwin, “Ossie would certainly have had opportunity. Plenty of opportunity. And then there’s the fact he’s vanished from the scene. Current whereabouts utterly unknown.”

“That’s right,” said Cordelia. So much for trying not to worry about what had happened to Ossie.

“Which tends to add a strong presumption of guilt, in his case.”

“I disagree,” said Cordelia.

“Oh really?” said Edwin. He seemed oddly pleased. “Why?”

“Because setting aside the fact that I don’t think he’s the type, if Ossie did it, why did he disable all the security tech in the house?”

“Ah,” said Edwin happily. “That’s a very good point.” He was for all the world like a delighted tutor in a seminar taking pride in his student’s insight. Any moment, he might offer Cordelia a sherry. “I’m glad you spotted it.”

“I mean, assuming they did indeed have that kind of stuff protecting their house.”

“Given that they were—are—techie types,” said Edwin, careful to keep poor Ossie alive, at least for the purposes of this conversation, “I think we can safely assume they did.”

“And so, someone disabled it,” said Cordelia. “And, of course, since Ossie lived in the house, he wouldn’t have any need to do that.”

“Of course,” agreed Edwin. And then, with gentle encouragement, “Unless…”

Cordelia paused for a second, but only for a second. “Unless he wanted to deliberately make it look like it was someone else, someone who had to break into the house and get past their security.”

Edwin was smiling his sunniest smile. “Precisely.”

Cordelia frowned. “But that would suggest the whole thing was premeditated. And while I can just about buy Ossie killing his brother in a fit of rage, I can’t buy it being so carefully planned and thought out.”

“The killing itself might have been impulsive,” said Edwin. “And then afterwards…”

“I see,” said Cordelia. “Things got carefully planned and thought out only later, when he started covering his tracks.”

“That would be the theory,” said Edwin. He paused in a contrived sort of way and then said, “Of course, there’s also an entirely different theory.” To give Cordelia a hint—in fairness, a hint she didn’t really need—he turned and looked at the refrigerator.

Affixed to the door of the fridge, among a collage of postcards, concert programmes and flyers for local restaurants, was the photograph of Cordelia taken in Cambridge. Just like it had once been affixed to Tinkler’s front door.

Except instead of being attached with a commando dagger, it was now stuck on with a Snoopy fridge magnet.

“Meaning,” said Cordelia, “that whoever was responsible for that might also have been responsible for what happened to Fin.”

“At the very least,” said Edwin, “we know there is someone else involved in this situation. And someone who was quite happy to threaten you with a knife. Which is, again at the very least, suggestive of a capacity for violence.”

“It certainly is,” said Cordelia. “And my money would be on whoever did the photograph and the dagger business being Fin’s killer. Rather than Ossie.”

“Fair enough,” said Edwin, gazing at the photograph. It was quite a good photo, and Cordelia was rather pleased to have it up on the fridge. And Snoopy’s positioning did a fine job of concealing the unsightly knife wound in her head.

“By the way…” said Edwin. He turned from the photo and looked at her. “Does Jordon have any view on what might have happened?”

“I haven’t told him,” said Cordelia. She’d decided to keep Tinkler in the dark about their recent visit to Cambridge.

“So, he doesn’t know that Fin is dead?” said Edwin.

“He doesn’t even know that I tried to steal the book,” said Cordelia. “As far as he’s concerned, that little project is still on the drawing board.” To this end, she’d retained the burglary bag Tinkler had loaned her. Returning it would be an obvious signal that she had no further use for it.

“Probably sensible,” said Edwin.

“I thought so,” said Cordelia.

“No need to bring Jordon into this, or to let anyone else know you were ever there. Good thinking.”

“Thank you,” said Cordelia.

“But I fear your lunch has got rather cold,” said Edwin, looking sadly at her plate of high-end baked beans, on which the gruyere was now not only looking melted, but rather congealed. “Would you like me to warm it up under the grill?”

“Yes please,” said Cordelia.

*   *   *

A few days later, Cordelia was returning from one of her periodic forays in search of paperbacks in charity shops (in this case the charity shops of Chiswick, and not a bad haul as it happened) when she encountered Edwin and Rainbottle in the front garden of their house, where Edwin was busy crouching on the lawn in the sunshine doing bicycle maintenance, with Rainbottle keeping a lazy but watchful eye on him.

“Interesting postcard for you,” said Edwin as they exchanged greetings.

Intrigued, Cordelia hurried into the house. Sure enough, there on the ledge above the radiator by the front door was a postcard. And interesting didn’t even begin to describe it.

It was a vintage photograph depicting a 1950s glamour model—glamour was a euphemism—whom Cordelia recognised as Bettie Page. A cute and buxom pin-up girl with jet black hair, Bettie was, in this picture, scantily dressed in high heels, stockings, a bodice, elbow length gloves and a black neckband.

And she was sitting in an armchair, thoroughly trussed up, strapped to the chair as well as tied to it with ropes.

Oh, and she also had her mouth gagged.

Above that white gag, in Bettie’s pretty dark eyes was a charming look of innocent bafflement and surprise.

None of which was entirely called for, since at this point in her career Bettie had come to specialise in bondage, and indeed was celebrated for it, both then and now.

This photograph would in itself have guaranteed that the postcard would make quite an impression. But it was nothing compared to the inscription on the other side.

There, in firm, flamboyant handwriting—handwriting which even on this brief acquaintance looked very familiar, although Cordelia would later go up to check in her purloined copy of Commando Dawn to confirm her impression—it read:

Dear Cordelia, Come to lunch on Monday. Bring red wine.

It was signed Monty Harrington.

10: A SOUVENIR OF FRANCE

Even if Monty Harrington had not chosen to introduce himself by sending a photograph of a young woman helplessly and elaborately tethered, S&M style, Cordelia would still have approached him with some degree of caution.

Now, naturally, she asked Edwin to accompany her for the luncheon rendezvous, to which he readily agreed.

So, when Monday rolled around, they went together to catch the tube from Hammersmith to Baron’s Court, having had a pleasant and relaxing stroll from their house, up along Castelnau Road and across the bridge, savouring the September sunshine. At least, it would have been pleasant and relaxing, and Cordelia would have savoured the September sunshine, if she hadn’t been experiencing perpetual butterflies in her tummy.

She’d read somewhere that, physiologically speaking, there was no difference between fear and excitement.

Which meant she could be currently feeling either, or both.

“Now,” said Edwin, “you say Harrington didn’t specify exactly what time you should arrive?” They were at the tube station in Hammersmith, sitting on a bench waiting for the next District Line train to turn up.

“He didn’t even specify which Monday,” said Cordelia, thinking about the remarkably terse, yet somehow jolly, postcard inscription. “I just had to assume he meant today, and also assume he meant about one p.m.”

“Reasonable assumptions,” said Edwin as their train came rattling in and they got on board.

When they came out of Baron’s Court tube, they immediately found a handy café actually attached to the station—one offering “artisanal breakfast and lunch”—where they ordered hot drinks and sat down for a final briefing, killing time until Cordelia was due to head out for her luncheon appointment.

While Edwin waited for his blackcurrant and hibiscus tea to be served, and Cordelia for her somewhat less pretentious latte, he smiled across the table at her, a rather charming smile, and said, “I have a present for you.”

“Oh,” said Cordelia. For the first time since they’d set off this morning, she found herself genuinely distracted from the coming meeting with Monty Harrington, and able to focus on something besides her abdominal butterflies.

Because Edwin gave good presents.

“I was going to save it for Christmas,” he said. “But I think it would make a lot of sense to give it to you now.”

“Okay,” said Cordelia.

Edwin delved into the roomy inside breast pocket of his Rohan jacket (the Parkland in desert ochre or, if you preferred, yellow) and drew out a small package, roughly cylindrical, and neatly wrapped in shiny bright red paper which might well have been suitable for Christmas. He set it on the table between them. “I picked up this little item when I was in France with Lorna. You remember our visit to the Languedoc?”

Cordelia nodded. She did indeed remember Lorna in the Languedoc, if only for the alliteration.

“In fact, I ordered it specially and arranged for it to be delivered to our holiday accommodation, because I thought you might find it useful. And because I couldn’t have it sent to the UK.”

If she’d been intrigued before, Cordelia was positively fascinated now. “Why not?” she said, reaching across and picking up the package. It fitted neatly and naturally into her hand.

Edwin dropped his voice. “Because it’s illegal in the UK. So, for heaven’s sake, don’t be caught in possession of it.”

Cordelia’s excitement had reached a crescendo, and although she politely asked permission to unwrap it, she had already begun to do so.

She eagerly stripped the paper away to reveal a short, black metal cylinder with a stubby plastic cap in bright yellow.

“I hope you like the yellow,” said Edwin. “It’s also available in black and pink. But black seemed a bit boring, and pink seemed a bit girlie. For you, I mean.”

On the metal cylinder was printed the logo Hurricane and, in smaller lettering, Defensive Pepper Spray.

“Yellow is perfect,” said Cordelia. “And are you really telling me that pepper spray is illegal here?”

Edwin nodded. “Defined as a prohibited weapon under the 1968 Firearms Act. It is forbidden to possess, buy or carry it.” He grinned toothily. “Two of which you are currently guilty of.”

Cordelia quickly put the pepper spray in her pocket. “And one of which you are guilty of.”

“Correct. Now, while I’m not sure exactly how much trouble you’d be in if you were apprehended with that in your possession, and in fact there’s a move afoot right now to have it decriminalised for a woman to carry—”

“I should think so,” said Cordelia, finding herself suddenly indignant on a subject she hadn’t been aware of thirty seconds earlier.

“But, as things stand, if you’re caught holding that little item…”

“Thank you for this, by the way,” said Cordelia. “It’s the perfect present. Did I say thank you?”

“You did now. And you’re most welcome. But if you’re caught with it, at the very least you’d end up being interviewed under caution by the police. And you want to avoid that if at all possible.”

“Yes, I do,” said Cordelia.

“Now,” said Edwin. He was all business. But whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a signal from the cheerful Czech barista at the counter that their drinks were ready. Edwin went and got them. When they’d both begun to sip, he resumed. “Now, we’ll hope that you don’t have occasion to use your new gift. Today or indeed ever…”

Cordelia reached into her pocket and felt the reassuring bulge of the pepper spray. It was in the left-hand pocket of her jacket. The amusing thing was, assuming you found this sort of stuff amusing, that in her right-hand pocket resided the killer dildo, another defensive weapon and another present from Edwin. Good old Edwin.

“Nevertheless, just in case you do have to use it, there are a few things you need to know,” he said. “The basics are pretty obvious—don’t get it out now, someone might see—but it’s very clear which end you point at your assailant, and what you press to release the spray.” In case it wasn’t obvious, he added, “The red button.”

“Okay,” said Cordelia, who had indeed been about to take the Hurricane—she loved that name—out of her pocket and examine it.

“What perhaps isn’t so obvious is that you should fire it in short bursts. Approximately one second each. You know how to time the duration of one second?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. Edwin could be annoyingly over-explanatory, but it seemed churlish to get annoyed with him when he’d just gifted her her new little friend, the Hurricane.

“And make very sure you’re spraying it downwind.”

“Good point,” said Cordelia.

“Assuming there is a wind,” said Edwin. “Which obviously there won’t be if you’re inside. But that raises another important point. Do not, and I emphasise this, use it in a small, confined space. Such as a car.”

“Okay,” said Cordelia.

“So, please be aware that, unfortunately, your premature Christmas present—”

“My early Christmas present.”

“—that your early Christmas present will, regrettably, be of no use to you in a car. Or in a lift. Do you young people say lift or elevator?”

“Either,” said Cordelia.

“It’s so hard to know with everybody speaking American these days,” said Edwin. “What else? Oh, yes. Never use at a distance shorter than one metre as, and I’m quoting from the official instructions here, ‘this may endanger the health of the user herself’.”

“They actually said herself?” said Cordelia. “In the instructions?”

“Yes,” said Edwin.

“I like that,” said Cordelia.

“Definitely intended for distaff self-defence,” said Edwin. “Anyway, bearing all those caveats in mind, if you do end up deploying that stuff—which is basically Capsicum Oleoresin. Which, you can deduce linguistically, is an oily resin derived from capsicum, or chili pepper. Where was I? If you end up spraying that stuff, aim for their face and eyes. They will be, and I’m quoting again, ‘disoriented for approximately thirty minutes’.”

“Giving me plenty of time to get the hell out of Dodge,” said Cordelia.

“You see what I mean about speaking American,” said Edwin.

And, on the subject of time, Cordelia now had to leave for her luncheon appointment. They said their goodbyes and Edwin settled down with his phone out on the table and the collected poems of Seamus Heaney, the former because he’d be waiting for her call.

Or rather calls.

If Cordelia didn’t check in at regular intervals, Edwin would be promptly out of the café and around at Monty’s address, knocking firmly on the door.

All of which made Cordelia feel a lot better, although it didn’t completely allay the butterflies as she walked the short distance, down Palliser Road and Gledstanes Road, to Monty’s residence.

Which turned out to be a basement flat in an old and elegant orange brick building in Perham Road beside the Queen’s Tennis Club.

As Cordelia descended from street level, she discovered that a man with a completely bald head—somehow it being entirely bald made it look exceptionally large and shiny and round—was standing at the bottom of the stairwell with his back to her.

He was dressed in a navy blue working man’s jacket, cream-coloured drainpipe trousers and eccentric footwear. A red plastic bucket of foamy water was on the floor beside him, and he had a sponge in one hand and was engaged in cleaning the big front window of the flat.

A more finicky job than usual because, of course, it was the window of a basement flat, so it had chunky iron bars protecting it.

In the hand that wasn’t insinuated between these bars awkwardly squeezing a sponge, he was holding what Cordelia at first, with a little statutory pang of excitement, thought was a joint.

But as she drew closer, she could smell that he was smoking tobacco. It was just a hand-rolled cigarette.

“Good morning,” said Cordelia politely.

“Good morning, miss,” said the window cleaner. “Cor blimey, you’re not calling on the old geezer what lives there, are you?” He nodded at the front door, which was painted mint green with art nouveau decorative scrolling on it. “Nasty piece of work, he is.”

Cordelia had indeed been about to ring the doorbell, set in Rennie Mackintosh tiles beside the door, but now she paused and gave the window cleaner her full scrutiny.

“Nice accent,” she said.

“Oh dear,” said the man, in a quite different voice now. “Did I overdo the cockney vernacular?”

“Perhaps a little,” said Cordelia.

He smiled at her. He was so completely bald that at first Cordelia had thought he must have alopecia or some similar condition of pathologically total hairlessness. But up close she could see that he still possessed his eyebrows and eyelashes, and indeed had a trace of stubble on his cheeks and chin—and scalp—where he hadn’t shaved as closely as he might have done.

This shaved-headed look somehow went quite well with his beaming, cheerful appearance, which was rather like a happy face drawn on the shell of a hardboiled egg.

“Would you care to give me some pointers on where I went astray?” he said.

“When’s the last time anyone said ‘cor blimey’?” asked Cordelia.

He seemed to take this in his stride. “Good point. And do you happen to know the derivation of that little phrase?”

“It’s a corruption of ‘god blind me’,” said Cordelia.

The man removed the hand-rolled cigarette from his lips and inspected it. It had gone out; that was a perennial hazard with these things. He took a lighter out of pocket of his jacket and relit it. Cordelia had the impression that all this business, while of course necessary to get his cigarette going again, was also a way of playing for time.

While he weighed her up.

Fair enough. She was also weighing him up.

“Very good,” he said. “Quite impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“So, if I hadn’t uttered that clichéd little phrase, I wouldn’t have given the game away?”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t just that,” said Cordelia.

“Not just that?” The man sounded scandalised.

“I would have guessed anyway,” said Cordelia, and pointed at his feet.

They were bare feet, shod in a pair of rather bizarre yellow Crocs. “What’s wrong with Crocs?” said the man, somewhat on the defensive now.

“Nothing,” said Cordelia mendaciously. “But they’re unlikely footwear for an itinerant window clear.”

The man shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t see that.”

“Plus, there’s a trail of water from your bucket leading back in through the front door.”

“Is there? Damn.” He looked up from the incriminating long, damp stain on the concrete and suddenly smiled at her. “So, you’ve apparently surmised that I am in fact…”

“The old geezer what lives here and who is a nasty piece of work?” suggested Cordelia.

The man cackled. “That’s right,” he said.

“You’re Monty Harrington.”

“That’s right,” he said, again. “Now, won’t you come inside?”

*   *   *

He dropped the sponge into the bucket with a flourish and a splash, and then dropped his half-smoked cigarette into it, where it died with a fizz. Then he abandoned all these—apparently window washing was over for now—and opened the front door to usher Cordelia in.

Entering the underground lair of the grinning egghead who’d sent her a bondage postcard would under most circumstances have had Cordelia a whisker away from demonstrating her full self-defence capability (sudden and violent attack being the best form of defence).

And indeed, she did actually have one hand shoved in each pocket of her jacket, wrapped around the mini bludgeon she called the killer dildo and her lovely new Hurricane pepper spray.

But there was something about the slap-headed faux window washer, and his flat, that seemed weirdly reassuring.

For a start, the latter was full of light—unexpected in a basement flat, but the entry corridor led almost immediately into a big sitting room with high windows facing onto the back garden, into which sunlight was pouring.

And then there was the music.

As soon as the door opened, Cordelia found herself trying to identify this. It was some kind of rap which promptly transformed into a series of dialogue samples, apparently from some very old and very silly science fiction movies.

Cordelia was listening and Monty Harrington was watching her listen.

He reached into his pocket and took out a CD. It had a cartoon cover of a metal-masked super villain eating breakfast cereal, and graffiti-style lettering which read MF Doom, the name of the recording artist, and Mm Food, the title.

“Do you see the significance of the title?” said Monty, grinning at her.

Cordelia, who was good at anagrams, said, “It’s an anagram.”

Monty abruptly looked off into the middle distance, through the window, like a bird spotter confirming the identity of an exceptional fowl he’d spotted alighting in his back garden, and then looked back at her again with something new and different in his eyes.

Cordelia smugly identified it as approval.

There was no sign of this approval in his voice, though. If anything, he sounded rather curt and commanding as he said, “Bring a bottle of wine?”

“As instructed,” said Cordelia. “Red.” Two could play at this clipped dialogue game. She reached into her shoulder bag and took out a bottle of Rioja which she had been quite ready to use as a weapon, bludgeon style, to supplement the killer dildo and pepper spray. Needing to do this, however, seemed an ever more remote possibility.

Monty eagerly snatched the wine from her. “This looks rather good. Artuke 2022,” he purred, reading the label. “Tempranillo grapes with just a hint of Viura.” He was now reading the fine print on the label, which required him to hold the bottle at arm’s length. Too vain to wear glasses or just too lazy? “This does look very good.”

“It had better be,” said Cordelia, giving the impression that it was expensive. It was, in a qualified way. In other words, it was the cheapest Rioja sold at her very expensive local wine merchants.

“Right, well…” Monty hopped out of his shoes with disquieting and rather fey nimbleness, leaving them empty there for a moment so that Cordelia could see their interior, and that they weren’t just eccentric banana yellow Crocs, they were eccentric banana yellow SpongeBob SquarePants Crocs.

“Kindly take off your shoes, if you’d be so good,” said Monty.

Cordelia took off her own sneakers, with the fleeting thought that she might be dealing with a foot fetishist here. But while she was looking for somewhere to stow her shoes, she noticed that Monty was impatiently shaking his big bald head. “No, hang onto them. We shall make a portage and carry our footwear to the back door, where we shall put them on again before plunging into the garden.”

He led the way, barefoot and carrying his own shoes, across a succession of Moorish-looking rugs, which presumably were the reason they’d taken their shoes off. Cordelia supposed that these were antique and valuable, although to her they just looked old and worn.

They walked into the central sitting room with those high windows which were letting in all that light.

In addition to lots more rugs, the room contained an old and rather huge and strangely gothic-looking leather sofa, which reminded Cordelia of a bat with its wings stretched out. It was draped with what might have been even more Moorish rugs. Flanking it were a couple of surprisingly modern armchairs—they seemed rather familiar, and it was only later that Cordelia realised they were distinctly similar to the one Bettie Page had been so firmly attached to in the photo on the postcard; she didn’t actually think the picture had been taken in this room, though.

Plus, there were glass-fronted cabinets of various designs, all apparently antique, which lined the walls. These were crammed full of decorative objects and books. Mostly books.

At first glance it appeared very few of the books were paperbacks, though, so Cordelia’s interest diminished. There certainly weren’t any copies of the Commando novels, at least not openly on display.

Still, she couldn’t resist making a quick inspection. Monty apparently didn’t mind. He seemed to think it was the most natural thing in the world to check out someone’s bookcase.

Maybe he was getting a kick out of Cordelia’s survey, because there was a lot of erotica from the German publisher Taschen, with titles like The Art of Pin Up, The New Erotic Photography, 1000 Pin Up Girls, Forbidden Erotica, Fraulein, Betty (sic) Page Queen of Pin Up, Tokyo Lucky Hole and, just simply, Bondage.

It occurred to Cordelia that the Bettie Page postcard might have been a freebie which had come with some such volume in Monty’s lively library.

There were also numerous volumes of poetry. Not surprisingly. Cordelia could feel her eyes glazing over as she scanned the spines of these.

She turned away from the glass-fronted cabinets and looked to see what else there was in the room.

This included, shoved up against the wall at right angles to the window, a large and once very expensive state-of-the-art television. A Sony Trinitron. Cordelia recognised this because her father, a TV nut, had one and refused to get rid of it, although it was a behemoth the size of a small car, and therefore took up considerable valuable real estate in the Stanmer living room. Cue a decades-long and ongoing feud between her father and her mother.

And they wondered why she didn’t come home more often…

Anyway, on a shelf under this television was a small sound system, which was currently playing MF Doom’s Mm Food.

Monty went over to this and switched the music off while Cordelia had a last thorough look around, not least to establish a line of retreat if necessary.

To the left, she saw a doorway leading to other rooms, and to the right a second doorway, which they now went through into the kitchen. Again, this was a brightly lit space, with sunlight blazing in through the barred windows onto the white painted walls. It was small, though. Tiny, in fact.

Hardly enough room to accommodate the two of them squeezed in between a cooker, fridge and sink.

Definitely too small, thought Cordelia, for safe deployment of pepper spray.

They set their footwear, which they’d both carried from the front door, down on a narrow toffee-coloured coir mat by the back door, which was a hefty and secure-looking door, painted white like the walls.

“Now,” said Monty. “Where’s the corkscrew?”

He looked at Cordelia as if she might actually be able to answer this. But before she was forced to admit her ignorance of the whereabouts of this crucial object, Monty began slapping the pockets of his jacket and, after a brief search, produced a folding chrome corkscrew of the kind used by wine waiters. Like the CD, he’d apparently been carrying it around, just waiting for a cue.

He put the bottle of Rioja down firmly on the counter beside the sink, stripped the red plastic off the cork using the small knife on the corkscrew—Cordelia wasn’t sure she was entirely comfortable with her host having a knife even this small—and then eased the cork out with professional speed and efficiency.

As it popped resonantly free, he grinned at her and said, “Well, get some glasses. This wine isn’t going to drink itself.”

11: MONTY HARRINGTON

Cordelia found a pair of wine glasses hanging inverted over the sink with their bases held suspended in an elaborate wire rack, rather like some kind of miniature bondage rig for drinking vessels.

But the glasses were mercifully clean; spotless, in fact.

“Well, come on,” said Monty, interrupting her inspection of them. “It’s lovely out there.”

He tugged open a large bolt in the back door and opened it with a creaking noise which would have done justice to Dracula’s coffin in a very primitive horror movie. Cordelia found herself thinking how unlike the silent back door of the Ballas brothers’ house this was…

Then she steered her thoughts carefully away from that memory and returned to the here and now. Where sunlight was flooding in through the door, and Cordelia had to blink and squint in the sudden brightness.

Once she was able to see it clearly, she discovered that Monty Harrington’s back garden was actually very inviting.

On the same level as his flat, which is to say below street level, it was a sort of sunken suntrap, a small enclosed and attractively private space with white brick walls rising high above it on three sides and the house itself rising even higher on the fourth.

The garden was paved with flat rectangular stones in a chevron pattern which had once been shades of pink and blue but were now uniformly greenish with moss. Set out on this paved area was an array of matching garden furniture—dainty chairs with splayed and curving legs and a small circular table, all in an elaborate wrought-iron design which had once been painted pale blue, but the paint had long since started to chip away to reveal businesslike black metal underneath.

Monty adjusted the table so it was more or less in the exact centre of the tiny garden and set the wine bottle down so it was, in turn, more or less in the exact centre of the table, then dragged up two chairs with a hideous, tormented screeching noise that made Cordelia wince. He paused for a moment to admire his handiwork—the careful arrangement, not the hideous screeching—then indicated that Cordelia should sit down, with an impatient hurry-up gesture.

Cordelia did so, the sunbaked iron warm beneath her jean-clad thighs. She set the wine glasses on the table in front of her with some hesitation. She was wondering if Monty would also want these exactly centred, and if so, how he would manage it.

But instead, he disappeared back in the house. Without a word. And was gone for some considerable time. Cordelia didn’t mind. Even though it would involve a significant effort to scramble over the walls and escape from this sunken garden—it wasn’t just the sun that was trapped in here—she didn’t feel particularly confined, or vulnerable.

In fact, she felt quite content just sitting out in the mellow autumn sunshine in this warm little box of a garden.

It also helped that she suddenly caught the inviting smell of bread being toasted drifting from the kitchen. Cordelia wondered if she should pour the wine and start drinking it. It did look inviting.

Instead, she contented herself with texting Edwin. So far, so good, she told him.

He responded with a smiley-face emoji.

Some music began to play inside the house. She could hear it through the open kitchen door. Then there was the rasping and squeaking of the recalcitrant sitting room window being opened—inside its own set of bars—and the music grew louder. It wasn’t MF Doom this time.

It was classical music. A woman singing, in a high-pitched voice, in French.

But, for all that, it was very pleasant.

Monty appeared at the back door with a small white towel draped over one blue-twill-clad arm, carrying two big shallow white bowls.

If he was trying to look like a waiter, he was doing a pretty good job. He trotted over to Cordelia and, grinning, set the bowls down with such a loud clatter on the iron table that Cordelia winced, thinking they might break. But the bowls didn’t break. Then he went back into the kitchen.

Which gave Cordelia the chance to peer into the bowls. They each contained a large slice of rustic-looking bread which had been not exactly toasted but rather seared on a griddle or something similar.

Why was Monty serving slices of bread in bowls? Maybe he didn’t have any plates. Just one more eccentricity to add to a growing list.

Cordelia picked up the bread in the bowl nearest her. It was still warm. And fragrant. She broke a fragment off and chewed it with mounting approval. It was some kind of high-quality sourdough, possibly even her own favourite French loaf. That would go with the music, she thought.

Monty appeared again, carrying a small stack of objects carefully with both hands. As he got nearer to the table, she saw that what he was carrying was two small, flat, circular tins. And, on top of them, a CD case. He showed Cordelia the CD case: Songs of the Auvergne by Victoria de Los Angeles. Apparently, this is what they were listening to now. “Very nice,” said Cordelia. But she was more interested in the two tins. Which promised food, albeit tinned food.

They were dark green with yellow lettering which read: Filetes de sardinas en acette de oliva.

Sardines. Poncy continental sardines.

Oh well, at least they were in olive oil.

The tins had pull-tabs on the top and Monty pulled them open and unceremoniously dumped the contents of one into each bowl, on top of the toasted sourdough.

This is why he’d served it in bowls.

Then he took the white towel off the sleeve of his jacket, revealing it was actually two white towels, and handed one to Cordelia.

“Grub’s up,” he said.

“May I pour the wine?” said Cordelia.

“Good Christ, I thought you’d have done so already.” Monty grabbed the bottle and glugged the wine into their glasses. He lifted his own and clinked it against Cordelia’s before she could even pick it up, by way of a hasty toast, and took a long swig.

“Ah,” he said, as if suddenly seeing the solution to a long-considered problem. Then he set the glass down and beamed at Cordelia. “Well, tuck in.”

Cordelia also took a long swig of wine. She thought she’d need it to survive the ordeal of sardines on toast. But the sardines were actually rather delicious. And instead of just being ridiculous, and decidedly cheapskate, this bizarre lunch in the sunny concrete garden began to seem quite agreeable, in a sort of Mediterranean way.

Before she knew it, she found she’d polished off her food. Cordelia wiped her oily fingers and then her oily—and fishy—lips on the towel and refilled her wine glass. They were making good progress on the Rioja, too.

“You only brought the one bottle, I suppose?” said Monty, a trifle wistfully.

“Sorry,” said Cordelia.

“Don’t feel you should apologise,” said Monty, exuding staunch chivalry. “I believe I only mentioned one in my postcard.”

“Yes, you did,” said Cordelia. She squinted across her wine glass at Monty in the brilliant sunlight. “About that card, by the way…”

“Yes?” said Monty, suddenly all innocent attention.

“Why did you send it? I mean, that particular one. Poor Bettie, all tied up.”

“Poor Bettie,” said Monty. He chortled excitedly. “Poor old, dear old Bettie.”

“So why that postcard in particular?” said Cordelia.

“Oh, it was lying around,” said Monty casually.

“I see.”

“It was the only one I had lying around,” said Monty.

“Really?” said Cordelia.

“No, not really,” said Monty promptly. It was impressive how willing and quick he was to abandon his previous position. “I chose it specially.”

“Why?”

Monty considered this. He considered it while he took out a packet of hand-rolling tobacco and fished out a careful measure of tobacco between two fingers, set it on the open flap of the packet, took out some Zig-Zag rolling papers, added the tobacco to one of these, rolled it into a tiny precision cylinder and ignited it with his lighter.

All while still considering Cordelia’s question.

Finally, he exhaled some smoke, watched it disperse in the clear autumn air, and said, sighing, “I suppose it was a sort of test.”

“Test?” said Cordelia.

“Or rather a challenge.” Monty smiled and giggled, then took another big puff on his cigarette. He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. “I mean to say, it was quite startling to receive your little missive. Startling and gratifying, if I’m to be candid—may I be candid?”

“Please do,” said Cordelia.

“Oh, and I forgot to ask if I may smoke.” Monty pulled his cigarette out of his mouth as if scandalised to have discovered it there. “May I smoke?”

“Of course,” said Cordelia.

“So sorry. Quite forgetting my manners. It’s been a fair while since I’ve had visitors. Which, again, is why it was such a surprise, a gratifying surprise, to get your letter.” He sucked gratefully on his cigarette and gave Cordelia an assessing look. “But I couldn’t immediately decide how to respond to it. I mean, what if you’d turned out to be a crashing bore?” He added politely, “Not that you have.”

“Thank you,” said Cordelia.

“Not that you have at all. But you might have done, mightn’t you?”

“Certainly,” allowed Cordelia.

“So, I thought the best way to pre-empt such a disagreeable eventuality was by sending you the sort of postcard that would, in the modern parlance, trigger you if you were some sort of boring, easily offended, uptight, tight-arsed, puritanical, prudish, priggish, prissy, strait-laced, pinch-lipped little…” At this point, apparently even Monty realised he was getting a bit carried away, and he quickly wound up the list by saying, “…narrow-minded individual. If you were such a one, then obviously you’d be so offended by that harmless, charming postcard that I quite probably would hear no more from you, and I would have narrowly avoided a very boring afternoon. Which I’m not having, by the way. I’m not having a boring afternoon at all.” He beamed at Cordelia. “In your company.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“But if you had been such a person, the Bettie postcard would have filtered you out, so to speak.”

“It would have filtered me out by creeping me out,” said Cordelia.

“That’s it. You’ve got it. You’ve got it in one.” Monty beamed at Cordelia some more. “A drop more wine?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured a refill for Cordelia and then for himself, smiling benignly at her all the while. “So, you weren’t creeped out? Wonderful expression, by the way.”

“You don’t think I sound too American?” said Cordelia, acutely aware of Edwin’s recent reprimand.

“Not a bit of it. Anyway, American is such a lively vernacular. And the main thing is that you weren’t, to use that lively vernacular, creeped out.”

“Perhaps a little,” said Cordelia. “I was perhaps a little bit. But not enough to not come.”

“Not enough to not come. Thank heavens,” said Monty fervently.

“But enough to have my guard up a little,” said Cordelia.

“Really? How so?”

“Well, for instance,” said Cordelia, repressing the impulse to actually fondle it in her pocket, “I brought some pepper spray.”

“Really? Good thinking. Well done.” Monty certainly didn’t seem at all offended. Quite the opposite. He seemed to take it as a badge of honour that his guest had brought pepper spray with her.

The talk of pepper spray reminded Cordelia that it was high time to check in with Edwin. It seemed ill mannered to phone him in front of Monty, so she asked for directions to the loo and excused herself.

The bathroom was remarkably, and thankfully, clean. Positively gleaming. There was, however, a rather unusual assortment of bath toys keeping the cheerful yellow rubber duck company on the rim of the tub. Cordelia was careful not to inspect these too closely.

She phoned Edwin, taking advantage of the privacy of the situation to give him a proper voice call. “Everything all right?” he said, answering instantly.

“All good here,” said Cordelia. “You’re not too bored, are you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I don’t think I’ll have to worry about Monty either. He seems harmless. An old pervert, but quite harmless.”

“Well, do continue to check in nonetheless.”

“I will, sorry to keep you sitting there. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“I’m absolutely fine. I have my Seamus Heaney and there is a fine selection of snacks on offer in this café.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

Monty’s face lit up when she came out the back door and rejoined him in the garden. “So, you brought some pepper spray with you, did you?” he said as he poured the last of the wine. “Just in case Monty Harrington proved to be a bit of handful?”

“And I’m ringing my landlord,” said Cordelia, taking her phone out of her pocket and showing it to him, like a policeman flashing a badge. “At regular intervals.”

“Your landlord?”

“He’s got my back.”

“He’s got your back, back home in Barnes?”

“He’s actually around the corner,” said Cordelia. “Waiting in a café. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” said Monty happily. “My word, Bettie Page did make an impression. I hope he’s not too bored, your landlord.”

“He’s got his Seamus Heaney to read.”

Cordelia saw a change in Monty’s face. Something of the clown disappeared and he revealed, for the first time, a different, deeper and more serious interest in their conversation.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Heaney is very good. He’s excellent. Best Irish poet since Yeats. Do you know William Butler Yeats? Wonderful poet. Wonderful writer generally. But in his day his fame was eclipsed by his brother Jack Butler Yeats, a painter. In fact, there’s a rather fabulous novel called Brother of the More Famous Jack. By Barbara Trapido. Nothing to do with either Yeats, besides the title, just a great title. Have you read it? I think you’d like it. I don’t read many novels, but that one was brilliant.”

“You don’t read many novels,” said Cordelia, recognising an opening when she saw one, “but you’ve written quite a few, haven’t you?”

12: LUCKY FOR SOME

Monty giggled. “Yes, I have written quite a few novels, haven’t I? A dozen, in fact.”

“Thirteen,” said Cordelia.

He glanced at her quickly, then looked down at his pouch of tobacco and began to assemble another cigarette. As he did so, he seemed to be avoiding her gaze. “And that’s why you’ve come to visit me,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a change of subject, but it was still an evasion. “That’s why you’ve come to see poor old Monty.” Now he did glance up at her, with a hurt look in his eyes. “That’s the only reason you’ve come to visit dear old Monty. Those stupid, stupid books.”

“They’re brilliant,” said Cordelia. And she meant it.

And Monty seemed to believe she meant it. He paused in his assembly of his cigarette to stare at her, the hurt look now quite gone, to be replaced by sincere surprise. “Do you really think so?”

“Oh, yes,” said Cordelia.

“But they’re just silly little adventure stories.”

“Nothing silly about them,” said Cordelia. “And the relationship between Major Bradawl and Captain Gimlet is utterly inspired.”

Monty giggled again. He resumed rolling his cigarette with renewed enthusiasm. “Why, thank you.”

“I was a bit disappointed you didn’t name any more characters after pointy tools, though.”

Now Monty laughed. It was a loud and hearty laugh, quite unlike anything Cordelia had heard from him yet, and he pounded on his knee with one hand. The hand that wasn’t holding his rollie. “You spotted that, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Makes it all worthwhile when someone spots something like that.” Monty lit his cigarette. “Spots one’s little tricks and wordplay.” He took a drag and slowly breathed out smoke, looking at Cordelia as he did so. It was a careful, sceptical, appraising look. “And you genuinely like the books?”

“I’ve only read the first eight.”

“Really, that many?”

“Oh yes.”

“So, let me see…” Monty frowned and smoked. “…you’ve got as far as…”

“Commando Rage,” said Cordelia.

“And the next one is…?”

“Commando Blaze,” said Cordelia.

Monty smiled. “Yes, not a great title. I was getting a bit stuck for titles by that time. You know, the old two-word titles. ‘Commando Something’. A bit constraining really…” Monty’s eyes flickered up at Cordelia, lit with mischief. “Not that one minds a bit of constraint, in the right circumstances…”

“Now, Monty,” said Cordelia casually. “Nothing you can say is likely to surprise me or shock or offend me. After all, I’ve seen your bookcase.”

“And my postcard,” said Monty.

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “So forget about trying to startle me, or disgust me, or titillate me.”

“Pity about that last one,” said Monty, sighing tobacco smoke. “Now where was I?”

“Two-word titles.”

“Yes, got to be a bit of a straitjacket after a while. I tried some three-word titles.”

“Commando Sea Strike,” said Cordelia.

“Yes, again not a great title. I mean, what the hell is a sea strike? Anyway, my publisher didn’t like the three-word titles and discouraged them.” He brightened. “Although they did like Commando Suicide Mission. I suppose you can’t go wrong with a suicide mission… So, you say you’ve read as far as Commando Rage?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they only get better after that.”

“Really?” said Cordelia, both impressed by his confidence and quite excited to hear this. She really would have to get her greedy little hands on those other books.

“Definitely,” said Monty. “I mean, if you like the early ones, you’ll like the later ones even more.” He puffed contentedly on his tiny cigarette. “You see, I was learning my craft as I went along, and I was improving with each book.” He sighed nostalgically. “A lot of work, though. Do you know how many words there are in a book?”

“About fifty thousand,” said Cordelia. At least, this was the case with the Commando novels. She didn’t add that this actually made them rather slim by today’s standards.

“Right. Pretty much right on the nose,” said Monty, evidently impressed. “So, as you can imagine, it’s a hell of a lot of work writing a book compared to writing a poem.”

“You can tell they’re written by a poet, though,” said Cordelia.

Monty’s expression suddenly turned to one of stone-cold doubt. “Oh, now,” he said, giving her a hard look. “That really is a bit difficult to swallow.”

“No, really,” said Cordelia, blithely. “It’s very clear in some of the descriptions.”

“I see,” said Monty, still cold and still doubtful. “In some of the descriptions.”

“Not the long, elaborate ones,” said Cordelia. “Just some of the terse little turns of phrase, the concise vivid images.”

“Concise vivid images,” said Monty, thawing again.

“They show the economy and precision of language which a poet must possess,” said Cordelia.

Having thawed, Monty was now positively melting. He stared at the stub of the cigarette he was holding, which had gone out again. “I just realised,” he said, “I didn’t offer you a smoke. How appallingly rude of me. Do you want one? Do you smoke?”

“Only weed,” said Cordelia.

“Ooo… I believe I have some of that around here somewhere. Would you like some?”

“Perhaps later,” said Cordelia.

“Well, just shout,” said Monty happily. “Whenever you fancy a toke on some weed.”

“So, how did a poet end up writing commando novels?” said Cordelia.

“Ah well, as you might imagine,” said Monty, “the answer to that is money.” He commenced the Sisyphean task of rolling another cigarette.

“I’d just come down to London from Oxford,” he said. “And I was a penniless poet. An impecunious poet. I’d come down with a bunch of mates with big dreams of founding a little magazine. A poetry journal. And we did.” He looked at Cordelia, as though challenging her to doubt this statement.

“It was the Swinging Sixties and anything was possible. Everything was possible. And we succeeded. Our little poetry mag created quite a stir. And that was our downfall. Paradoxically, it was our success which caused us to fail. We were approached by a chap with a lot of money, a long-haired music impresario, who suggested we go the whole hog and create a proper, full-length, full-colour glossy poetry magazine. Of course, we leapt at the chance. It never occurred to any of us to question whether there would be a market for such a magazine. But it did occur to the long-haired impresario. Eventually.”

Monty had now completed the assembly of his cigarette, and he lit it. “And one night he just disappeared. Or, to put it differently, one morning he just didn’t turn up. And by that time, we’d rented an office and electric typewriters and hired secretaries in miniskirts. But without our deep-pocketed benefactor, we found ourselves locked out of the office and the typewriters were repossessed and the secretaries skedaddled.”

Monty sighed deeply at the thought of the loss of those miniskirted girls. “So much for my dreams of being the famed editor of a famed poetry mag. Instead, I ended up writing hack paperbacks for quick cash.”

“You ended up writing brilliant paperbacks for quick cash,” said Cordelia.

Monty gave her a shy little smile. “You really are the sweetest girl,” he said.

“So how did that come about?” said Cordelia. “The writing paperbacks for cash?” She asked this both because she actually wanted to know and also to shut down the whole line of discussion about her being the sweetest girl.

“Well, it sort of landed in my lap,” said Monty. “As these things sometimes do. I was drowning my sorrows about the demise of the magazine, drinking in the French House in Soho—do you know it?”

“Vaguely,” said Cordelia.

“Excellent pub. Perfect place to drown one’s sorrows. So, there I was, drowning them, and this chap came up to me. It turns out he was a publisher called Peter. And I’d been recommended to Peter the publisher by someone or other because he was looking for writers. At this time there was still a considerable appetite among the reading public—and there was still a reading public, for that matter…”

“Don’t be so cynical, Monty,” said Cordelia. “There still is a reading public. I’m part of it.”

“True enough. Girls do like to read books. But they don’t like to read war stories. And that was what he wanted me to write. Peter the publisher. In those days, there was a considerable appetite for war stories, particularly stories about World War Two, that being the most recent bloodbath and very much still vivid in living memory. And this Peter thought he could make a quick buck, or rather a quick quid, with a series of such war stories in the form of paperback originals. Hence he approached me on that fateful night and asked me if I was interested.”

Monty smiled and thoughtfully watched the smoke rising from his cigarette. “I said, ‘Forget it, old man. Du Fu, the great poet of the Tang Dynasty wrote, “Blue is the smoke of war, white the bones of men.” That just about sums it up, don’t you think?’ And then there was Melville’s Shiloh, a Requiem. Do you know it?” He peered at Cordelia.

She shook her head.

“Shiloh was a horrendous massacre,” said Monty. “In the American Civil War. Melville’s poem describes the dead on both sides, lying mixed and indistinguishable on the battlefield at the end of the day. ‘Of dying foemen mingled there—Foemen at morn, but friends at eve—Fame or country least their care: (What like a bullet can undeceive!)’.” Monty nodded with satisfaction. “After lines such as those, what more is there to say on the subject of warfare?”

Monty smiled at Cordelia. “Then Peter the publisher told me he’d pay five hundred quid per book. Suddenly I found there was actually plenty more to say. Plenty.”

“And so the Commando series was born,” said Cordelia.

Monty shook his head. “No. In fact, my first attempt was nothing to do with the commandos. And far from being born, it was aborted. Peter the publisher, who had been so convivial in the pub over a pint and a whisky, proved to be utterly ruthless in matters about books. Which I suppose is just as well, since he did actually know what he was talking about. Not that that made it any less painful when he brusquely rejected my first attempt. And it wasn’t just some sample chapters and an outline. He’d insisted I write a complete book, to prove that I could do it.”

“And you did it,” said Cordelia.

“I did it, but I didn’t do it well.” Evidently the memory of this still rankled even after all these decades. But Monty took comfort in puffing on his rollie. “I was very proud of my tyro effort. And it was the surprise of a lifetime to see my perky little postman returning a very familiar-looking package. To wit, my manuscript. Accompanied by a letter in which this bastard publisher advised me in no uncertain terms that I needed to do some proper research. Of course, this was not what I wanted to hear at the time. Research is hard graft. It’s proper work, especially back in those days when one didn’t have access to the internet at the tips of one’s fingers. Back then, it actually involved going into libraries and looking at books.”

Monty chuckled a bitter little chuckle at the thought of libraries and books. “And I certainly didn’t want to do that. When I’d accepted this proposition, I thought I could just dash off these tales, written in a fervour of amphetamines…”

“You were taking speed?” said Cordelia, fascinated by these details of the writer’s craft.

“Everybody was, darling. It was the 1960s. Yes, I dropped some blues and hunkered down, and after a fortnight—taking the weekends off to see my girlfriend in Brighton—I had completed this book in ten days flat. Taking, as I say, the weekends off. And, I might add, losing about a stone in bodyweight over the same period.”

“You wrote five thousand words a day?” said Cordelia, not having to feign being impressed. She was verging on being astonished.

Monty nodded cheerfully. “Five thousand words of absolute twaddle, entirely from my fervid little imagination. But I thought I’d fashioned a masterpiece. And I thought I’d continue churning out these masterpieces, at that same rate, and thereby earn a thousand pounds a month or so. Which in those days was a lot of money. A huge sum of money.” Monty sighed, emitting tobacco smoke.

“But I didn’t get my thousand pounds a month. I didn’t even get my grubby mitts on that first five hundred pounds. All I got was a stern and unsparing rejection letter and some advice, some very good advice as it happened, but advice I had no appetite for following.”

“Doing research, you mean,” said Cordelia.

“Yes,” said Monty. “I was a poet. I was a poet on amphetamines. I had no desire to visit the British bloody War Museum or the British bloody Library and check my facts. Hard work, darling. Hard work. The prospect of having to do anything like that, anything resembling a proper job, was immensely unappealing, and my novel-writing career was in danger of going tits-up at that point. Naturally I was angry, and resentful. The expectation of easy money had been so cruelly thwarted. Not that Peter the publisher was wrong. He was absolutely right. The sort of people who read war novels expect at least a veneer of authenticity. And that was exactly what I’d failed to provide. Authenticity. Not even a veneer thereof.”

He winked at Cordelia. “Obviously, you know that things turned out quite differently, but for a moment, it really did look like the whole project would founder on the unthinkable prospect of poor old Monty having to do some real work to create these trivial, ephemeral paperbacks.”

“They’re not ephemeral,” said Cordelia. “Here we are talking about them over fifty years later.”

“Fifty years? My god,” said Monty fervently. “Anyway, there I was, sulkily certain that I’d never pen another novel, and certainly never another war novel, when fate, as the cliché has it, took a hand.”

He paused and stared around as if taking in his surroundings for the first time. “Good lord. What happened to dessert?”

“I don’t know,” said Cordelia. “What happened to it?”

“I forgot to serve it, that’s what happened,” said Monty. “Hang on a tick.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Cordelia.

“Don’t worry about dessert? What kind of talk is that?” Monty rose from the table and picked up their bowls, containing the sad remnants of sardines on toast. Admittedly very good sardines on very good toast.

“But I want to hear your story,” said Cordelia.

“And hear it you shall,” said Monty. “But first, dessert.” He took the bowls into the kitchen, leaving a frustrated Cordelia to text Edwin and assure him that everything was still okay and he didn’t have to come to the rescue. At least not yet.

After all the fuss about dessert, Cordelia was a little disappointed to see Monty emerge from the kitchen with a tub of supermarket ice cream and a couple of bowls. But at least they weren’t the same bowls he’d served the sardines in. And the ice cream wasn’t bad.

“Sorry,” said Monty. “I should really have taken this out of the freezer a bit earlier to allow it to temper.”

Cordelia did a good job of controlling her own temper and let him proceed with this story at his own rate. Which he finally did. “So, imagine poor Monty dealing with this crashing come-down. Suffering immense spiritual anguish in the ghoulish aftermath of a fortnight on uppers, combined with the bitter disappointment of having his first novel rejected. His lovely, lovely first novel. So, do you know what I did?”

“Took more speed?” said Cordelia.

“No, sadly I’d run out. Burned through the lot. And my source of amphetamines was the girlfriend in Brighton, who got them from some smelly Mod. But she’d run off with the smelly Mod…”

“Poor Monty,” said Cordelia.

“Poor Monty,” said Monty, pursing his lips. He looked for all the world, with his shiny bare head, like a big pouting baby. Then he stuck his cigarette in his pursed lips and spoiled the impression. “But I pulled myself together like a good, solid chap and did what any good, solid chap would do under those circumstances.”

“Which was?” said Cordelia.

“Which was go on a mammoth pub crawl. And at some point during my inebriated tour of London’s finer hostelries, I met a chap called Bunny Hebb.” Monty peered at Cordelia through a cloud of recently exhaled smoke. He seemed to be considering something.

“Bunny?” said Cordelia.

“Yes, a nickname, obviously. I can’t remember what his real first name was. Quite possibly I never found out, though I knew him for some years. He became, if not quite a friend, then a very valuable associate. Because, you see, dear Cordelia… you don’t mind if I call you ‘dear Cordelia’?”

“I do, actually.”

“Oh, all right. Well, the point is, Bunny Hebb was a war veteran. In fact, he was a former commando…”

“Ah,” said Cordelia.

“Ah indeed. A former commando who, for the price of a drink or two (or three or four), was more than willing to provide good old Monty with all the authentic anecdotes and telling details he might ever need.” Monty smiled and spread his hands in a gesture of expansive beneficence. “And so the Commando books were born. My bastard publisher was delighted with my next attempt and coughed up the five hundred quid without a quibble. And the series proved to be a smashing success. By the time it was finished, I was getting a thousand pounds per book.” Monty regarded Cordelia with quiet pride.

Once again, Cordelia knew an opening when she saw one. “I’d love to read the other books in the series, the ones I haven’t got yet.”

“Well, as I say, I think you’ll enjoy them,” said Monty modestly. “They’re even better than my other, earlier efforts.”

“I’m having a bit of trouble finding copies, though,” said Cordelia.

“Well, good luck. I hope you locate some. I’m sure you will if you keep looking. Have you tried on the internet? I’m sure you’ll have tried on the internet.”

He didn’t seem to be taking the hint, so Cordelia took the bull by the horns. “Do you happen to have any copies?”

“Me?” said Monty. He seemed sincerely surprised.

“Yes, author’s copies. You must have had multiple copies.”

“Oh, I did,” said Monty. “Yes, I certainly did. At one point. Back in the mists of time. But I’m afraid they’re all gone. Years ago.”

“You didn’t even keep one copy of each book?”

Monty shook his head. “Nope. Sorry. I suppose I wasn’t really that proud of them. I mean, I’d enjoyed writing them, and I was grateful for the money they provided. But I was never truly proud of them, the way I was of my poetry.”

“So, what happened,” said Cordelia. “Why did you stop writing them?”

Monty shrugged. “I just got tired of it. Got tired of the whole thing.” He gave Cordelia a rather furtive look, as if to see whether she believed this.

She didn’t.

Once again, she took the bull by the horns. “So, the last book was number thirteen?”

“Number thirteen?”

“Commando Gold,” said Cordelia.

Monty had left his pouch of tobacco and rolling papers on the table, so they were handy for the assembly of the numerous cigarettes he’d smoked while they were sitting there. But now he began to pack these away and put them in his pockets. He smiled at Cordelia, a very insincere smile. “I suddenly feel terribly tired,” he said.

“Oh dear,” said Cordelia. “Was it because I mentioned that book?”

“Of course not,” said Monty, continuing the insincerity theme. “It’s just that I’m not used to all this excitement. Having visitors and so on. Discussing the good old days…”

“I know it exists, you know,” said Cordelia.

“What does?” said Monty politely.

“Commando Gold,” said Cordelia. “Your thirteenth Commando novel.”

“Lucky for some,” said Monty cryptically.

“Although there’s a campaign to try and convince people it doesn’t exist.”

“A campaign?” said Monty. “Really? How extraordinary.”

“Did you know that even the Wikipedia page makes that claim?”

“I didn’t know there was even a Wikipedia page,” said Monty, rising to his feet, which seemed to conclusively indicate that lunch—and, indeed, Cordelia’s visit—was over.

But she couldn’t stop herself talking, like a nosy journalist with her foot in someone’s door. “Can’t you tell me anything about that book, and what happened?”

Monty wouldn’t look at Cordelia directly. He had an abstracted expression on his face and he was searching his pockets for something. “I’m afraid I’ve told you as much as I can remember about those old days… so long ago… dear Cordelia. Oops, sorry. I’m not supposed to call you that, am I?”

“I don’t care what you call me,” said Cordelia, suddenly angry and feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. “I just don’t understand why you’re suddenly being like this.”

Monty did look at her now, and it was a surprisingly compassionate look. “I really don’t mean to be difficult. I honestly have told you as much as I can. And I genuinely have enjoyed your visit.”

“Oh, good,” said Cordelia.

“Thank you for your company, and your wine.”

“You’re welcome,” she said bitterly.

“And as a token of my appreciation,” said Monty, “I’d like to give you this.” He’d taken something out of his pocket now. It was postcard. He gave it to Cordelia and she looked at it.

There was no photo of Bettie Page on this one, though. Just a painting of a ballerina by Degas.

On the other side was written a name, address and phone number.

Monty watched her as she read it. “I may not be able to help you obtain copies of the books,” he said. “Or explain to you what happened with Commando Gold. But that is a person who can do both of those things. Whatever you do, though, don’t say that I sent you.”

13: NECK LIKE A GIRAFFE

Cordelia was always interested to see the houses where rich people lived.

Interested, and to be frank, infuriated.

How did anyone acquire sufficient money to end up with such a place? It was beyond the most fervid imaginings of your average chump. (See, for instance, Cordelia Stanmer.)

In this particular case, the house in question belonged to a woman called Melantha Spatetree. That was the name on the postcard Monty had handed to her some days earlier.

The postcard had also contained this address, and a phone number.

The phone number had been written in such a curious format that Cordelia, at first, wasn’t even sure that’s what it was. But good old Edwin, slight emphasis on the “old” here, had instantly identified it as a London phone number in the obsolete format used before 1990. In other words, seven digits preceded by the area code 01.

Cue a lecture from Edwin, thankfully brief and thankfully over hot chocolate, with a nice dog present at her feet to soften the blow, during which Edwin explained that towards the end of the last century there were beginning to be too many bastards with telephones in London, and they were literally running out of numbers. So, the 01 prefix was abandoned in favour of two different prefixes, 071 and 081, depending on whether you lived in inner or outer London. Thereby, at a stroke, doubling the potential number of numbers. “After some other shenanigans, around the turn of the millennium,” Edwin had said, “these were finally replaced by 0207 and 0208.”

This, helpfully, was a phone number format Cordelia could actually recognise.

And since the address on the postcard was definitely in inner London, she could translate the accompanying phone number into its modern incarnation.

Not that this would guarantee that the number still existed or that, if it did, it still belonged to someone with the spectacular name of Melantha Spatetree.

But Cordelia rang the number anyway and, wonder of wonders, got Melantha Spatetree’s voicemail.

Which was how, finally, after days of unreturned calls, and then returned calls but loads of diary difficulties—all on Melantha’s part, to be fair, none on Cordelia’s—she found herself standing here, outside Melantha’s abode on a cloudy, chilly autumn afternoon with dry leaves chasing each other along the pavement, staring up at this incredible house and wondering how on earth anyone could ever afford to buy such a place.

Cordelia suspected it had been in the Spatetree family for years, and whichever Spatetree had first purchased it had used funds from a fortune acquired back in the good old, vigorous, unregulated, red-tape-free days of the slave trade and opium wars. Spatetree definitely sounded like a slave-trading sort of name. With a side order of opium dealing.

Anyway, the house was certainly of that vintage, Georgian or something, with fake Greek columns rising on either side of its white façade.

It was located in South Kensington, one of London’s most prestigious neighbourhoods—much more prestigious than Monty Harrington’s West Kensington. To be more specific, it was in Stanhope Gardens, just off Gloucester Road. Indeed, Cordelia had walked here from Gloucester Road tube station.

It turned out that Melantha’s crib was located opposite a fair-sized patch of urban park, the eponymous gardens. And it was on a corner, beside another small patch of greenery. All of these factors set the price, already astronomical given its location, skyrocketing out of the galaxy or solar system, or whatever metaphor you wanted to use.

It was an altogether extraordinary house. Every residence in this street would be valued in the many millions. But this one was especially special. Because while the others were jammed side by side in a continuous terrace, that terrace came to an end just before Melantha’s gaff, creating a sort of alley on one side of it, and thus separating it from the rest of that rabble of billionaire boltholes.

And on the other side of Melantha’s house was that small patch of private garden.

A private garden? In London? In South Kensington?

And a detached house, ditto and ditto?

Definitely slavery and opium.

Cordelia didn’t normally have to gather her courage and steel herself before simply going up some steps and ringing a doorbell. But she certainly did this time.

And so it was a bit annoying, just when she’d managed to nerve herself up and decisively begin the difficult ascent from pavement to front door, that she didn’t get the chance to immediately follow through.

Because the front door opened and a man came out.

He was a tall, suntanned man with neatly trimmed dark hair and sunglasses, and gleaming highly polished black shoes which she particularly noticed because they were more or less at Cordelia’s eye level as he appeared from the house. The man was wearing a sober grey business suit which didn’t really suit him. Because, although it was clearly expensive and well cut, men who wore such business suits didn’t usually look like they worked out as much as this one clearly did. He was big and muscular, but not grotesquely bulked up, and he moved smoothly and gracefully, like an athlete.

Or at least he would have done, if he hadn’t been trying to wrangle no fewer than four small dogs, each on their own leash. The dogs looked like Dachshunds, except they had longer hair, and they were very eager to get the hell out of the house and off to wherever they were headed.

The man was struggling to control them, and as he did so, Cordelia realised there was something wrong with his right hand, which was in a black glove. Indeed, there seemed to be something wrong with his entire right arm. He clearly didn’t have full use of it.

Nevertheless, he managed to control the eager posse of dogs, just about, as he came down the steps and past Cordelia, even nodding and smiling at her as the dogs dragged him away, up the street. Cordelia continued her interrupted journey up the steps to the front door, which was now closed again, and rang the bell.

Considering that someone had just shut the door behind the dog man, it seemed to take an unreasonable length of time for them to come and open it again for Cordelia.

And when they did so, she had a mild sensation of déjà vu.

Because, once again, she was confronted with a big, powerfully built man in a grey business suit with gleaming black shoes. This one wasn’t wearing sunglasses, though. And his hair, for variety’s sake, was blond instead of dark.

He did, however, have a black glove and a bad arm. This time, again for variety’s sake, the left hand and the left arm.

“Yes?” said the man, politely enough, but giving Cordelia a look like she was distributing religious tracts. Primitively printed religious tracts at that.

“Uh…” said Cordelia. She wasn’t normally tongue-tied, but the combination of the stupefying wealth on display here and the bizarre manifestation of the matching set of powerfully built men in business suits with bad arms had sort of fried her poor brain.

She pulled herself together. “I’m here to see Melantha Spatetree?”

Cordelia hated the way that what had started out as a firm statement when it first emerged from her mouth had gradually transformed itself until it concluded as a question, with a treacherous rising inflection at the end. As though she was asking Mr Left Black Glove instead of telling him.

“Are you Cordelia Stanmer?” said Mr Left Black Glove.

“Yes,” said Cordelia, with pitiful promptness and gratitude. “Yes, I am.”

“Come in, please.” Mr LBG couldn’t be faulted on his politeness, as he closed the door behind her and showed her down a long carpeted hallway, but Cordelia couldn’t help thinking that if he knew her name, as he clearly did, and had been briefed on her arrival, as he so clearly had, then there’d been no need for that initial Jehovah’s Witness stare-down he’d subjected her to.

As they padded along the carpeted hall, LBG in his gleaming shoes and Cordelia in her dirty old Converse High Tops, he said, “Ms Spatetree is out at the moment, but she’ll be back shortly and she’s asked if you wouldn’t mind waiting for her in the drawing room.”

“No,” said Cordelia. Then, to avoid any ambiguity, “No, I wouldn’t mind.” Cordelia wasn’t sure she’d ever been in a drawing room before. LBG opened a very tall door—Cordelia hadn’t realised how high the ceilings were in here. You could just about fit two modern council dwellings into the ground floor of this house, one on top of the other.

LBG opened the tall door and gestured, rather stiffly with his bad left arm, for her to go in.

Cordelia went into the room and he closed the door silently behind her. There was something suggestive of money in the silent way that it closed. A great deal of money.

So, a drawing room, eh? Cordelia looked around and told herself that she wasn’t impressed by people who had drawing rooms, and in particular wasn’t impressed with this one.

But she was.

It was big and full of antique furniture, with pale afternoon light coming in from high windows that looked out at the greenery of the miniature park of Stanhope Gardens opposite. Just about everything in here was white and grey, with gold highlights, although there was the occasional splash of pale blue to add excitement to things. The same colour scheme had prevailed in the hall outside, and indeed, all the way to the front door.

Cordelia thought that the furniture—rather delicate-looking armchairs and sofas of various sizes—appeared to be not only antique but also French. Although she was no expert, she could easily see it adorning the house of an aristocrat who was being dragged screaming to the guillotine.

The thought of such a soon-to-be-abridged aristocrat cheered her up no end, and made her feel somewhat less of an inferior little hick who was totally out of her depth.

She wasn’t quite ready to sit down on any of this expensive-looking furniture yet, though. So instead, Cordelia made a cautious circuit of the room, inspecting things and noticing things. She noticed, for a start, that the wallpaper wasn’t paper but silk. Yes, real silk. It was a lovely pearly grey which seemed to gather and alter the light falling on it, making even the sad, grey London afternoon sunlight strangely striking.

The silk wall covering was so beautiful in its own right that it seemed a shame to hang pictures on it and hide it from view, even partially. But pictures there were, a plentiful assortment, all hanging in matching frames of dark polished wood.

The pictures themselves were quite attractive and interesting. Cordelia began to inventory these. They were mostly small landscapes in coloured chalk, and nice enough. But she was particularly drawn to one that stood out because it wasn’t a landscape and it wasn’t in colour.

It was a portrait, in black ink on yellowing paper: a woman’s face, drawn with almost cartoonish simplicity. It was stylish and alluring, and looked like it had been drawn really fast by someone who could really draw. Despite its simplicity, the artist had captured a definite hauteur and detachment in the woman’s expression. It was something to do with her wide but heavily lidded and cynical eyes, the sardonic arc of her eyebrows and the set of her small, sensual lips.

It wasn’t a realistic image—the woman had a neck about as long as a giraffe’s—but it had something better than realism. Attitude.

The woman had flowers in her hair—just little squiggles, but you knew they were flowers, and somehow you also knew she was the sort of woman who deserved a floral crown. Her hair spilled down on either side of her regal head in long torrenting tresses, and Cordelia’s gaze followed one of these down to the bottom right-hand corner of the picture where there was another squiggle, which she realised was a signature.

And then she realised whose signature it was and she was almost jolted out of her Converse High Tops.

She looked at it again, and again. And then, for good measure, again.

No matter how many times she looked at it, the signature continued to read Picasso.

Of course, it was just a print. A print whose paper had faded to yellow, giving it an authentic aged look…

The fact that the pen lines had visibly indented the paper was obviously just the feature of a clever printing process. When they had printed the print…

Yes, it was definitely a print. Not an original. Now that she had established that fact clearly in her mind, Cordelia was free to turn away from the picture and not examine it any further.

Cordelia did not turn away from picture.

It was hanging from a picture rail which ran along the ceiling high above her head. It hung by means of two descending wires, each of which was attached to one of the corners at the top of the frame. This arrangement avoided any damage to the fabulous silk walls.

More importantly, at least to Cordelia at this moment, it allowed her to reach up and lift the lower edge of the frame and look at what was on the other side, albeit upside down. What was on the other side was a piece of yellowing paper which had been typed with a Paris address. Apparently the address of an art gallery in Paris. Written across the yellowing paper, in flamboyant loops, in faded fountain pen, was another Picasso signature.

At this point Cordelia carefully lowered the frame and straightened it. And she did finally turn away from the picture…

And she did sit down on the expensive-looking furniture. Because she needed to sit down now. And because the furniture didn’t look remotely so expensive, having just stared at an original drawing by Picasso.

From where she was now sitting, in one of the armchairs, Cordelia carefully considered the picture hanging on the wall. If she was to successfully purloin it, she could buy herself a house with the proceeds of its illicit sale, and not a small house either.

But there was no question of her doing anything like that.

Cordelia wasn’t a thief.

Except, of course, where her core passion was concerned.

Stealing paperbacks was an exception she was willing to make.

So, she just sat there, adjusting the angle of her French antique chair all the better to keep her eyes on the Picasso. She might not be tempted to steal it. But she did want to fix it in her memory.

She was interrupted in her memorisation process when, from outside, there came the excited sound of dogs barking. Or perhaps the sound of excited dogs barking. And, hot on the heels of that, the echoing roar of a motorcycle approaching.

Cordelia went to the window and looked out. The dark-haired man with the dogs was back, holding them straining on their leads as he stood on the pavement at the bottom of the steps. They were barking excitedly at a figure dismounting from a motorbike, now parked in the street at the foot of the steps. The motorcycle rider was a slim figure, clad head to foot in red leather, and revealed to be a woman when she took off her matching red helmet and allowed long white hair to spill to her shoulders.

She crouched on the pavement, putting the helmet down beside her, and as soon as she did so the dogs surged over her, paws frantically scrabbling on her leathers, licking at her face. She didn’t actually lick them back, but she did kiss them on the head whenever she got the opportunity. At the same time, she was gathering their leashes, now released by the dark-haired man, and in a moment she had them all in her own hands.

Meanwhile, the man picked up the helmet from where she’d left it, put it on, climbed on the motorbike and drove it away. The woman rose to her feet, now in control of the dogs, and came up the front steps of the house.

Cordelia stepped away from the window in case she was spotted and sat down out of sight again.

There was the sound of the front door opening and the joyous yelping of the dogs, first at the door and then rapidly spreading in different directions around the house as the woman apparently released them and let them disperse and run where they would. Soon they were making noises in assorted distant corners, then gradually grew silent.

Cordelia was just wondering whether she should go out and announce herself when the woman came in, swinging the tall silent door inwards and peering at her, hand poised on the doorknob.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” said Cordelia.

14: MEET MELANTHA

“Usborne told me you were waiting for me,” said the woman.

She came in, unzipping her red jacket, and sat down in an armchair opposite Cordelia, making leather creaking noises as she did so. She struggled out of the jacket. Underneath she was wearing a black sweatshirt with a small red emblem on it. There was a crown on the top of the emblem and the words Serve to Lead. Further lettering revealed this to be the motto of the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting for too long,” said the woman, folding the jacket neatly into a squarish bundle. She peered at Cordelia with her ice blue eyes. She had a nose like a beak with deeply incised lines on either side of it, bracketing her mouth.

On the whole, though, for a woman of her age, her skin was pretty good.

“Not too long,” said Cordelia.

“Good,” said the woman. She suddenly caused Cordelia to flinch, by abruptly flinging the jacket across the room towards a sofa on the far side. It landed on the sofa all right, but en route it opened up in midair, transforming from a neat bundle into a large flapping shape, like some big sinister red bird.

“I am Melantha Spatetree,” said the woman, ignoring the big flapping red bird as it landed.

“I thought you might be,” said Cordelia, a little spooked by this unexpected move. Though for all she knew, incredibly rich people threw leather jackets across their drawing rooms all the time. “I’m Cordelia Stanmer.”

“Yes, of course you are,” said Melantha. “Has anyone offered you a coffee or a tea?”

“No, but that’s fine.”

“It is not fine,” said Melantha decisively, rising suddenly to her feet and stalking to the door, which she’d left open. “Blackwell,” she shouted through it. “Get your arse in here.”

She came back and sat down again, giving Cordelia a brief smile and then concentrating on taking off her boots, which were also red leather. This proved such a tussle that Cordelia had to repress the urge to offer to help. But Melantha kept talking despite the epic battle she was involved in with her own footwear. “Did you meet Blackwell? I suppose you must have done…”

“Yes, he let me in.”

“And you also met Usborne.”

“Yes, I think so. Was he taking the dogs for a walk when I arrived?”

“Yes. Not before time. Aha.” This last exclamation was due to her having finally pulled off one of her boots. The left one. She sighed, smiled a smile of modest triumph at her black stockinged foot and then at Cordelia, and then set the boot to one side of her chair.

Cordelia was just relieved she didn’t throw it across the room.

As she set about doing battle with her other boot, Melantha said, “Notice anything about them?”

“Sorry?” said Cordelia.

“Did you notice anything about them? Blackwell and Usborne? It’s ‘Usborne’ with a ‘U’, by the way, not ‘Osborne’ with an ‘O’. He’s rather particular about that. Notice anything about him and Blackwell?”

“Uh, not really…”

“Oh, come on,” said Melantha, frowning as she grasped tightly on the heel of her boot with both hands and began to pull her knee strainingly towards her face. Cordelia winced at the thought of all the teeth she would knock loose if that boot came off suddenly. “You must have noticed something about them.”

“Well…” said Cordelia.

“Yes?” said Melantha, looking up at her alertly, pausing in the Battle of the Boot.

“They each seem to have something wrong with one of their arms,” said Cordelia.

“That’s putting it diplomatically,” said Melantha. She was looking steadily at Cordelia now and seemed relieved to have an excuse to suspend the struggle with her boot. “They’ve each lost an arm.”

“Oh… dear,” said Cordelia, for lack of something better.

“In Helmand.” She glared at Cordelia. “Do you know what Helmand is?”

Luckily Cordelia did. “In Afghanistan,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Melantha, nodding. “A province in Afghanistan.” She was looking at the boot again, the toe of which was wagging from side to side as if in mocking challenge at its owner. “Afghanistan, whence we recently retreated ignominiously.” She looked away from her mocking boot and at Cordelia again. “Is it ‘whence’ or ‘from whence’?”

“Either, I think,” said Cordelia.

“So do I. In any case, in combat in Helmand Province. Both Usborne and Blackwell were wounded in combat. Both lost an arm. Not in the same action. Not at the same time. They weren’t in the same unit. They didn’t even know each other until they came to work for me.” She turned and glared at the door. “Where is Blackwell?”

There was a sudden movement at the doorway, but it wasn’t Blackwell. It was one of the dogs.

Melantha’s face lit up. “Slim!” she said.

Slim the dog hurried in, tail wagging, and scooted across the carpet at speed, ultimately launching himself in a leap to land squarely in Melantha’s leather-clad lap. Melantha laughed with delight and hugged the dog, who had curled himself into a remarkably small bundle and apparently settled in for the duration.

This put paid to any further attempts by Melantha to remove her remaining boot. But perhaps this was just as well. Anyway, she was now so preoccupied with the dog that she seemed to have even forgotten that Cordelia was in the room with her.

Perhaps she really had forgotten.

Despite the motorcycle leathers, this was an elderly woman. Spry, true. But maybe mentally not so nimble.

As if psychically sensing this diss, Melantha gave Cordelia a sharp look. “Do you like dogs?” she said.

“I like my landlord’s dog,” said Cordelia.

“What breed is he?”

“Pure-bred mongrel,” said Cordelia. This got a chuckle out of Melantha. So Cordelia decided to persist with the dog chat. “What breed are yours?” she asked. “They look like Dachshunds, but they’re long-haired.”

“They’re long-haired Dachshunds,” said Melantha. She grinned triumphantly as if Cordelia had fallen into a well-prepared trap.

“Well, that makes sense.”

“We were talking about Usborne and Blackwell,” said Melantha. “Where the hell is Blackwell?” she added, with petulance minimised by the pleasant distractions of Slim wriggling in her lap. “I told you they were wounded in Helmand.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“They received what are quite rightly called life-changing injuries,” said Melantha. And then, in such a sudden change of subject that it seemed to put mentally-not-so-nimble back on the table again, “There was an American tycoon in the early twentieth century. Or was it the late nineteenth? It might have been William Randolph Hearst. Whoever he was, and whenever he lived, this tycoon was building a mansion, as tycoons tend to do. And he was having a magnificent marble fireplace carved in his grand hall. So, he imported two expert Italian marble carvers. One left-handed and one right-handed.” Melantha tore her gaze away from Slim, the long-haired Dachshund, and looked piercingly at Cordelia. “Do you know why?”

“Symmetry,” said Cordelia laconically.

Melantha smiled at her, as she continued playing with Slim’s long floppy ears. “Yes, that’s exactly right. The two men could work on either side of the fireplace, the right-handed on the right and the left-handed on the left, and create a perfectly balanced composition. And that got me to thinking. If two war veterans had received symmetrical injuries, such as Usborne and Blackwell, then, if you could bring them together as a team, they would compensate for each other. There would be nothing they couldn’t do.”

“I see,” said Cordelia, nodding, although what she could actually see was plenty of flaws with this theory.

“So, when I was looking to hire some manpower for my household,” said Melantha, “naturally I wanted to help wounded veterans, and it also seemed an ideal opportunity to create a team in which each one could compensate for the deficiencies for the other. Hence Usborne and Blackwell. Blackwell.” This last was a piercing shout which caused Slim to flinch, and Cordelia too.

Melantha resumed caressing Slim, who now needed some caressing after that scary yell. “I suppose you’re wondering why I need two men on my staff?” she said.

Cordelia steered carefully clear of a vast array of salacious contingencies and simply said, “No.”

“Well, there are the dogs to be looked after. You’d be surprised how much looking-after four Dachshunds require, day and night. Just the walking is a major endeavour. And then there’s the motorcycle maintenance. Not just the motorcycles, of course. We have a number of cars. And both Blackwell and Usborne are very good with engines. They do have their uses, I’ll give them that, although just now Blackwell appears to have pulled a disappearing act…”

“Where did, ah, Usborne go?” said Cordelia. “When he got on your motorcycle.”

“Oh, he just took it around the side to the mews. We have a garage there where we keep the vehicles. And he and Blackwell have a flat above it.

“What else do they do?” she said, as if echoing a question Cordelia hadn’t asked. “Besides looking after the vehicles, they also do some cooking.” Melantha seemed remarkably anxious to demonstrate to Cordelia that there were lots of legitimate uses for the two hulking young men she kept around the house. So anxious that some of that vast array of salacious contingencies began to come drifting back to Cordelia…

“Blackwell is a surprisingly good cook, although it would appear he wasn’t even capable of offering you a cup of tea when you turned up today. Blackwell.”

Cordelia gave a little jump this time, but Slim, having learned his lesson, took the shriek with relaxed detachment.

“Usborne, on the other hand,” said Melantha, “can’t do much more than curry. Not bad curry, but just curry.”

She suddenly paused in caressing the dog and gave Cordelia a very direct stare. “And then there’s security,” she said. “We have quite a lot of valuable items in this house.”

“I know,” said Cordelia.

“You know?”

Cordelia nodded at the drawing on the wall. “Is that an original Picasso?”

Melantha smiled. “Yes, indeed it is. Portrait of Françoise Gilot. I suppose you’re wondering why it’s just hanging on the wall out in the open like that.”

“No,” said Cordelia.

“No?” said Melantha.

“I assume you like looking at it,” said Cordelia. “So, what would be the point of having it locked up in some vault somewhere.”

“Yes, right. Exactly right,” said Melantha. She was looking at Cordelia as if giving her a proper sizing-up for the first time.

“And since you have two extremely large ex-soldiers under your roof,” said Cordelia, “I also assume it’s relatively safe.”

Melantha nodded. “Yes, it is relatively safe.”

Once again there was movement at the doorway and once again it wasn’t Blackwell, just another dog; to Cordelia’s eye pretty much identical to the one who was already here. “Zhukov!” exclaimed Melantha happily. Slim the Dachshund didn’t seem quite so happy to see Zhukov, especially when he tried to slip onto Melantha’s lap and supplant Slim.

The two dogs snarled and snapped each other.

“Now, boys,” said Melantha indulgently.

At this point Blackwell finally appeared in the doorway. “Where have you been?” said Melantha.

“Feeding the dogs.”

“Well, now you can feed us,” said Melantha. She looked at Cordelia. “Would you like some cake with your coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“And is coffee all right? Or tea?”

“Coffee please.” “Coffee and cake, Blackwell,” said Melantha. “If you don’t mind.” This last was added as a kind of transparent challenge—Let me see you dare to mind.

“All right,” said Blackwell.

“But first give me a hand getting this bloody boot off.”

“Okay,” said Blackwell. He came and crouched in front of Melantha and the two dogs—both of whom were now settled on her lap, Zhukov having managed to scramble up there and join Slim despite the latter’s best efforts. Blackwell squeezed the boot between the inside of his upper arm and his chest. Cordelia realised that his whole life must consist of coming up with strategies like this to compensate for only having the one functioning arm.

Melantha pulled her foot away and it came free. Blackwell stood up with the boot still under his arm, bent down and picked up the other one with his right hand, and headed for the door with them.

“Thank you, Blackwell,” said Melantha. “Coffee and cake, please.”

“Coffee and cake,” said Blackwell.

“Yes indeed,” said Melantha. “Thank you.” She turned to Cordelia. “Now, you wanted to see me… about some books…?” She seemed all at once very vague about this.

“Yes.”

“Paperback books.”

“That’s right.”

“The Commando novels by Butch Raider,” said Melantha, demonstrating that her earlier apparent vagueness had just been some kind of ploy.

“Yes, please.”

“What makes you think I know anything about those?” said Melantha. Although she clearly did know quite a lot about them. How many people had heard of Butch Raider?

But at this point Cordelia had to be very careful.

Monty Harrington had emphasised to her—that is, Cordelia—that while Melantha Spatetree could be very useful to her—that is, Cordelia—if she realised that Monty had put her—that is, Cordelia—onto her—that is, Melantha—then Melantha would not only be very upset—for reasons that Monty wasn’t willing to explain—but that she would also immediately cease to be useful to her. That is, Cordelia.

So, Cordelia had carefully prepared an alternative explanation or, if you preferred, a lie. “Well,” she said, getting ready to lie through her teeth. “You see, I’m a dealer in rare paperbacks.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“And I’ve been commissioned to track down a full set of the books for a client.”

“Yes, I also know that. Because you told me that. The thing I’m interested in is how you came to imagine that I might be useful to you in this little enterprise of yours.”

“Well,” said Cordelia, mentally kicking herself for saying “well” again because it made her sound nervous, and like a liar, both of which she actually was. “As you can imagine, I’ve been doing a lot of research online.”

“Yes, I can imagine that,” said Melantha dryly.

“And I’ve been making enquiries on forums…”

“Fora, actually,” said Melantha. “But don’t mind me, and my lonely defence of the besieged fortress of correct Latin usage against the inexorable onslaught of colloquial expression. Good luck to me. You can’t even type a word like that without the spell-checker trying to ‘correct’ you and change it into something else. Fora. Oh, well.” She sighed and caressed the dogs in her lap, who were already well on their way to falling asleep, and now it looked like this discussion of Latin plurals was going to finish them off. Melantha regarded them fondly. “Just don’t say ‘mediums’ and I promise not to correct you again. Carry on.”

“Well,” said Cordelia, for the third time, and to tell the truth beginning to sweat a little, “I’ve been making enquires on internet forums or fora, devoted to collecting paperbacks.”

“There are such things?”

“Oh yes,” said Cordelia. “And I’ve been particularly active in discussion groups about the Commando novels.”

“And there are also such things?”

“Oh yes, very much so,” said Cordelia. Not adding, There are now.

15: A BAD IDEA TO TELL THE TRUTH

Cordelia had spent several days painstakingly fabricating an online discussion group for the Commando books. At first it had been annoying that one didn’t exist already…

But then Cordelia had realised this was actually a blessing in disguise. Because it was easier to create a fake from scratch, and maintain total control over it, than to try and suborn or infiltrate an existing one, with real personalities behind the various posts on it, who might question what she was doing and object to it.

So, while it had been quite tedious creating the whole thread, with its various fictitious contributors, with Tinkler’s help (he was the computer nerd, or as he preferred to put it, “wizard”) she’d succeeded in inventing a website which appeared to have been around for several years. They had done a thorough and ultimately, she believed, quite convincing job.

She’d had to go to all this trouble because she knew Melantha would almost certainly want to know how Cordelia had got her details and tracked her down (although, interestingly, Monty Harrington had never asked this same question when Cordelia had tracked him down).

And, since Monty had made it very clear that it would be a very bad idea to tell Melantha the truth, Cordelia had needed to fake a convincing explanation.

She was very glad she had, because now she could look the woman in the eye in her own drawing room and say, “I joined this group to discuss the Butch Raider books, and when I asked for suggestions about where I could track down a complete set of them, in fine condition…” Cordelia paused for a fraction of a second to see if Melantha was baffled by this bibliophile terminology, but she clearly wasn’t. “…well, I got all the usual suggestions…”

“Which are?”

“Internet sales sites and some bricks-and-mortar bookstores.”

“I see.”

“But I also got this very unusual suggestion from one of the people on the discussion group…”

“To come and see me,” said Melantha, cutting to the chase.

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“And who was this person on the discussion group?”

“Well, everyone there uses pseudonyms.” All created by Cordelia, who’d had some fun with this, matching them to the (purely imaginary) personalities of the various users.

“Of course they do,” said Melantha. “And what was this particular contributor’s pseudonym?”

“Commandofan.”

“Commando Fan?”

“All one word,” said Cordelia.

“Good grief,” said Melantha. “And that’s all?”

“Well, there were also two numbers.”

“Two numbers?”

“Seven and one. Seventy-one. So, it was Commandofan71. And I’m guessing that’s…”

“The year of their birth,” said Melantha.

“Yes.”

“Included to distinguish them from all the other people called Commandofan,” said Melantha, not without some degree of sarcasm.

“I guess so,” said Cordelia, reminding herself not to get defensive. After all, only someone who had invented the stupid name would feel the need to be defensive about it.

“And there’s no way of knowing anything else about this mysterious personage who has sent you my way?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Cordelia.

Melantha frowned and nodded. She seemed to be buying it so far. “Is it possible for me to visit this website and have a look for myself?” she said.

“Yes, of course,” said Cordelia. “I’ll send you the link.” This, after all, had been the reason for setting up the whole elaborate fraud in the first place. Cordelia had even almost brought a screenshot along with her to show to Melantha, but then she’d realised this would have been something of a giveaway. Why would you bring along a screenshot unless you knew they’d ask for it because the whole thing was dodgy and stunk to high heaven?

“All right,” said Melantha. “Thank you. Please do send me the link. Well, you’re here now…”

“Yes, I am,” said Cordelia. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“I am seeing you,” said Melantha. “But I’m not sure what I can do for you. What exactly do you want?”

“Well, as I said, I’d like to obtain copies of the books. They’re easy enough to find,” she added, with one eye on keeping the price of any eventual purchase low. And then, in the interest of honesty and straight dealing, “But they’re not so easy to find in exemplary condition, and that’s what I’m after.”

“And because of this random, anonymous online message,” said Melantha, “you think I might have copies of these books.” It was hard to believe she could have sounded any more scathingly sceptical and sardonic. But she managed to when she added, “In exemplary condition?”

“Well…” said Cordelia.

“Well, I do,” said Melantha, figuratively pulling the carpet out from under Cordelia. “I do have copies of them. In just such a condition.”

“Really?” Cordelia couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her voice, after all the emotional hoops the old bag had just made her jump through.

“Yes, somewhere,” said Melantha, making a rather worrying retreat into vagueness again. She played with the dogs for a moment or two. Then she said, “You see, my father actually was a commando.”

“Really?” said Cordelia, not quite so eagerly this time, but still genuinely interested.

“Yes. Really. He was the real thing. Major Adam Spatetree of Number 62 Commando, also known as the Small Scale Raiding Force or SSRF. Military folk love abbreviations, you know. They, the 62 Commando, were under the operational control of the Special Operations Executive.” Melantha chuckled. “Or SOE. Major Adam Spatetree, DSO, DSC, MC… That’s him over there.”

She lifted one hand away from the Dachshunds and pointed a bony finger at something behind Cordelia. Cordelia twisted around in her chair and saw that one of the many framed pictures on the wall was an oil painting of a man in uniform. Since it obviously wasn’t by Picasso, she didn’t risk neck strain by staring at it for any longer that was strictly called for by courtesy.

“And my father used to adore those Butch Raider novels,” said Melantha. “I believe he stumbled on them when he once had a long train journey and couldn’t find anything else to read at the station book stall. And, from that point on, he was hooked.” She was stroking the dogs again, gazing down at them fondly.

“He read all of them, more than once. He liked to pretend they were rubbish, but in truth he was absolutely addicted to them and would read them again and again.” She peered at Cordelia, looking down her nose at her rather more than Cordelia felt comfortable with. “At the time, I was just a silly teenage girl and, I freely admit it, I hero-worshipped my father.”

She dropped her gaze from Cordelia, looking down at the dogs again, as if somewhat embarrassed by this disclosure. “And, quite naturally, I wanted to read these books which he so clearly adored, despite all his protestations to the contrary. So, I began reading them too, and although he was right and they were rubbish…”

At this point Cordelia had to repress the urge to leap to the defence of Butch Raider, aka Monty Harrington, and his writing. It took a surprising amount of repressing.

“…nevertheless,” said Melantha, “I found them quite compelling, and yes, soon enough I found I was hooked on them too. I suppose it was like one’s first cigarette. One hardly enjoys it. But, if one persists, well, they became an absolute addiction. And so it was with these silly books. I only read them to attract the attention of my father, to win his approval. But I quickly found myself genuinely becoming an enormous fan.”

“I can understand that,” said Cordelia. “They really are good. And addictive.”

Melantha nodded doubtfully, as if too polite to explicitly disagree, although Cordelia was really just echoing what she herself had said. “My father was amused at first, and very disparaging, of both the books and my enthusiasm for them. But finally he was drawn in. You might say that my ruse worked, although it had ceased to be a ruse by that time. He couldn’t resist talking to me about them, and we used to spend hours in discussions, about the characters…”

“Bradawl and Gimlet,” said Cordelia.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Melantha. She smiled the best smile she’d smiled since Slim the dog had appeared and jumped in her lap, and suddenly looked dramatically younger. “My father was especially scathing about Major Bradawl. It was actually rather comical, the way he would pretend the books were just rubbish, but they really got under his skin. And it was quite wonderful for me, to have something in common with my father at last. Something we could share and talk about. All my life, he’d been a rather distant and forbidding figure. He was of a generation that had absolutely no idea of how to behave with children, of how to give or receive affection. So, in an extraordinary way, these violent potboilers by Butch Raider—” She suddenly looked at Cordelia. “That must surely be a pen name?”

“Oh, I should think so,” said Cordelia. “It would be too good to be true if it really was his name.”

“I suppose it would,” said Melantha. “So, a pen name it is. I don’t suppose you have any idea what his real name might be?”

“Not the slightest idea,” said Cordelia, lying through her teeth. “I looked high and low on the internet and there’s no clue out there at all,” she declared, now, for the sake of contrast, telling the unvarnished truth.

“Well, whoever he is,” said Melantha, “he is to thank for belatedly bringing my father and I together, in a quite extraordinary and unexpected way.” She gazed intently at Cordelia. “In fact, I would like to thank him. Butch Raider. Assuming he’s still alive. So, if you should ever discover his identity, I’d be very grateful if you would pass the information on to me.”

“I’d be happy to look into it for you,” said Cordelia. “I can give you a quote.”

“A quote?”

“For my fee. For tracking him down.”

At the suggestion of having to part with money, Melantha Spatetree, like many a rich bastard before her, suddenly lost all interest in the project. She waved her hand in a generalised gesture of dismissal. “Oh, it was just an idle whim,” she said. Then she grinned a businesslike grin, revealing choppers of impressive regularity and whiteness. “Anyway, I was rather hoping you’d come here to pay me, rather than the other way around.”

“Pay you?” said Cordelia. It was her turn to be wrongfooted.

Melantha’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Aren’t you looking to buy copies of these books?”

“Oh, yes. Yes please,” said Cordelia. “Definitely. If you have any.”

“Well, we certainly had copies,” said Melantha. “We had many of them. Multiple copies of all the books in the series.” She looked at Cordelia as if expecting a question in response to this, but she didn’t get one.

Cordelia realised that a normal, sane person would probably ask at this point why anyone would have multiple copies of any book. But Cordelia was so far from being a normal, sane person at this stage in her own life—in the sense of being a fanatical collector of paperbacks—that it was hard to put yourself in that mindset.

Nevertheless, Melantha was offering an explanation. “My father was slightly eccentric,” she said. “When he liked something, he had to have more than one of it. In fact, I came to realise years later that he was bipolar. And people with that condition have a compulsion to obtain multiple copies of favourite items. It turns out that my father, my wonderful papa, must have been bipolar. Or manic depressive, as we would have described it at the time.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cordelia, conventionally.

“Don’t be,” said Melantha. “We never knew it when he was alive. We just thought he was a bit odd, as so many people were. At least in our circle.” She looked around the drawing room, with its antique French furniture, silk wallpaper and original Picasso drawing on the wall, as if to indicate that her circle was the very posh and obscenely rich.

Then she sighed, and it was such an intense, heartfelt sigh that both the sleepy Dachshunds stirred in her lap and stared up at her. “Anyway, all of this is to say that I do, or at least did, have many copies of Butch Raider’s books. Acquired as duplicates by my father, as a result of his condition. Copies which I would be only too happy to sell to you.”

“Thank you,” said Cordelia, beginning to feel a warm glow.

“Although…” said Melantha, thoughtfully fondling the now wakeful Dachshunds. “Although how anyone, more specifically how Commandofan71, could possibly know any of that, I really have no idea.”

Cordelia agreed that it was a mystery, all right. After all, if she was as innocent as she pretended, she really wouldn’t have a clue.

Then she asked the big question.

“Do you know anything about the thirteenth Commando novel?”

“Thirteenth?” said Melantha, preoccupied with massaging the dogs in her lap. “How many were there?”

“Thirteen.”

“So, this is the last one you’re talking about,” she said.

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“Which one was that? I mean, what was it called?”

Cordelia braced herself and said, “Commando Gold.”

“Commando Gold,” said Melantha vaguely. Apparently the title meant nothing to her. If anything, she seemed to be getting a little bit bored with the conversation. Cordelia wondered if she’d made a blunder by bringing it up. Certainly, she seemed to have braced herself for nothing.

“What about it?” said Melantha, eventually.

“Ah, I was wondering if you might have a copy of it,” said Cordelia. Then, because she couldn’t resist it, “Or copies.”

“Well,” said Melantha. “We have, or had, all of Butch Raider’s Commando books. So if that’s one of them, then we would have had it.” QED, she didn’t add. But didn’t need to.

“And more than one copy?” said Cordelia, rather leading the witness here.

“And certainly more than one copy,” said Melantha. She sighed again, but it was a fond, amused sigh this time. “Knowing Papa and his proclivities.”

“And you think you still have these books?” said Cordelia, looking up at the ceiling high above her and, by implication, all the rest of the big house above that. “Somewhere?” She tried to keep a querulous little note of pitiful hope out of her voice. But she didn’t succeed.

“Yes, well, that’s the thing,” said Melantha, the two dogs in her lap playfully snapping at her fingers as she stroked them. “That’s why I keep saying ‘have or had’. We definitely had all those books in our possession. At one time. And I certainly don’t remember us ever divesting ourselves of any of them. So, if he haven’t got rid of them, and I don’t see why we should have, and, as I say, I don’t remember doing so… I don’t see why we shouldn’t still have them.” She nodded decisively and smiled at Cordelia, who had been following this tortuous logic. “Somewhere.”

“And, ah,” said Cordelia, “would you mind having a look for them?”

“Oh, I don’t think I could do that,” said Melantha. “Much too busy to do that. Far too many other things for me to do.” She said this very firmly and with great finality. But then she smiled a mischievous little smile.

“But I could certainly ask Usborne and Blackwell to have a look for me,” she said.

“Could you?” said Cordelia, wrung out with relief after that little emotional rollercoaster ride Melantha had just taken her on. “Would you please?”

“Certainly,” said Melantha. “And you’re particularly interested in that thirteenth one, are you? Commando Gold?”

“I’m interested in all of them,” said Cordelia. “But, yes, I’m especially looking for that one.”

“Why, might I ask?” Melantha closed her hands firmly but gently around the snout of one of the dogs who was getting a bit too bitey, muzzling the little devil.

“It’s rather hard to find,” said Cordelia, choosing her words carefully, not least to try and keep the price down.

“More so than the others?” said Melantha.

Cordelia resigned herself to possible price escalation. She’d wanted to find out what the deal was with Commando Gold anyway, and Monty had indicated that this woman would be able to tell her. Although, up to now, in this regard, Monty appeared to have given Cordelia a bum steer.

“It seems that Commando Gold wasn’t properly distributed like the other books,” she said, still unable to entirely abandon caginess.

“Not properly distributed?” said Melantha. “What does that mean?”

“So,” Cordelia took a deep a breath, “apparently there was some kind of problem with the book,” she said. “And it was withdrawn or something.” She rushed on, honesty suddenly seeming like the best policy. “I don’t really know what happened, it’s impossible to get any definite details, and I was hoping to find out.”

Melantha suddenly snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I’m beginning to remember now. I believe there was something about that particular book. Some kind of scandal or difficulty or something.”

“Yes?” said Cordelia eagerly.

“Commando Gold, you say?”

“Yes.”

“You know…” Melantha’s brow was creased as she delved deep into her memory. “I do believe my father had difficulty getting copies of it.”

“But he did?” said Cordelia. “He did get copies?”

“Oh yes, certainly. My father was not to be brooked when he wanted something. But I seem to recall that, in the course of acquiring copies, he entered into correspondence with the publisher. And that correspondence might well shed some light on the situation. Would you like me to find out, if I can?”

“Do you still have your father’s correspondence?”

“Oh, of course I do,” said Melantha. Her eyes seemed bright with excitement at the prospect of rooting through her father’s letters. “I have all his papers. And I’d be happy to do some research for you. While Usborne and Blackwell look for the books themselves. And, with a little luck, the next time you come to visit, we’ll have something for you on both fronts.”

Cordelia had a definite warm and happy glow now. The next time you come to visit. Have something for you on both fronts.

“Make sure I have your address,” said Melantha. “Now, where in god’s name are our cakes and coffee? Blackwell!”

16: BETTY NOT BETTIE

Cordelia returned from her meeting with Melantha Spatetree with an intense feeling of quiet triumph. In fact, she felt like she was floating on air.

But she gradually came down to earth over the next few days as she waited impatiently for Melantha to get back to her.

That was how they’d left things. Melantha would look for information about Commando Gold in her father’s correspondence, and her one-armed flunkies would search the house for copies of the books. And then, when they had something for her, Melantha would contact Cordelia…

It was only after she got home that Cordelia realised the flaw with this arrangement.

It left all the initiative with Melantha, and it made it hard for Cordelia to get in touch without it seeming like she was hassling her.

So, Cordelia was left to twiddle her thumbs.

Did anyone actually do that?

Anyway, Cordelia didn’t. And even if she had done that, she wouldn’t have had to do it for long, because there were interesting developments on other fronts…

*   *   *

Bettie Page was very much in Cordelia’s thoughts these days.

She had been very much in her thoughts ever since receiving Monty’s postcard—now prominently propped high up on one of her bookshelves, so it could be seen from just about anywhere in her tiny attic room.

Since meeting Monty himself, the creepier aspects of this postcard had evaporated, which was a little odd really, since Monty himself was indubitably a bit creepy; and indeed, as he had admitted, his intention in sending her the photo had been to potentially creep her out.

Nevertheless, having met the sender had sort of nullified his connection with the postcard, so to speak, and the photo on it, leaving it as just a very striking image of a very striking young woman.

Admittedly trussed to an armchair.

Cordelia had grown quite fond of the picture and, by extension, of Bettie herself.

And the sweet little expression of bafflement in her pretty eyes peeking out over the top of that gag tied so securely around her mouth.

All of which explained why, when Cordelia received a text from a number she didn’t recognise, and it was signed Betty, with a kiss, she felt a certain profound dislocation of reality.

In its entirety, the text read:

Duncan is going to get in touch with you. Play dumb. Betty x

Who was Duncan? Much more to the point, who was Betty?

And, for that matter, why didn’t she spell her name Bettie with an “i” and “e”?

If the cosmos was going to dish up such a spectacular coincidence, it seemed a terrible shame it hadn’t gone all the way and got the spelling right…

But gradually things became clear, and as the apparent mystical synchronicity dissipated, it was replaced by something perhaps even more gratifying.

The prospect of earning some money.

Because only a matter of hours after getting the Betty text, complete with kiss, Cordelia received an email at her Paperback Sleuth address from one Duncan Fairwell.

Of course.

Duncan Fairwell, owner of Murder Silhouette Books, London’s leading emporium of crime fiction, in paperback and otherwise. Vile Duncan Fairwell who had been so rude to Cordelia on more than one occasion, and who had an unfortunate penchant for knitted tartan tank tops. Although, in a way, they went with his nasty little hirsute face and nasty little stunted form.

(Cordelia really could hold a grudge.)

And as soon as she remembered Duncan, she also experienced the much more pleasant recollection of Betty Fairwell, a woman of distinctive catlike beauty with a dryly sardonic sense of humour which had met with Cordelia’s full approval. Indeed, she liked Betty every bit as much as she disliked Duncan.

Betty was Duncan’s wife, but Cordelia tended to consider her as Duncan’s widow.

And not just for reasons of wishful thinking.

When they’d first met, Cordelia had actually believed that Duncan was safely dead. But it had all been an amusing misunderstanding.

Anyway, Duncan was still very much alive, although some might say this was a shame. But Cordelia certainly wouldn’t say that. Not now he was emailing her, apparently to offer her work.

And although Cordelia was obviously knee deep in her Commando novels assignment, and waiting for Melantha Spatetree to get back to her, she certainly wasn’t going to turn down another job.

Cordelia could multitask.

Her motto, as the Paperback Sleuth, was “Business is great but we’re always looking for more.” She’d stolen it from a very boring accountancy firm her father had once used.

So, she promptly took Duncan up on his offer. Which was pretty vague. But he promised to get into the specifics when Cordelia came over to his (and Betty’s) house in Richmond to discuss the project. Cordelia very much liked the idea of a project. It sounded more lucrative than a mere job. And she liked the idea of a visit to the Fairwell house in Richmond. Or at least a visit to Betty at the house.

And, Duncan said, after their business discussion, dinner would be provided.

Knowing what an unsociable and tightfisted cuss Duncan Fairwell was, Cordelia saw Betty’s hand in this.

She duly turned up at the Fairwells’ house in Richmond at the appointed hour, on a spooky, misty autumn evening with the sun just setting, and made her way through the tall shadowy gates and up the winding driveway. The house was an enormous riverside property, complete with a mooring and a houseboat, all of which made Erik Makeloud’s riverside property look like something in a trailer park, and Erik himself look like the low-rent upstart that he was. Sorry, Erik.

Cordelia trotted up the shiny black steps to the front door and rang the bell. Before the echoes of this faded away, the door opened and she was greeted by Betty with a quick, but fond, kiss on the cheek and the somewhat contradictory words, “We’ve never met.”

“Fine by me,” said Cordelia.

She was gratified to see that Betty was as slinkily dressed as ever in her regulation cashmere and pearls—a pink pearl necklace over what was apparently a black cashmere tracksuit with baggy trousers and a rollneck top. Betty pulled this cashmere tracksuit off, though. Indeed, she rocked it. And her strikingly feline face was as gorgeous and cynically amused as Cordelia remembered.

But she was disappointed that Betty wasn’t clutching a glass of lager. Betty liked her lager, and Cordelia enjoyed watching her drinking it.

“As far as Duncan is concerned, that is, we’ve never met,” added Betty, by way of further explanation.

“I’ll take my cue from you,” said Cordelia.

“Excellent. I’ll fill you in as soon as we have a few minutes to ourselves. No time now.” The last three words were uttered in an under-the-breath singsong as Duncan himself made a noisy entrance coming down the big staircase.

“Is that her?” he yelled.

“Is who who?” said Betty, as she guided Cordelia into the entrance hall, closing the front door behind her and sealing away the cold air of the autumn night.

“Is that her,” yelled Duncan again. He was still halfway up the stairs but had decided to commence the conversation at that distance and in a shout, rather in the manner of a teenager with an upstairs bedroom. “Our visitor. Cordelia Something. Never mind. Don’t bother telling me. I can see it is. Too late now. I can see for myself.”

Duncan was, perhaps disappointingly, not wearing one of his trademark knitted tank tops. Instead, he was wearing a reddish brown three-piece suit. Or at least it would have been three-piece if the waistcoat had been made of matching material. Instead, it was apparently made of bright yellow velvet. With a garish red paisley design.

He was jogging down the stairs with a pugnacious, stiff-legged gait, and by the time this monologue had concluded, he was actually standing in the hallway with Cordelia and Betty.

“Stanmer,” said Cordelia.

“What are you talking about?” said Duncan. “Who has a stammer?”

“Stan-mer,” sighed Betty. “She’s saying her name, Duncan.”

“Her name?”

“Her name. Her surname is not ‘Something’. It is Stanmer. Not ‘Cordelia Something’. Cordelia Stanmer.”

“Stanmer?” said Duncan, a thoughtful expression coming over his bearded features. “Don’t I know that name from somewhere?”

“Yes,” said Betty. “You know it from our guest, now standing in front of you, whom you wish to employ. Let’s go into the sitting room and discuss the details of that employment.”

“No, I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere,” said Duncan stubbornly. “Somewhere else…”

Cordelia suspected she knew the somewhere else where he’d heard the name, and had that unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach which she always got when her brother was about to come into the conversation.

But he hadn’t come into the conversation yet, and apparently he wasn’t going to if Betty had anything to say about it. Bless her. “Shut up, Duncan,” she said, “and come into the sitting room.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” said Duncan, but he followed Betty into the sitting room like a little lamb. As indeed did Cordelia. She was familiar with the sitting room, which was big, and seemed all the bigger for being fashionably under-furnished. Cordelia found it altogether attractive and pleasant, chiefly because she associated it with her previous meetings with Betty and always thought of it as containing Betty, sitting decoratively and languidly, as she did now, draped across the sofa.

And Cordelia was delighted to notice that there was a glass of amber lager, beaded with condensation, waiting close at hand on the table beside her.

All was well with the world.

Cordelia sat in an armchair near the sofa and so did Duncan, which she found telling in terms of the interpersonal dynamics of the situation. Him not sitting with his wife, that is. Even the Ballas brothers had been willing to share a sofa.

Duncan didn’t waste any time. He cracked his knuckles loudly, perhaps because he didn’t have a gavel to rap on a table, and brought the meeting to order. He glared accusingly at Cordelia, although apparently this was just his way of letting her know that he was talking to her. In case there was any ambiguity.

“I understand you specialise in finding rare paperbacks,” he said.

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “That I do. That’s what I do.”

“And she does it very well, by all accounts,” said Betty.

“Let me do the talking,” said Duncan.

“All right,” said Betty, helping herself to her lager.

“Apparently you’re quite good at your job,” said Duncan, peering at Cordelia with his dark little eyes which made her think of a prawn. Or was it a shrimp? “I’ve been reliably informed that you’re quite good at it.” Duncan wasn’t looking at Betty at this point, but Cordelia was. So she saw, and he didn’t, that Betty gave a lazy little wink, as much as to say, Guess who reliably informed him? “Otherwise I wouldn’t have invited you here,” said Duncan. “Because I don’t have any time for any timewasters.”

“Who does?” said Cordelia.

“Very true,” said Betty, looking approvingly at her lager and taking another decorous sip. This action seemed to catch Duncan’s attention.

“Where’s my drink?” he said.

“You don’t drink lager,” said Betty.

“I know I don’t drink lager,” said Duncan, his patience obviously strained. “I didn’t say I drank lager. I said, ‘Where’s my drink?’ I had a glass of wine on the go in the kitchen.”

“Well then, it’s still in the kitchen,” said Betty. “Although rather less on the go.”

“You didn’t bring it through?” said Duncan. “When you brought your lager through?”

“Apparently not,” said Betty, savouring another dainty sip.

Cordelia remembered now that Duncan was an oenological connoisseur with a substantial and impressive wine cellar. Or at least, he’d once had a substantial and impressive wine cellar.

“And I don’t suppose you’ll go and get it for me?” said Duncan. “Of course you won’t. No chance of you walking the enormous distance to the kitchen to perform the superhuman task of fetching me my glass of Merlot. Never mind. Forget it. Where was I?”

“No time for timewasters.” said Cordelia.

“That’s right,” said Duncan, all business again. “But apparently you know what you’re doing, so I’m willing to hire you.” He paused and stared, quite frankly stared, at Cordelia, who suddenly wondered if she’d got a smudge on her face. Or possibly an insect. Or something.

“Don’t I know you?” said Duncan. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“We’ve met at your bookshop,” said Cordelia.

“Oh, have we?” Duncan smiled a sunny smile. Apparently, he had no memory of his boorish behaviour towards Cordelia. Whereas she, on the other hand, wasn’t inclined to ever forget it. “You’ve been to the bookshop, have you?” He seemed delighted to meet one of his customers, which was in striking contrast to his behaviour when he’d actually met Cordelia, as one of his customers.

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “A couple of times.”

“It’s a good bookshop, isn’t it?” said Duncan proudly.

“It’s a very good bookshop,” said Cordelia. Not feeling it would be politic to add, Despite its little shit of an owner.

Duncan cracked his knuckles again. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.” He seemed reassured by the fact that Cordelia had been a patron of Murder Silhouette Books. “Well, the thing is, I want to hire you to find some paperbacks for me.”

“Don’t you think that’s blindingly obvious, Duncan?” said Betty. “Please don’t waste any more of Ms Stanmer’s time than you absolutely have to.”

“I am not wasting her time. I am simply setting out the situation.”

“Which paperbacks?” said Cordelia. As fun as this marital bickering was, it wasn’t getting them anywhere in terms of hiring her for a job. Hopefully a lucrative job. “Do you have a list of titles?”

“He has a very long list of titles,” said Betty, smiling.

“I will provide you with a printout,” said Duncan.

“Oh, for god’s sake, just email it to her,” said Betty. Then, in an aside to Cordelia, “Duncan hasn’t quite yet come to terms with the electronic communications revolution, or, indeed, the twenty-first century.”

Duncan appeared to be gritting his teeth. Or possibly grinding them. “I’ll send you a list electronically,” he said. “And then you can have it on your smartphone, and access it conveniently wherever you are.” He said this to Cordelia but while he was staring at his wife, apparently to demonstrate to her that he had indeed come to terms with the twenty-first century.

“Okay,” said Cordelia. “Great. And in this list, you’ll specify exactly which edition you’re after of each title. Publisher, date…”

“Yes, of course,” said Duncan, “that’s all on the spreadsheet already.”

“Duncan has an enormous spreadsheet of his library,” said Betty. She was giving Cordelia a significant look as she said this, and Cordelia was obviously expected to pick up on some kind of hint. “Listing every book in his collection.”

“So, all the information is already there,” said Duncan. “I just need to send it to you.”

Betty was still looking expectantly at Cordelia, eyebrows raised slightly and decoratively in a hint of enquiry. She was evidently expecting Cordelia to say something and Cordelia didn’t want to let her down.

She was supposed to be playing dumb, and not know the various things she knew. So what would she say if that was actually the situation?

“But,” said Cordelia innocently, or as innocently as she could manage, “if you already have all these books in your collection, why are you hiring me to look for them?” Judging by the expression on Betty’s face, she’d said exactly the right thing.

Judging, on the other hand, by the expression on Duncan’s face, who was in danger of having an apoplectic fit, she’d said exactly the wrong thing. Which was clearly why Betty had wanted her to ask that question.

“Because,” said Duncan, forcing the words out individually, “I once had those books in my collection but I don’t anymore.” He looked at Betty, looked away from her again, then paused and took a deep breath. “And I would like to get them back.” He managed to sound almost calm as he uttered this last sentence.

Apparently too calm for Betty, who was giving Cordelia another look, encouraging her to ask more questions.

“Oh dear,” said Cordelia. “That’s a shame. I mean, having had the books and losing them. What happened? Fire? A flood?” She stole a quick glance at Betty, who was using the glass of lager that she was holding to disguise the fact that she was miming applause for Cordelia.

“No,” said Duncan. He was trying to sound measured and reasonable, but it was clear his temper was fraying. “You see, what happened was…” He took a deep breath. “There was an incident last year. I was missing, presumed dead.”

“Oh, my goodness,” said Cordelia, wondering if she was overdoing it. She didn’t think she’d ever said “Oh, my goodness” before.

“Yes,” said Duncan, warming to his theme. “I disappeared. In the jungle. Into the depths of the jungle. And everyone thought I was dead.” He looked at Betty, his face creasing with suppressed rage. “My wife thought I was dead. And while she thought I was dead, she sold off all my books.”

Of course, Cordelia knew about the book sale. She had a fair portion of Duncan’s collection in her own collection now. Bought fair and square from the “widow”. That’s how she’d met Betty.

Cordelia considered saying “Oh, my goodness” again. Instead, she said, “What jungle?”

“What?” said Duncan, sounding like he’d swallowed something that was causing him to choke.

“She’s asking what jungle you disappeared in, dear,” said Betty. Cordelia thought “dear” was a nice touch. “The depths of the jungle, I think you said. Which jungle were these depths in, exactly?”

‘Ah… Costa Rica,” said Duncan rather resourcefully, though after a considerable pause.

Betty was inspecting her glass of lager with a wistful expression which suggested she regretted the gradual dwindling of its contents. “Oh, come on, Duncan,” said Betty. “Tell the truth.”

“The truth? What truth?”

Betty turned to Cordelia. “Duncan didn’t disappear into any jungle. He disappeared to Ibiza for a brief and tawdry little extramarital adventure. He ran off with some little trollop from his bookshop. What was her name? Bagpuss?”

“Dianthus, her name was Dianthus,” said Duncan.

“And I never for a moment thought he was dead. I just wished he was dead. And while I was wishing that, I decided to get even by selling off his books…”

“My books,” said Duncan, suddenly sounding so bereft that Cordelia almost felt sorry for him.

“And his wine,” said Betty.

“My wine,” said Duncan in the same tone, and this time Cordelia really did feel sorry for him.

Betty drained her glass in the manner of someone celebrating a job well done. Then she looked up brightly at Cordelia. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t offer you a drink. What sort of establishment are we running here? What would you like?”

“No, I’m fine,” said Cordelia.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m going to the kitchen for a refill.” She looked at Duncan. “And while I’m there, I’ll bring through your wine, shall I, Duncan?”

“Yes, please,” said Duncan. Deeply defeated Duncan. He was slumped in his chair like a man who’d just received a physical beating.

“And then, when we’ve finished our drinks—” Betty gave Cordelia a bright look. “You’re absolutely certain you don’t want anything?”

“No thanks, I’m good,” said Cordelia. Resisting the temptation to add, I’m just enjoying the floorshow.

“All right, then. When we’ve finished our drinks, we’ll take you out to dinner, won’t we, Duncan?”

“Yes,” muttered Duncan, a beaten man.

*   *   *

But Duncan wasn’t entirely a beaten man. Because the restaurant they took Cordelia to, which was on the other side of Richmond Bridge and was obviously Duncan’s choice, was The Worst Chinese Restaurant in the World.

It wasn’t actually called that; that was just Cordelia’s designation for it. But she didn’t think it was far wrong. This is where the policy of forcing Duncan the skinflint to take them out to dinner had its fatal flaw. Of course he chose a cheap restaurant.

Now, a cheap restaurant wasn’t necessarily a bad restaurant, but this one definitely was.

Cordelia had a sinking feeling as soon as she saw the thick, red, flocked wallpaper which had obviously belonged to an Indian restaurant in a former lifetime and had never been changed. The sinking feeling continued to sink when they were seated and issued menus—plastic-coated, easy-to-clean menus—and Duncan insisted on going for the mixed dim sum special deal.

Cordelia didn’t really object to this. It looked no worse than anything else on the (plastic-coated, easy-to-clean) menu. When the food came, it proved to be an assortment of grisly, gristly anonymous meat offered up in dumpling format. Cordelia ate as little as possible. Finally, when Duncan excused himself to visit the toilet, Betty and Cordelia were left alone.

“I’m so sorry about this,” said Betty. “I thought we could at least sting Duncan for dinner. But I should have insisted on ordering takeaway. That way, I’d have been able to exercise some control. Some quality control.”

“Don’t worry,” said Cordelia. “I can have something to eat when I get in.”

Betty laughed her musical laugh and said, “You poor thing.”

“At least it was a nice walk across the bridge,” said Cordelia. Because it had been a pleasant night and, no small miracle, not raining, so they’d elected to make the journey to the restaurant on foot.

“Yes, it was,” said Betty. “Still, regrettable that the food at the destination proved so appalling. But then the food isn’t what this evening is about.”

“No,” said Cordelia.

“This evening is about you extracting the maximum amount of money from Duncan to find his books for him. Many of which I believe you actually own.”

“Very true,” said Cordelia. She had bought several bags full of prime titles from the sale the “widow” had held. And although she’d reserved some of these for her own library, to keep permanently, and others she’d already sold on, there was still a fair number in her inventory.

“So, what I’m hoping you’ll do is sell Duncan his own books back, his very own copies of his books, at an enormous markup.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“Are you willing to do that?”

“Ready and willing and able,” said Cordelia. “Ma’am.”

Betty chuckled. “How wonderful. By the way, don’t let on to him that you got the books from me in the first place.”

“Of course not,” said Cordelia.

“Because, although it would be fun to see the expression on his face when he found out, he would no doubt refuse to do business with you. Any further business with you. And that would be a shame. I’m assuming, of course, that you’re also going to try and find him the books on his list which you don’t already have?”

“I’ll get him as much as possible from the list,” said Cordelia.

“And charge him as much as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Cordelia, who liked calling Betty “ma’am”.

“Do you suppose you’ll be able to get the books back from the dealers who bought them from me in the first place? The other dealers besides yourself?”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“In other words, you’ll attempt to sell him back as many copies of his own books as you possibly can?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

Betty picked up her glass of lager. Apparently even The Worst Chinese Restaurant in the World hadn’t been able to spoil a sealed bottle of lager, because she’d been drinking it with enthusiasm. “You understand why that’s important? Selling him back exactly his own copies of his books?”

“Revenge,” said Cordelia.

Betty almost choked on her lager, but in a good way. In other words, she almost choked because she was trying to laugh and drink at the same time. She set the glass aside and wiped away the foam that had exploded across her pretty little face. “Well, I was going to say ‘poetic justice’. But revenge will do just as well. Revenge will do very nicely, thank you.”

She looked at Cordelia. “You needn’t stay, you know. When Duncan gets back from the loo you can just make your excuses and go. Or indeed, take off now while he’s still in the loo. It will serve him right. I’ll tell him you had to flee. To go to Accident and Emergency to have your stomach pumped.” She chuckled. “So please feel free to go.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Yes, you could, and yes, you should.”

At that point, Duncan returned to the table, which rendered the discussion moot, and enabled Cordelia to say her goodbyes and head home. Where she genuinely did intend to eat another meal to erase the taste of the cadaver dumplings from her palate.

It was a pleasant evening and a familiar neighbourhood. Cordelia ambled along the Richmond Road, although she was now officially in East Twickenham, since she was on this side of Richmond Bridge. It was an area full of charity shops and was on Cordelia’s regular circuit. Of course, all these were now closed for the day. As was the Richmond Leatherworks, the Shanghai Traditional Chinese Medicine Centre and the bicycle shop which would probably have got Edwin quite excited.

Still open, though, were various pubs and restaurants, at every one of which, Cordelia reckoned, she could have got a better meal than the one she’d just been subjected to.

Nevertheless, it was a pleasant night, mild and clear, and although she could theoretically have waited for a bus to take her back across the bridge into Richmond, it was far too pleasant a stroll to even consider such a course of action.

If she’d known what was about to happen, though, Cordelia would have definitely taken the bus.

17: BUMPER STICKER

Making her way towards Richmond Bridge, Cordelia walked past several of her favourite charity shops, silent and locked up for the night.

She paused to peer in the windows to see if they had any displays of rare and valuable paperbacks. No such luck. Then she crossed the street at Willoughby Road and walked along the pavement past the old red telephone box, a bit of a collector’s item now.

Parked there on the little cobbled lane beside the telephone box was a dark car. Dark both in the sense of having a black paint job—or maybe navy blue, it was hard to tell in this light, or lack of it—and also dark in the sense of not having any lights on.

Although Cordelia did get the impression that people were sitting in it, two of them, shadowy figures in the front seats.

She didn’t inspect it too closely because dark cars parked close to scenic river views with two people in them tended to be parked for reasons of romance—good luck to them—and Cordelia didn’t want to be a voyeur.

She did, however, have the impression that both the people in the car were men. Again, good luck to them.

The main reason Cordelia noticed the car was the bumper sticker.

There, below the distinctive grille of a BMW, was a brightly reflective red sticker which looked oddly familiar. It was a sort of royal seal with a crown on it.

And the words Serve to Lead.

Trying to remember where she’d seen it before—it was tantalisingly familiar, especially that motto—Cordelia crossed the main road to walk over Richmond Bridge. She headed for the left-hand footpath, because this was the side where you could see the small islands in the middle of the river and the moored boats, and the water birds who liked hanging around these. And Cordelia liked to pause and look at those when she was on the bridge.

She strolled and enjoyed the view.

As she did so, she tried to remember where she’d seen that bumper sticker before…

It was quiet at this time of the night. It was late but the pubs hadn’t chucked out yet, and Cordelia was the only pedestrian on the bridge. Which was lucky for them.

The other pedestrians, that is.

Not so lucky for Cordelia.

She was vaguely aware that, behind her, the car with the bumper sticker had switched its lights on and pulled out of the little cobbled lane where it was parked, and was now driving onto the bridge.

Apparently, the courting couple, if that’s what they were, had had enough of courting.

Traffic was sparse, and as Cordelia walked across the bridge she realised it was entirely deserted except for herself, without even any vehicles…

Except for that one car, the recently parked BMW.

She could hear it behind her.

And then she was abruptly lit up by its headlights, her shadow thrown dramatically across the footpath in front of her.

Why the hell had they put their headlights on full beam like that?

As annoying as this was, it was considerably more disturbing when the headlights went off again. Completely.

Cordelia turned around and saw the car, with its lights out, heading straight towards her.

Surely that couldn’t be—

But it was.

Now the car was actually veering off the road…

And driving up onto the pavement where she was walking.

And picking up speed.

It was coming straight at her.

Along the pavement, on a collision course.

It was at this moment that some distant part of her mind helpfully supplied the information about the bumper sticker. It was the emblem of the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, of course.

That distant part of her mind even provided the information of where she’d seen it before.

On the sweatshirt Melantha Spatetree had been wearing when they chatted in her drawing room.

Unfortunately, as interesting as this information might be in its own right, it wasn’t of any particular help to Cordelia at that moment, because she was involved in making a split-second decision, and rather an important one.

To stay standing where she was standing, with the car accelerating directly towards her, and be crushed lifeless against the stone balustrade on the side of the bridge.

Or to jump over the balustrade into the river below.

Cordelia jumped.

*   *   *

Cordelia was in midair.

Falling.

She was falling head-first because of the way she’d jumped, with her arms stretched out in front of her, hands spread.

With oddly detached thinking, which was quite commendable in the circumstances, she realised this would be a very bad way to enter the water, which she was about to enter any instant, and might even result in broken wrists.

Which would not only be unpleasant in itself, but would also not improve her chances of not drowning.

Right ho.

Cordelia pressed her hands together in an attitude of prayer, which also coincidentally and usefully was the way you should hold your hands when diving off a diving board. It had been many years since Cordelia had dived off a diving board, but apparently some portion of her memory had retained this useful tip.

An instant after she did so, Cordelia entered the river in a fairly good approximation of a dive.

That was the last thing that was fairly good about the experience.

She smashed through the surface and was plunged into the immense, twisting, cold surge of a muddy flood. And thanks to all her concentration being on how to position her hands, she’d forgotten another important thing to do when diving off a bridge into a river.

She hadn’t held her breath.

Cold dirty water gushed into her nostrils. At least she’d managed to keep her mouth shut. She churned and struggled, flailing her arms around, kicking her legs, splashing and roiling.

Trying to work out which way was up.

She stopped struggling for a moment and her body bobbed slowly upwards. aided by buoyancy or gravity or whatever it was that made things float to the surface.

Beyond the layers of dirty water above her, she saw distant lights, blurred and scattered.

And then she broke through.

Her head was above the surface now, soaked hair plastered in tendrils across her face. She snorted the vile water out of her nostrils and spat it out of her mouth. She’d swallowed some. That was the least of her problems. The current was swirling her around. It was like being in a vast crowd at a railway station at rush hour when a long-awaited train has just come in.

It swept Cordelia along.

She saw lights on the side of the river. A pub with people sitting outside. People walking along. Couldn’t they see her? Cordelia considered screaming, but instead concentrated on swimming.

Swimming and not drowning.

The current had spun her towards the riverbank on the Richmond side. It was getting nearer. Cordelia made it nearer still by swimming towards it doggedly with a clumsy, chopping stroke. She wasn’t much good at swimming, but at least she was making some progress.

But it was getting steadily more difficult. Her sodden clothing was tugging at her, pulling her back, as if the river was reluctant to let her go.

And she was cold and getting colder.

And there was the terrible taste of the river in her mouth.

All at once there was the dark shape of moored boats rising protectively on either side of her, like a herd of big welcoming animals. Not all that welcoming, perhaps. She only just dodged in time to avoid splitting her head open on the sharp metal prow of one.

She swam between the boats, suddenly safe from the tug of the swiftly flowing open water and the reach and ruthless surge of the river. Cordelia swam gratefully between the bobbing boats. Then, all at once, the perpendicular concrete wall of the riverbank was looming directly in front of her, cutting off everything else from sight.

It was too high to climb. Certainly too high for a poor soaked, shaken and rapidly weakening girl to climb.

She looked to the left and the right.

That was when she saw there were steps.

Steps set into the concrete, just to her left.

She swam clumsily towards them, and in a moment her foot was on the bottom step.

Cordelia hauled herself from the water, as it spilled copiously from her clothing and oozed from her shoes.

She walked up the steps and out of the river.

*   *   *

“Are you sure the car was going to hit you?”

Cordelia burst into tears and Edwin was instantly contrite.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be cross-examining you. Especially not now.”

They were in her room. Edwin was sitting in one of the wooden chairs, with Rainbottle lying squeezed between the four legs underneath it. Cordelia was perched on her bed in her dressing gown, having bathed and shampooed herself, and got rid of the stink of the river.

It was a terribly familiar stink.

This was the second time she’d almost drowned in the Thames. In fact, it was the second time she’d almost drowned in the Thames in Richmond. On the last occasion, though, she’d entered the water unconscious and someone else had had to pull her out.

At least this time she’d saved herself.

When she’d emerged from the river an hour or two ago, people had stared at her and then looked quickly away, as if she was some kind of embarrassing drunk or homeless vagrant who’d fallen in the water as a result of her deplorable life choices.

By the time someone—two burly middle-aged men wearing blue jackets with the words Richmond Bridge Boat Club on them—thought to ask her if she was all right, if in fact she actually badly needed help, Cordelia had already managed to phone Edwin and beg him to come for her. Luckily her phone had survived its immersion long enough to deliver that call—although it was acting distinctly strangely now—and Edwin had indeed come.

Now he sat awkwardly on his uncomfortable chair, watching her as she sobbed, making sympathetic noises.

Under the chair, Rainbottle was also making sympathetic noises.

Finally, Cordelia got control of herself and said, “Yes, the car was definitely coming at me. If I hadn’t jumped, they would have killed me.”

“They,” said Edwin. “Did you get a look at them?”

“No, but I know who it was,” said Cordelia. “It was two one-armed men called Usborne and Blackwell.”

Edwin was giving her a very odd look now and Cordelia realised that perhaps she should have held back the bit about them both having one arm. That was a rather bizarre detail and not one to promote confidence in her, or the veracity of her story.

“They’re the two men who work for Melantha Spatetree,” she said.

“The rich woman in South Kensington?”

“Yes.”

“Who Monty Harrington put you on to.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“What makes you think it was them?” said Edwin. “When you say you didn’t see them?”

“There was a Sandhurst bumper sticker on the car.”

“The military school?” said Edwin.

“Yes. And Melantha had exactly the same symbol on the sweatshirt she was wearing when I met her.”

“You do realise…” said Edwin.

“That that doesn’t prove anything?” said Cordelia. “Yes, I do realise that.” She was addressing Edwin with angry, biting sarcasm, and so aggressively that even Rainbottle made a surprised noise at their feet. But at least she wasn’t crying anymore.

At this point, Edwin paused their conversation and went downstairs to prepare some hot chocolate, which he brought up, a big mug for each of them. Cordelia was grateful to him, both for the pause—so she could try and recover her emotional equilibrium—and for the drink itself. She’d brushed her teeth five times but she could still taste the river which had nearly killed her.

Perhaps the hot chocolate would finally get that out of her mouth.

Edwin sat there holding his own mug with both hands. He looked at her with sympathy, and even tenderness, in his eyes. “While the recurrence of the Sandhurst emblem doesn’t, as you say, prove anything,” he said gently, “it is at the very least suggestive.”

“Yes, it is,” said Cordelia, deeply appreciative of his kindness, of the hot drink in her hands, and of the fact she was still alive.

“But why would they want to kill you?”

“I have no idea,” said Cordelia. “But I know someone we can ask.”

“And who’s that?” said Edwin.

Cordelia sipped her hot chocolate, the rich dark flavour slowly erasing the Thames from her tastebuds. “Monty Harrington,” she said.

“Because he’s the one who introduced you to Melantha Spatetree,” said Edwin.

“He did not introduce me,” said Cordelia. “That’s the point. He gave me her details. But he made it very clear that I shouldn’t let her know where I got them. And, like a fool, I did what he told me to.”

Edwin reached under his chair and patted Rainbottle, who was demanding some attention. “In other words,” he said, “you protected him…”

“Yes, I did,” said Cordelia.

“But in the process of doing so, you exposed yourself to harm.”

“He certainly made damned sure that Melantha wouldn’t find out about him,” said Cordelia. She drained her mug and set it aside. “And now I know why.”

18: WE HAVE A VISITOR

So, the next thing to do, quite clearly, was to go and visit Monty Harrington.

And not get in touch and warn him first. Oh no.

The time for such niceties was well past.

No warning. Just drop in on him unexpectedly in his bohemian basement flat in Baron’s Court. Cordelia was confident that he’d be at home, pretty much any time they chose for their visit.

Monty didn’t look like he got out much.

So, she and Edwin would come knocking on his door. Cordelia would go down the steps and do the knocking while Edwin hung back, unseen, at street level, until the door was open—Cordelia fully expected Monty to open it for her with a big smile on his face, eager to show her his bondage library and feed her sardines—and then Edwin would trot down briskly to join them, and, before Monty had the chance to shut the door in their faces, they would be inside with him and proceed to ask him some very blunt questions.

With Edwin there to provide intimidation, if necessary, and guarantee quick and candid answers.

The day after Cordelia’s plunge into the river they discussed what would be the best time for this impromptu visit. Edwin favoured early in the morning, in the manner of a dawn police raid. “Take him unawares and when his defences are down,” he said.

“Personally,” said Cordelia, “I think we can turn up at any time of day and take him unawares. And he’s the sort of person whose defences are permanently down.”

So, they decided to go at night, instead, and settled on doing so the following evening.

But before they could go to Monty Harrington, he came to them.

*   *   *

Cordelia was taken aback, to say the least, when Monty turned up at their front door the very next morning.

For a moment, she wondered how he could have found out where she lived, before the obvious and banal truth occurred to her.

She’d included her address on her letter to him.

How else could he have sent her that Bettie Page postcard?

Anyway, here he was now, standing in their entrance hall beside Edwin, who had let him in and summoned Cordelia—politely, by text—from her attic room.

We have a visitor, he’d texted.

Monty stood there, the same height as Edwin, which is to say tall, and beamed happily at Cordelia as she came down the stairs, his bald head gleaming.

The second big surprise, after his presence here at all, was the fact that there was now something wrong with his arm—his left arm—which was currently immobilised in a sling.

Of course, Monty being Monty, it wasn’t just any old sling. It was Dayglo orange and featured a cartoony drawing, a very non-realistic though life-sized drawing, of an arm bone with a bandage wrapped around it. And the words: Gravity… 1. My arm… 0.

Cordelia forced herself to wait until she reached the bottom of the stairs before she spoke, because she really didn’t want to be like Duncan Fairwell, bellowing as he descended. But the moment she joined the men, she said, “What happened to your arm?”

Monty grinned at her and lifted the wounded limb gamely. “This?” he said. “Well, in a way, that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

*   *   *

They adjourned to Edwin’s kitchen and sat around the table. Rainbottle, who had been napping in the sitting room, came through and inspected Monty warily. He—Rainbottle, not Monty—then circled the room a few times and finally lay down on the floor under Edwin’s chair. Apparently, he felt secure here despite the presence of the stranger in their midst.

As this was a formal occasion, and since he didn’t yet have the full measure of their visitor, Edwin didn’t make the usual hot chocolate but instead opted for the more conventional option of coffee for all of them.

He did put a tin of biscuits on the table, though.

“This is very good of you,” said Monty, sipping his coffee and helping himself enthusiastically to the biscuits. Perhaps predictably, the pink Percy Pig jam sandwich creams were his favourite. “Especially under the circumstances,” he said, crunching away on one of these.

“And what circumstances are those?” asked Edwin politely.

A patch of pink crumbs was accumulating on the table in front of Monty as a consequence of his biscuit-gnashing. He paused and gathered these into a neat little pile with his one good hand. “Ah, yes, well,” he said. “I feel I may be in bad odour with you, as I fear I may possibly have put your young lady lodger in peril.” He smiled ingratiatingly at Cordelia.

“There’s no ‘may possibly’ about it,” said Cordelia.

“Oh dear,” said Monty. He had been reaching for another biscuit but now he indicated the seriousness of the situation by drawing his hand back, empty. “Has something happened?”

“Someone tried to kill Cordelia with a car,” said Edwin.

Beneath his chair Rainbottle made a small sound to indicate that he understood the seriousness of the situation. Which, indeed, perhaps he did. Dogs had good instincts about these things.

“Oh, good heavens,” said Edwin. “What happened?”

“I was on a bridge,” said Cordelia. “I jumped off.”

In the ensuing silence, Cordelia began to feel that there was something foolishly Hemingwayesque about this account in all its terse macho brevity, so she added, “To avoid getting squished.” Which didn’t sound so much like Ernest.

“My god,” said Edwin. “Did you see who did it?”

“No,” said Cordelia. “It was dark. But I know who did it.”

“And, ah…” Monty covered his nervousness by reaching for another biscuit. “And who would that be?”

“The woman you put me in touch with,” said Cordelia. “Melantha Spatetree.”

Monty stared at her. He had the biscuit in his hand now, but he seemed to feel it was rude to actually start munching it, so he just held it as he stared at her.

“Or at least it was at her behest,” said Cordelia. “The people in the car would have been two men called Usborne and Blackwell.”

“Oh dear,” said Monty. “Oh dear, oh dear. Usborne and Blackwell…”

“You know them?” said Edwin.

“I’ve recently made their acquaintance,” said Monty, and he lifted his left shoulder to indicate his broken arm. “As you can see.”

“They did that to you?” said Cordelia. She found that she was suddenly scandalised and very angry on Monty’s behalf. Unexpectedly and quite remarkably, her own recent attempted murder was quite forgotten.

“Yes, indeed,” said Monty, crunching bravely away on his biscuit. “They popped around the other day and introduced themselves. And broke my arm.”

“Oh, Monty,” said Cordelia. Her heart went out to the bondage-postcard-sending, pink-biscuit-munching fool. She couldn’t help it.

“They were quite nice about it,” said Monty, shedding crumbs as he spoke.

“Nice?” said Edwin and Cordelia in horrified unison. Rainbottle joined in with a small yelp.

“Yes,” said Monty. “They asked what my dominant hand was, and I told them I’m right-handed. Of course, those chaps, Usborne and Blackwell, take a keen interest in such matters because both of them were lucky enough, if that’s the right word, to have lost their non-dominant arms. Otherwise, imagine how incapacitating it would have been for them?”

He shook his head and tried to look concerned—about the men who’d maimed him. “Not that I’m suggesting their situation is a picnic as it is, even losing their non-dominant arms.” He smiled brightly. “So, anyway, they broke my left arm because it wouldn’t be such a nuisance for me.”

“It’s still quite a nuisance, though,” said Edwin dryly. “I should imagine.”

“And your own situation isn’t such a picnic either,” said Cordelia.

“One mustn’t complain,” said Monty virtuously. “In any event, I’m guessing their visit was prompted by you getting in touch with Melantha.” He peered at Cordelia. “I assume you must have got in touch with her, judging by what you’ve said.”

“I went around to see her,” said Cordelia. “At her house.”

“Quite a place, eh?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“And quite a woman,” said Monty. “I imagine she’s changed a fair bit since I last saw her, but I doubt very much she’s changed in one regard. She is still, I’m sure, quite a woman. Quite a formidable woman.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia.

Monty picked up another biscuit and took a tentative bite before asking, with elaborate casualness, “I take it you didn’t give her any indication that I was the one who had put you on to her?”

“Absolutely not,” said Cordelia.

Monty crunched away enthusiastically now. “I didn’t think so. Thank god. Or, rather, thank you. For doing that. Or, rather, for not doing that.” He finished demolishing the biscuit and brushed the crumbs off his fingers. “I imagine my interview with Usborne and Blackwell would have turned out very differently if they’d known I sent you.” He gazed at Cordelia. “Knew for certain, I mean.”

“You think they suspected you?” said Edwin.

“Well, of course they did,” said Monty, rather primly, turning to look at him. “But naturally I denied I’d spoken to anyone about Melantha. And I can be quite a convincing liar, especially when there’s a powerful incentive to lie convincingly, as there certainly was in this case.”

He turned back to Cordelia. “They kept asking if I knew anything about any online discussion groups. Concerning my Commando novels. Was that something you told them about?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “I needed a way to explain how I’d heard of Melantha.”

“Good idea,” said Monty. “And I take it this is entirely a fiction of your creation?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “It’s my creation. Well, with a friend of mine. We set up a fake website, and it looks quite convincing.”

“Very clever,” said Monty. “And it was also a very good move, as far as I was concerned, because I could tell them I knew nothing about it and be even more convincing than I was when I was lying.”

He reached into the biscuit tin and took out a biscuit that wasn’t one of the pink Percy Pig ones, and hastily put it back as though it had bitten him.

“What’s more,” he said, “when they asked to see my computer, I was only too happy to show it to them. They examined it very thoroughly, but in vain, because of course it contained no trace of any contact with this website of yours.”

He grinned toothily at them. “What there was, however, was plentiful pornography, which was briefly in danger of distracting these two manly ex-soldiers from their appointed task. Until they remembered themselves and got back down to business. But, search as they might, they could find absolutely no trace that I’d ever had any contact with this website you’d created. So well done you. And after this thorough inspection, they seemed quite convinced I knew nothing about it. Which I didn’t, of course. So, thank you for that, Cordelia.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And once they’d finished perusing my computer, I had them persuaded I’d been a good boy and done nothing wrong.”

“Then why did they break your arm?” said Edwin.

“Oh…” Monty looked at his arm in its silly cartoon sling. “To be on the safe side.”

“To be on the safe side?” said Cordelia.

“Yes, well, they couldn’t be a hundred per cent certain that I hadn’t been a naughty little chap, so just in case, they wanted to give me a memorable warning.”

“Just in case?” said Cordelia. “Christ…”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” said Monty. He reached across the table and drew the biscuit tin to him, doing it one-handed as he must. “And I could always have said no.” He peered into the tin.

“Said no to what?” said Edwin.

“Them breaking my arm.” Monty was shaking the tin to expose the layer of biscuits underneath.

Cordelia and Edwin looked at each other. “You could have said no?” said Cordelia.

Monty looked up from his biscuit search, eyes regarding her brightly. “Certainly.”

“And they wouldn’t have broken your arm?” said Edwin.

“Correct.”

“Then why the fuck did you say yes?” said Cordelia.

Monty suddenly made a triumphant little dive into the biscuit tin. “Because of the alternative.” He emerged grinning with another pink jam cream.

“The alternative?” said Cordelia. “To having your arm broken?”

“Yes,” said Monty, happily inspecting his find. “Like I say, they were actually quite good to me about the whole thing. Not only checking to see which was my dominant arm before breaking the other one, but also offering the option of not breaking it at all. But if I’d gone for that option, they’d have taken my pension away. And I decided it was worth a broken arm. It’s cleanly broken. It will heal soon enough and be almost as good as new… It was worth that to keep my pension.”

“But Monty,” said Cordelia. “How could they have taken your pension away?”

“There’s no way they could do that,” said Edwin.

“Well, it’s not really a pension,” said Monty. “That’s just what I like to call it. It’s a monthly payment sent to me by Melantha. Or, rather, by her lawyers, her family lawyers. The dear old family lawyers. I wasn’t even absolutely certain if Melantha herself was still alive. But the dear old reliable family lawyers keep reliably sending me my stipend every month. They’ve been doing it for decades—it’s index-linked, so it rises in line with inflation, just like a pension. And I must admit I’ve become quite dependent on it. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

He took a bite out of his biscuit. “So, when they offered me a choice of a broken arm or a cancelled pension, I most definitely opted for the former.”

“Why is Melantha sending you money every month?” said Cordelia.

Monty sighed a deep and profound sigh, and not just because it looked like he’d had the last of the Percy Pig biscuits. “I can see I’m going to have to explain the whole situation. I rather knew I’d have to. That’s why I came around today. Also, to see if you were all right, of course. And then if you were all right—and thank heavens you were—I wanted to offer my apologies. And this explanation.”

19: MONTY’S EXPLANATION

Monty turned to look at Edwin. “When Cordelia joined me for lunch the other day, I described to her how I came to write my Commando novels…” He paused and peered into the biscuit tin, looking a little forlorn. “By the way, I don’t suppose there any more of those delicious circular pink confections?”

“I’ll have a look,” said Edwin. “Keep talking.” He got up and delved in the kitchen cupboards as Monty resumed his story.

“I explained how I was lucky enough to meet a chap called Bunny Hebb. Despite the rather camp name, he was a very butch ex-commando and he proved quite useful, indispensable really, in providing telling details and what you might call ‘local colour’ for my books…”

Monty was watching eagerly as Edwin emerged from a cupboard holding another thin, pink, rectangular packet of Monty’s favourite biscuits. He set it on the table in front of their guest and then, realising it would be difficult for him to unwrap without the full use of both hands, considerately unwrapped them for him.

“Thank you,” said Monty, politely waiting a moment before diving in and grabbing a biscuit. “So, there I was, chugging along nicely. The books were quite successful. Remarkably successful, actually, and Bunny and I had an excellent understanding. Whenever I needed some little bits and pieces of verisimilitude to make my tales plausible, I’d buy him a few drinks. As many drinks as he wanted. He’d provide the whiff of authenticity, so to speak, and I’d do everything else.”

Monty succumbed to temptation and helped himself to a biscuit. “However, Bunny was always a little miffed that all I ever wanted to know from him was things like how many bullets a Sten gun would hold—thirty-two, if you’re interested, though they had a nasty tendency to jam if you loaded more than thirty. Just the sort of details that the readers would lap up, and that only a chap who’d been there and done it would know. So Bunny was invaluable to me. But, as indicated, he was always somewhat irritated that I didn’t want more from him…”

Monty brushed the crumbs from his smooth, pink face. “He was always trying to give me plots for stories. But his plots were dreadful. They were always either recycled from films or television programmes he had seen or, if they were actually based on his own real lived experience, unbelievably, crushingly boring.”

Monty smiled. “So, I always politely turned them down. Which led to a somewhat disgruntled Bunny. But a disgruntled Bunny was easily cheered up by the simple expedient of being bought another drink. Nevertheless, he always hinted he had one story up his sleeve which I wouldn’t turn down. When I politely asked him for more details, he would clam up and say it was top secret. A secret mission he couldn’t talk about, even all these years after the war.” Monty shrugged, or at least gave the best approximation of a shrug he could manage with one arm immobilised in a Dayglo orange cartoon sling.

“Naturally, I assumed he was just full of shit. This alleged secret mission was simply his way of saving face. I might turn down all his other ideas for stories, but if only he was at liberty to tell me about this one, it would blow my mind, to use the parlance of the 1960s.”

Indeed, Monty had a look of fond nostalgia on his face for that psychedelic decade.

“I humoured him by pretending to believe him. And that’s where matters would have rested. Except for the convergence of two factors…” Monty picked up the biscuit packet and examined its wrapper, perhaps memorising its details for future purchase. “Firstly, I found myself badly in need of a plot. After a dozen books written at a feverish pace, back to back, in less than five years, I suddenly found the well had run dry. The well of creativity. Bone-dry. And I had a deadline staring at me.”

Now he stared at Cordelia, and with surprise in his eyes, as if even after all these years he couldn’t believe that his imaginative powers had failed him. “So, I actually needed a plot. From Bunny or anywhere else. But Bunny was handy, and he’d been prick-teasing me, if you’ll pardon the expression, about this wonderful story of his for years.”

“So that was one factor,” said Edwin.

“Sorry?” said Monty.

“You said there was a convergence of two factors,” said Edwin. “Your need for a plot was one, what was the other?”

“Hmm,” said Monty. “Well, for the moment suffice to say that something had been holding Bunny back from telling me his prize story. But suddenly that thing was gone and now he was at liberty to share his little tale with me…”

Monty paused and shook his head, his expression abruptly grim. “Or at least, he thought he was.” He sighed. “Dear old Bunny could have saved us both a lot of bother if he’d kept his mouth shut… But his tongue had been loosened, in a way that years of free booze had never quite managed to do. I suppose that in itself was a warning which I should have heeded. I mean, if an old sot like Bunny wouldn’t disclose this secret, even when deeply in his cups, there must have been a powerful reason. In short, he must have been scared.”

Monty looked at Cordelia, and then Edwin. “And I should have taken notice of that. Because Bunny, despite his silly name, was not a man to scare easily. He was, after all, an experienced soldier and a hardened killer himself. So, if Bunny was frightened of something, then that was really something to be very frightened of.”

Monty sighed. “The problem was, Bunny believed he no longer needed to be scared. And this belief—erroneous as it sadly turned out to be—just happened to coincide with my urgent need for a story.”

Monty took another biscuit and crunched it meditatively. “Funny how things work out,” he said. “At first, I was delighted. Because, against all odds, Bunny’s tale was excellent and I could certainly use it. It concerned a crack team of intrepid commandos—well, of course it did…” Monty chuckled. “And these intrepid commandos were sent on a top-secret mission to Spain. It had to be top secret because, theoretically, Spain was neutral during the Second World War—although, in practice, it was only too happy to cooperate with the Axis baddies. Nevertheless, a neutral power. So, our commandos were very much conducting their mission in the shadows. And their mission was to assassinate a valuable enemy asset. A senior Nazi officer who was considered to be crucial to their war effort.”

Monty paused and grinned. “How quickly one falls back into the terminology. To put it in simple terms, our heroes are sent to kill this chap. But it turns out there’s a reason they were getting the rare opportunity to target him. Because he has also been sent on a mission. A top-secret mission of his own.”

Monty paused dramatically. Cordelia reflected that he really was a bit of an old ham. But what he said next definitely caught her attention.

“A mission involving gold. A fortune in gold bullion. It was the dying days of the war. The fighting was still ferocious, but it was obvious who was going to win and who was going to lose. The writing was on the wall, so to speak. And certain rats were preparing to abandon a sinking ship.”

Monty looked at them to see if they were following his narrative, and, satisfied that they were, continued. “Which meant fleeing Europe and going into exile in South America. But setting up anew in foreign climes requires quite a lot of cash. Especially if you’ve become accustomed to living the high life as a result of looting every country that has fallen under your shadow. However, exactly as a consequence of such looting, there was no lack of funds…”

“In gold,” said Cordelia.

“Yes, in the form of gold,” said Monty. “Raubgold, which means ‘stolen gold’. Shaped into one-kilo bars—surprisingly small bars, but then gold is very heavy, isn’t it?—stamped with the Nazi eagle and the designation Deutsche Reichsbank, and a numerical indication of the purity of the gold, which was very pure indeed. Bunny’s story was that this high-ranking German officer had been sent to Spain on a shady deal to arrange the transfer of this gold, a considerable quantity of it, to Argentina, to provide a retirement fund for the Nazi brass.”

Monty giggled. “Now, our brave boys didn’t know anything about the gold. They just knew that the target had broken cover and was going to be exposed in Spain, and this would be an ideal opportunity to eliminate him.” Monty took another biscuit and caressed it lovingly. “To cut a long story short, our heroes achieve their goal and take out the target. But, when they do so, they also discover the gold.”

Monty winked at them and took a bite out of the biscuit.

“So, they also take the gold.”

He crunched happily.

“Good story, eh?”

“Yes, a very good story,” said Cordelia. “And you wrote it up?”

Monty nodded. “With some modifications, some improvements. But it was essentially as Bunny had told it to me. All in all, a cracking good story. I was pleased and my publisher was pleased and Bunny was pleased that he’d finally been able to get me to use a plot of his.”

Monty chewed the biscuit and swallowed the last fragments. “But there was someone who wasn’t pleased.”

20: SOMEONE WHO WASN’T PLEASED

“You see,” said Monty, “the problem was that Bunny’s story was too good.” He grinned at them. “Not too good to be true. But just good enough to be true.”

“So, it really happened,” said Edwin.

“Indeed it did.” Monty nodded. “Indeed it did.”

“And someone didn’t want people knowing it had happened,” said Cordelia.

“All this, I assume,” said Edwin, “because when the commandos took the gold, they didn’t hand it over to the proper authorities.”

Monty gave his odd, awkward, one-armed shrug. “Hard to say who the proper authorities would be in this instance, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, since Spain was a neutral country, this whole operation was completely illegal, and for all official intents and purposes it never took place. So, who are the proper authorities in a situation like that? And besides…” Monty grinned a naughty grin. “And besides, one would have to be a very boring sort of chap to get one’s mitts on all that gold, then just hand it over to anyone else.”

“Instead of keeping it for themselves,” said Edwin.

“Instead of keeping it for himself,” said Monty.

“Himself, singular?” said Cordelia.

Monty nodded. “Which is where all these problems really spring from. One man. Major Adam Spatetree, Bunny’s commanding officer, who led this daring raid.”

Cordelia looked at Edwin. “Melantha’s father,” she said.

“Yes,” said Monty promptly. “Very much Melantha’s father. That is the crux of the whole issue.”

Monty paused, staring at the packet of biscuits on the table in front of him. “You know what?” he said. And much to Cordelia’s surprise, he pushed them away from him and said, “I’ve had enough of these.” The abjuring of the biscuits was an oddly decisive gesture, and also oddly final.

“Right,” said Monty, “so Bunny’s anecdote, and my novel, ended with our merry band of heroes getting back to England with the gold. I didn’t say what happened next, and I didn’t know. I just left it as a sort of cliffhanger and handed the book in with a sigh of relief because I wouldn’t have to think about a Commando novel for a few months, and I had no thought of what would come next.”

Monty sighed. “But what came next was really rather unpleasant. Both for poor me, Monty the poet, finishing my novel at the fag-end of the swinging sixties, and for those poor devils who went on that raid to Spain at the end of the war.”

“Start with what happened to them,” said Edwin.

“All right,” said Monty. “What Bunny didn’t tell me when I wrote the book, but which I was to discover later, under rather harrowing circumstances, was what took place when the commando team got back to England.”

“With the gold,” said Cordelia.

“Very, very much with the gold,” said Monty. “Naturally, they were jubilant. They were all suddenly rich men. Fabulously rich. There was no question of handing the stuff over to what you described as the proper authorities, or to anyone else. They were going to keep it all for themselves. There was unanimous agreement about that.” Monty gave them a sardonic look. “But there was something else about which they were far from unanimous…”

“The division of the spoils,” said Edwin.

Monty nodded. “Yes. The classic problem of thieves who’ve suddenly got their hands on a bountiful load of swag. In a way, I wish I’d known about it when I wrote my book. It’s a powerful dramatic situation with honourable antecedents in literature which go back at least as far as Chaucer’s Pardoner’s Tale.”

“What happened?” said Edwin, who didn’t seem very interested in Chaucer, or the honourable antecedents generally.

“What happened was that Major Spatetree refused to share the gold out.”

“He kept it for himself?” said Cordelia. What a bastard, she thought. And how like his daughter…

“Well, not exactly.” Monty pursed his lips. “Yes and no, as you might say. Because while the Major retained control of the gold, he didn’t exactly refuse to share it. What he proposed to his men was that he would pay them a regular stipend…”

That word again, thought Cordelia.

“He’d pay them interest, if you like,” said Monty. “But he wouldn’t let them get their hands on the principal. Now, as you can imagine, this didn’t go down so well. These were grown men; big, tough warriors. They didn’t like the idea of someone behaving like daddy and doling out pocket money to them, like little kids. They wanted their full share, in their hands now.” He smiled. “You have to admire the Major,” he said.

“Do you?” said Cordelia, who couldn’t have agreed less.

But Edwin said, “I see his point.”

“Do you?” said Cordelia again.

“The Major knew what would happen,” said Monty, “if these men got their hands on a fortune in gold. They weren’t likely to invest their new-found wealth cannily and discreetly. They would spend, spend, spend. They would piss it up against the wall.” Monty looked at Cordelia. “And, worst of all, they would inevitably attract attention and let slip where they’d got this money.”

“And that would jeopardise all of them,” said Cordelia, beginning to see it.

“It would only be a matter of time before the word was out,” said Monty, “if the men got their way and got the gold. So, the Major asserted himself. He would maintain control of the gold, selling it off shrewdly and slowly and judiciously, distributing the proceeds in fair shares on a regular basis.”

“It makes sense,” said Edwin.

“It does,” said Monty. “But it didn’t to some of those commandos. And they insisted on their shares in full, right away. And can you guess what happened to them?”

“They never came back from the mission,” said Edwin.

“That’s right. They suddenly became casualties of war. The fact they were killed back in England instead of Spain need never be known. So that was the way it ended, with the Major in possession of the gold, and the others who agreed with his policy, still alive.”

“And did they get paid their stipend?” said Cordelia.

“Indeed they did,” said Monty. “The Major was a fair-minded man.” He smiled. “For a cold-blooded killer.”

“And did they keep their mouths shut?” said Edwin.

“Anyone who didn’t met with a fatal accident,” said Monty.

“So, Bunny was one of those who kept his mouth shut,” said Cordelia.

“Correct,” said Monty.

“Until he spilled the beans to you,” said Cordelia.

“Ah, well, that’s the thing,” said Monty. “Poor Bunny had every reason to believe that the Major was out of the picture. The old bastard had suffered a massive stroke and was paralysed and bedridden. So Bunny, very ill-advisedly, decided he was no longer under the Major’s iron injunction. After all, what could he do, lying helplessly in bed like that?” Monty shook his head wistfully. “Silly Bunny. He wasn’t giving any thought to the young woman who was sitting beside that bed.”

“Melantha,” said Edwin.

“Yes, the devoted daughter. It really was very shortsighted of Bunny. After all, he was aware that Melantha was no fool. Indeed, she knew all about the gold and where it had come from, and she was in charge of disbursing the regular payments to the various surviving members of the team, once the Major was no longer able to do so.”

Monty couldn’t conceal a little gleam of fiendish glee. “Apparently, there was considerable consternation in the Spate-tree household when they discovered the plotline of Commando Gold.”

“How did they find out about it?” said Edwin.

“Bunny was in the habit of dropping around to their mansion in South Kensington with copies of my novels and gifting them to the Major, as each one was published. Bunny was very proud of his contributions, however minor. And apparently the Major deigned to read one of the books and acquired a taste for them. He was hooked.” Now Monty smiled: a writer who’d succeeded in seducing a reader.

“Melantha said he’d discovered them at a station book stall before a long train journey,” said Cordelia.

“Melantha is lying,” said Monty curtly. Then, more judiciously, “She might be telling the truth about the long train journey but not about the book stall. I used to give Bunny advance copies of my books as each new title was about to be published, and he always used to pass one on to the Major.”

“Melantha also told me the Major used to have multiple copies of all of them,” said Cordelia. “Because he had a compulsion.”

“The only compulsion the Major had,” said Monty, “was to acquire large sums of money and hang on to it. Although, yes, he did end up with multiple copies of my books. For reasons we’ll get to in a moment. But first consider this little tableau… The Major, now paralysed and helpless, lying in his bed. Devoted Melantha at his side, reading to him. Reading the latest in the series of his favourite novels by Butch Raider. This one is titled Commando Gold.” He giggled. “I like to imagine their reaction as the story unfolds. Not that the Major was capable of manifesting much in the way of a reaction by then. At least not in terms of facial expression and so on.”

Monty grew serious. “He could manifest his reaction in other ways, through the agency of Melantha. He could express his displeasure through her, and he did so. Publication of Commando Gold was cancelled. In fact, they were so successful at putting the fear of god into my publisher, Peter, that he decided it was time to put all of my books out of print. And the remaining copies they had in the warehouse, of all the titles—but especially Commando Gold—were taken away in a lorry hired by the Spatetrees.”

Monty was even more serious now. He was downright grim. “And Bunny suddenly disappeared from the scene. While I was wondering what had become of him, I received a visit from Melantha, who explained the facts of life to me.” Monty looked at them. “My life as a novelist was over. That was the bad news. The good news was that my life wasn’t over. Not so long as I was a good boy. Which meant keeping my mouth shut. Further good news was that, if I continued to keep my mouth shut, I would receive a monthly payment.”

Monty smiled a bleak little smile. “After all, there was one going spare, now that Bunny was no longer with us.”

There was silence in the small kitchen, except for Rainbottle’s snuffling as he slept.

“And that’s been the situation ever since?” said Edwin.

“Until charming Cordelia came to visit me,” said Monty, “and reawakened my interest in this whole period of my life. Which got me to wondering what had become of Melantha. For all I knew she was lying paralysed in a bed herself, and her diligent lawyers were paying me. And I was curious…”

“So, you thought you’d send me to find out,” said Cordelia.

“Yes, I’m rather afraid I did,” said Monty.

If this apology seemed inadequate now, it was nothing compared to the way it would seem tomorrow.

21: ON THE WAY TO YOGA

Cordelia had recently—thanks to certain hijinks involving successfully tracking down some rare paperbacks—been given a lifetime free membership at the local yoga ashram. With free lessons thrown in.

The free yoga took place at the Silverlight Yoga Centre, which was located on Abbey Avenue, just off the Upper Richmond Road. If Cordelia was feeling lazy, there were plenty of public transport options for getting there, including a train and several buses.

But most mornings, if it wasn’t pouring with rain, she liked to walk.

And the morning after Monty’s visit it wasn’t pouring with rain.

Instead, it was glowing with benign September sunshine.

So, Cordelia left the house, having said good morning and goodbye to Edwin and Rainbottle, with her yoga mat in its neat, black cylindrical carrier slung across her back, and walked down to the duck pond, then across the village green to the little bridge over Beverley Brook. From here, her route weaved across Vine Road and through Barnes Common, to her destination.

It was a rather lovely and leafy walk, and it mostly avoided the traffic.

In fact, by going this way, she hardly saw a car.

She did see a car, though, when she was crossing between two little islands of woodland. Here on Vine Road, someone had parked their big silver Mercedes with the rear door ajar, so it was partially blocking the footpath. There was, of course, no shortage of Mercedes in Barnes, silver and otherwise, and unfortunately also no shortage of inconsiderate drivers.

Cordelia tried to glare at this one to express her feelings.

But the driver, although present in the vehicle, was completely hidden from view by the newspaper, the unusually large newspaper—the Daily Telegraph—which he was holding spread open behind the steering wheel. Of course, he had to be a Telegraph reader.

Cordelia only knew it was “he” because she saw the man’s hands. The right one in a glove, the left one bare. Only as she walked past the car, skirting the open rear door and thereby forced to the far edge of the footpath, did this detail penetrate.

One hand gloved, one bare.

A jolt of alarm erupted deep in her viscera.

Usborne.

Was it him?

Even if it was him, she was past the car now and moving fast, increasing her pace, getting ready to run into the safety of the woods in front of her.

She was moving hastily away from the car along the pavement while looking back at it. Hence Cordelia wasn’t looking where she was going.

Which is why she didn’t see Blackwell until it was too late.

He was also on the pavement, dressed in a grey tracksuit, perfect attire for this quiet, semi-rural spot in which the locals loved to take their exercise, and he was moving swiftly towards her. And by the time she recognised him, he was on her. Literally. He grabbed Cordelia by one shoulder and twisted her around so she was facing the other way, then he wrapped his arm around her in a powerful half-embrace and began to drag her back the way she had come.

He was enormously strong and apparently had prior experience in grabbing people who didn’t want to be grabbed and putting them where they didn’t want to be put.

Which, in this case, was through the open rear door of the Mercedes and onto the back seat of the car. Blackwell shoved her across the seat until she collided painfully, headfirst, with the far door, and then he crowded onto the back seat beside her. He slammed the door shut as he slithered into the car and said, “Go.” And, in front, Usborne started the car and pulled away.

Meanwhile, Cordelia was trying to open the door she’d been shoved against, but naturally it was locked.

Then Blackwell grabbed her again. For some reason he was grabbing her yoga mat by its carrying strap and yanking it brutally off her shoulder and slinging it onto the floor of the car.

That was all right with Cordelia because it gave her time to reach into her pockets.

Cordelia wasn’t stupid. Just because she was going to her lovely peaceful yoga lesson, didn’t mean that she wasn’t carrying her weapons with her.

First her hand closed on the reassuring cylinder of the Hurricane pepper spray. And she was about to pull it out when she remembered what Edwin had said.

Do not, and I emphasise this, use it in a small, confined space. Such as a car.

In here, it would do devastating harm, as much to her as to the men.

So, Cordelia reluctantly released the pepper spray and her other hand closed over the killer dildo in her other pocket, but she was already aware that, in terms of weaponry, this was far too little, far too late.

There was no way she could out-fight the huge and powerful Blackwell with that tiny club.

Anyway, it was all academic now.

Because she had discovered why Blackwell had removed her yoga mat. It was so he could put his arms around her shoulders—indeed, around her neck, in a crushing lock.

And also, not incidentally, drag a plastic bag over her head.

He did this rather clumsily, having only the one good hand. But he managed all right.

And in a jiffy Cordelia’s face was sealed inside the plastic bag. Hermetically sealed.

This didn’t affect her hearing, though, and she heard Blackwell say to Usborne, “Just keep driving around until she’s done. Or find somewhere quiet to park.”

Some very distant, and oddly calm, portion of Cordelia’s mind registered that they had chosen absolutely the ideal time and place for a bit of kidnapping and murder. This was always a quiet and isolated section of road. The only time it was busy was during the rush hour, and the morning rush hour was now well and truly over.

Another—much less distant but also remarkably calm—portion of Cordelia’s mind was registering the obvious fact that they had put a plastic bag over her head and cut off her air supply, and were now in the process of throttling her to death.

The reason she was remarkably calm—although, not surprisingly, some core physical panic reactions had set in, unhelpfully making her try to breathe in more deeply just when breathing in at all was quite impossible—was that a connection had been made in Cordelia’s mind…

And although it was very odd to use such a word under these circumstances, it was a really quite wonderful connection.

The connection was this.

She wasn’t able to breathe because the plastic bag was sealing her off from the air in the car.

Terribly obvious, of course.

But it did have an interesting corollary.

This was the same air in the same car which Cordelia had just forced herself to refrain from blasting with her pepper spray.

But if she was sealed off from it…

Cordelia took the pepper spray out of her pocket. She did this with ease and without interference from Blackwell, because he was concentrating all his attention and strength on keeping the plastic bag sealed over her face. He was obviously ready for—and, indeed, expecting—Cordelia to begin frantically clawing at the plastic bag with both hands.

What he wasn’t ready for, or expecting, was for her to take a handy cylinder of pepper spray out of her pocket and gently but firmly squeeze the button on it, and then silently count off a second (“One thousand…”) and then press the button again, and then count again, and then press again…

But really the third press of the button was redundant.

Cordelia pressed and counted twice more, anyway.

And then she hastily stuck the cylinder back in her pocket and put both hands to the plastic bag around her face.

Not to pull it off.

But rather to hold it on.

Because in this regard Blackwell was rather neglecting his duties. He was no longer holding the bag firmly on her head. He was no longer holding onto her at all. Instead, he had lurched to the far side of the car.

And he was making a noise which, to Cordelia, didn’t sound like anything coming from a human being.

It sounded more like nocturnal fox-fucking. Or perhaps fox-fighting. Anyway, nocturnal foxes, making unearthly shrieks.

In the front, Usborne was also making some unusual and interesting noises. And his driving had become rather erratic. The car was slowing down, and it was also drifting across the road, bumping up onto the pavement, grinding across it and smashing into a tree.

All at a thankfully very low speed.

Still, it was a bit of a jolt, and almost caused Cordelia to let go of the plastic bag which she was now holding tightly sealed over her head, one hand on either side of her neck. But she managed to keep it in place as she opened the car door. This was unlocked now. Indeed, all the doors and all the windows had been opened, as Usborne punched blindly at the controls, trying to get fresh air into the car.

And get the pepper-sprayed air out.

Cordelia stepped out of the Mercedes. Or rather, she tried to.

Something caught around her ankle and tugged at her, preventing her escaping from the car.

It was the strap of her yoga mat, now looped around her ankle.

As if it had grabbed her because it didn’t want to be left behind.

Cordelia reached down and snatched her yoga mat, rescuing that from the bad guys, too.

As soon as she was out of the car and a few steps away from it, she yanked the bag off her head and began to suck air into her lungs. Her face was sweating and her hair was soaked, but other than that, and having a massive case of the shakes, she was surprisingly all right.

She stuffed the plastic bag into her pocket—she had no idea why, perhaps as a souvenir?—then she pulled out her phone and took a number of photos of the car, making sure to get the number plate in the picture, as well as the two men, who were contorted in postures of agony, clawing at their reddening faces, half in the car and half out on the pavement.

Then Cordelia turned and ran.

She did consider, for an instant, running in the direction of the ashram.

But she really wasn’t in the mood for yoga anymore.

*   *   *

Cordelia headed home, running along the path through the little belt of woodland, looking back over her shoulder constantly. This, though understandable, was quite unnecessary because Blackwell and Usborne were not only currently incapable of pursuing anyone, they were incapable of even standing upright.

As soon as she got to the bridge over Beverley Brook, Cordelia slowed down to catch her breath and make a phone call. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel her blood ricocheting at the tips of her fingers. She pressed Edwin’s number and prayed he’d answer quickly. It seemed to take him forever but, in fairness, it was only four rings.

“Cordelia, what’s up?”

“Edwin, I’m sending you a photograph with a car in it. It’s the licence number you want. I’d just read it to you, but I don’t trust myself to get it right, all right?” Her voice was shaking uncontrollably now, but Cordelia reckoned she was nevertheless making herself understood.

“Yes, of course. What happened? Are you okay?”

“Here’s what I want you to do. I’d do this myself, but I don’t have a burner phone, and by the time I get one, it’ll be too late. So please use a burner phone or some other phone they can’t trace and call the police anonymously and tell them you saw two men in a Mercedes with that licence number grab a young woman off the street—”

“Oh my god.”

“And they dragged her into the car, but then she sprayed them with something…”

“You used the pepper spray?”

“Yes.”

“In a car?”

“Yes.”

“My god. Are you all right?”

“I’ll tell you all about it. But tell the cops that, if they hurry, they’ll find the two men still there. They won’t be going anywhere for a while. The car is parked on Vine Road, on the bit near Barnes Station.”

“I’ll get onto it right away. Are you coming home?”

“Yes.” Then, doing her best to be plucky and debonaire, Cordelia added, voice still shaking a little, “Put the hot chocolate on.”

Edwin wasn’t having any of this. “Are you coming across the village green?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you. I’m on my way.”

“Thank you.” Cordelia hung up and put her phone away, and stood on the little bridge, clutching hard on the iron handrail with both hands until the cold metal bit into them. She watched the placid water flow by beneath the bridge, carrying leaves and twigs, two ducks and a swan, and various other things. But Cordelia didn’t see these because she was now blinded with tears.

Not caused, fortunately, by pepper spray.

22: SPECIAL DISPENSATION

After what had happened to Cordelia on Richmond Bridge, and so nearly happened to Cordelia on her way to yoga—she still had the plastic bag in her pocket—Edwin said, “Enough is enough.”

He said it with a strangely detached, cold finality.

Cordelia, who wasn’t often impressed with her landlord, was seriously impressed with him now.

“What are you going to do?” she said.

“I am going to put a stop to it,” said Edwin simply.

The following day, he went up to the next floor of the house, the one in between where he lived and where Cordelia lived.

This middle floor was theoretically being renovated, but the process had stalled even before Cordelia had first moved in as a tenant. And it was now a sort of wasteland or no man’s land. Not especially untidy or disordered, just unfinished and uninhabited.

The middle floor did have its uses, though. And although Edwin and Cordelia had never explicitly discussed this, she knew it was where he kept his carefully concealed collection of weapons.

Edwin apparently found what he was looking for quite promptly and came back downstairs whistling cheerfully. He didn’t tell Cordelia what it was, and she didn’t ask him.

She’d never seen Edwin quite so utterly focused and efficient. There was something pitiless about him. Reassuringly pitiless, if that’s imaginable.

He made Cordelia promise to stay locked in the house, except for brief essential excursions with Rainbottle into the back garden. “And when you’re out there, stay in sight of the back door and keep the back door open.” Edwin was looking through his selection of Rohan jackets, hanging in his wardrobe, as he briefed Cordelia. And Rainbottle, who clearly sensed something grave was afoot, was sitting at her heels, apparently also listening respectfully.

“If you’re in the back garden and suddenly have to make a run for it, into the safety of the house, don’t worry about Rainbottle.” Edwin paused in his wardrobe search and crouched beside the dog to give him a brief but thorough patting. “He’ll either run into the house with you, or if he doesn’t make it inside in time, he’ll be safe enough outside. Won’t you, chap?”

Rainbottle murmured a throaty affirmative, and Edwin rose to his feet again and returned to rifling the wardrobe.

He emerged triumphant with what seemed to Cordelia a nondescript grey top. “Excellent,” said Edwin, examining its elasticated sleeves.

Then he asked her for the plastic bag Blackwell had tried to suffocate her with, and Cordelia gave it to him.

Edwin left the house after an early lunch.

Cordelia, as instructed, stayed in the house all day with the occasional garden visit for Rainbottle, dog poo bag in hand. Rainbottle, who was used to walking further afield, was reluctant at first to desecrate their lawn, but he was a smart dog and soon understood what was expected of him.

Other than these uneventful interludes, Cordelia spent most of the day up in her room, making brief visits to the kitchen to prepare meals and hot drinks. She had facilities for making the latter in her room, but she wanted as many excuses to go down to the kitchen as possible. It was Edwin’s territory and somehow it made her feel in touch with him.

Cordelia did some yoga on the floor of her attic room with Rainbottle lying nearby, keeping a critical eye on her technique. Then she rolled up her mat and tried to read. Then she tried to do some admin, including a long-overdue update of the Paperback Sleuth website, and achieved little. She phoned friends and mostly got voicemail, including from Tinkler.

This last was something of a relief, because she knew he’d ask her about the hi-tech burglary bag he’d borrowed for her, and would want an update on the project to steal the book from the house in Cambridge. In his innocence—an odd word to use in connection with Tinkler—he knew nothing about what had already transpired.

Cordelia, of course, had some well-rehearsed lies prepared, but she was just as glad not to have to use them.

So, the day passed, with the mild autumn sun moving from the far left of her bay window to the far right, and shadows gradually accumulating in the room, Rainbottle gently snoring in a corner.

It got later and later and still Edwin didn’t return. Cordelia repressed the urge to phone him. She’d been instructed not to do so. Finally, she took a bath and went to bed. Rainbottle had a rare dispensation to stay with her and he climbed joyfully onto the bed beside her.

He went to sleep immediately.

Cordelia not so much.

She had finally drifted off when, sometime after midnight, she heard the sound of the front door and awoke immediately. She pulled on her silk robe, Rainbottle sensing the occasion and hopping off the bed to join her. They hurried downstairs together.

Standing in the front hall, putting his keys in the red glass bowl where they lived, Edwin glanced up at the girl and the dog descending the staircase. He looked tired but he smiled politely.

“Are you all right?” said Cordelia, nervously knotting her robe tighter in the cold hallway, as Rainbottle danced joyfully around his master’s feet.

“I’m fine,” said Edwin. “Everything’s fine. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

23: LIKE CHRISTMAS MORNING

As ridiculous as it may sound, Cordelia awoke the next day—after a deep, restful sleep—feeling like a kid on Christmas morning.

She got dressed and hurried downstairs to find Edwin busy in the sunny kitchen, listening to Radio 3 and making toast. Rainbottle was sitting on his own special cushion on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, something he was sometimes permitted to do. On special occasions.

Apparently, this was a special occasion.

Edwin smiled at her when she came in.

“Like some toast?”

“Yes please.”

“And hot chocolate.”

“Yes please.”

Edwin made the toast and hot chocolate, and they sat at the table. Rainbottle was part of their little group, diligently pretending not to be interested in the toast. And Cordelia listened to Edwin’s account.

“It wasn’t that difficult. I simply made a list of the pubs in the area of South Kensington where your friend Melantha Spatetree lives.”

“No friend of mine.”

“Of course not,” said Edwin, carefully buttering his toast to get to the edges. “Figure of speech. I deliberately chose a quiet time of day to visit the pubs, between the lunchtime rush and the evening rush. I went in and ordered a pint, and struck up a conversation with the young people working at the bar. I initiated the crucial bit of the chat by saying I was just back from a visit to France, which was stretching a point, and while I was over there, I’d visited the war graves in Normandy. Which was true enough. This led on, quite naturally I thought, to a discussion of our heroic veterans and how much we all owe them, and how badly treated they are, coming back after fighting for our country, often badly injured, etc, etc.”

“Ah,” said Cordelia, seeing where this was going.

Edwin smiled at her. “That’s right. And, as you might imagine, this was a perfect opportunity for the bar person to mention any regular customers who’d lost a limb—an arm, say—in the service of their country. And in the second pub I visited, in the Old Brompton Road, that was exactly what happened. It turns out that a one-armed vet called Usborne was quite well known there. So, I’d now discovered the regular watering hole of one of the men we’re after.”

We’re after. Cordelia was gratified and rather unwholesomely excited that Edwin was including her in the hunt.

“At that point I could have pressed on and visited some other pubs and tried to find out where the other one… Blackwood? Blackwell. I could have looked for Blackwell’s preferred local boozer—I thought it was telling, by the way, that the two of them didn’t go drinking together; that they didn’t fraternise off duty, so to speak. But I decided not to try and locate his pub. I didn’t want to go around asking any more questions. I thought that the less attention I attracted, the better.”

“Sensible,” said Cordelia.

“Since these men are no fools, and also demonstrably dangerous.”

“Right,” said Cordelia.

“And might well be on the alert for anyone enquiring after them.”

“Absolutely,” said Cordelia.

“So, I thought that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, if that’s the correct avian aphorism, and I retired at that point. I went to the cinema and watched a film.”

“What did you see?” said Cordelia.

“Some superhero nonsense. I’ve forgotten it already. Then I returned to the pub later that evening, and as it happened, I was in luck. I spotted him across the room as soon as I came in, but I went through the charade of checking with the bar staff. Of course, they said he was Usborne, and I went over and introduced myself and asked if I could buy him a drink. I told him how he’d been mentioned in my chat earlier that day, thus covering myself if he’d learned that someone had been talking about him, and gave him some blarney about how I just wanted to offer some small thanks for his service and sacrifice. That sort of thing. He didn’t seem averse to receiving some free booze and I told him I’d only stay for one quick drink.” Edwin paused. “But, in the end, we had quite a few drinks together. All of his alcoholic, and only the first of mine.”

Edwin and Usborne had spent several hours drinking, Edwin absorbing virtually no alcohol at all and Usborne absorbing a considerable amount. “He seemed like a man who could hold his liquor and he certainly appeared in no way drunk,” said Edwin. “But no one can put that much away and not be somewhat impaired. It’ll affect their reaction time, for one thing. Which can be very useful. And Usborne seemed to have no suspicions that I was anything other than what I claimed to be, a somewhat hero-worshipping fan of the armed forces, who was willing to buy him endless drinks to thank him for his sacrifice. I felt, all in all, that things were stacking up quite nicely in my favour.”

At this point Cordelia realised that her heart was pounding solidly in her chest. She didn’t say anything, but just waited patiently to learn the fate of Usborne.

“By now,” said Edwin, “it was getting quite late, and I managed to contrive for us to leave the pub together. I was going back via the tube, and the tube station was in the same direction Usborne was heading, so it was quite natural for us to stroll along chatting. Then we reached a small alleyway. A bit of a cliché, I know, but I felt this was the ideal spot.”

Cordelia realised that her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow.

She leaned in closer to listen to what Edwin was saying.

So did Rainbottle.

“And as we reached the mouth of the alley—it was the entrance of a mews, actually, South Kensington is too posh to have alleys—there was no one else nearby, so it seemed like the perfect moment.”

The perfect moment, thought Cordelia.

“So, I put my plan into action,” said Edwin. “I moved in such a way as to subtly encourage Usborne deeper into the shadows of the mews. And I said to him, ‘Oh, by the way, you left this behind.’ And then I handed him this.”

Edwin reached into his pocket and took out the plastic bag which, depending on how you looked at it, had either nearly killed Cordelia or had saved her life. Perhaps both.

He put it on the breakfast table and they all stared at it, even Rainbottle.

“Well, as you might imagine, it took Usborne a moment or two to realise exactly what the thing was, between the complete surprise—I must say, the surprise regarding myself was quite gratifying, he’d never suspected a thing—and all the alcohol he’d imbibed, it took him a good moment or two to realise what I’d given to him.” Edwin looked up from the plastic bag and at Cordelia. “You won’t believe what happened next.”

Cordelia, who was ready for just about anything, said, “What?”

It turned out that she wasn’t ready for this.

24: HEART-TO-HEART CHAT

“He started crying.” Edwin shook his head, apparently rather amused. “This giant of a man, a war veteran and all the rest of it, he stared at this plastic bag I’d given him… and he began to cry.”

Edwin looked at Cordelia. “I didn’t believe there was any question of it being a ruse or anything like that. He was genuinely, deeply upset. I was even a trifle moved myself, I must admit.”

Edwin picked up the plastic bag in question from the table and put it back in his pocket, as if signalling a return to business. “Nevertheless, I couldn’t help realising that this was the perfect moment and not to be wasted. No one around, but who knew how long that ideal situation would continue? We were there, in a place out of direct sight of the street, into which I could swiftly move the body. And, on top of that, the man himself now seemed positively helpless.”

Edwin shook his head. For his part he seemed positively wistful. “The thing that gave me pause was that, having stopped crying, he started talking. And he began to say some quite interesting things. Things that might be useful, things I rather wanted to hear. So, I decided to at least postpone what I had in mind for him. And Usborne clearly wanted to talk to me. To unburden himself.”

Edwin chuckled. “I was like a confessor who had appeared out of nowhere. I must admit, I found the notion rather appealing. Like a character in a Graham Greene novel. It lent me an air of mystery and glamour. At least in my own eyes. Anyway, Usborne was desperate to get things off his chest. It turns out we were standing outside the house in which he works—Melantha’s house. And he said he knew the perfect spot nearby for us to talk. He had a key to the private garden opposite. An ideal place for a private conversation.”

Edwin grinned his most toothy grin. There was something rather humourless and predatory about it. All those teeth, some of them pointy. “Now, I’m not a complete fool,” he said.

“Far from it,” said Cordelia, buttering him up but also telling the simple truth.

“And I realised,” said Edwin, “that this private garden, occupied by just the two of us on this quiet night… Well, as I say, I’m not a complete fool, and I was aware this would be a perfect place for him to launch an attack on me. It even crossed my mind that all this, the crying and everything, might be a performance to put me off my guard. Admittedly, it seemed highly unlikely that Usborne was such a good actor.”

Edwin was shaking his head thoughtfully, as if still weighing up this possibility. “But he might have been. And he might somehow have got in contact with his associate Blackwell. I’d kept a close eye on him all evening since we’d met in the pub, and he hadn’t used his phone, but I didn’t rule out the possibility that he’d managed to get in touch somehow.” Edwin was looking at Cordelia to see if she understood, and she nodded to show that she did. “One must consider every possibility.”

“Absolutely,” said Cordelia.

“Anyway, I was quite aware of all this, so I chose a bench for us to sit on where I could keep an eye on all the approach routes. If Blackwell was going to arrive and join us, it was not going to be a surprise to me.”

“You sat on a bench with Usborne?” said Cordelia.

“Yes, he was as close to me as you are now.”

“Edwin, that was very dangerous.”

“It certainly was.”

“He’s very strong.”

Edwin was nodding again, but now placatingly. “I know, and you’re absolutely correct. Never mind any theoretical presence of Blackwell. The main threat to me, alone in that garden with him, was the man sitting on the bench with me. But I was prepared. While I did have a gun with me, it wasn’t likely to have been much use in a situation like that, at such close quarters. There would be all the fuss of getting it out fast enough, for a start. Never mind all the ensuing complications if I did have to fire it. But I had a number of other counter measures prepared.” He paused and smiled shyly at Cordelia. “I have a confession to make,” he said.

“What?” she said.

“That pepper spray I bought you as a gift… I don’t want to devalue it, but I also bought one for myself.”

Cordelia sagged with relief. “Oh, is that all?”

“Actually, to give a full and frank confession, I bought two for myself. I thought I might as well stock up while I could. So, I had both of those with me during my meeting with Usborne.”

“Both?” said Cordelia. “Wasn’t that overkill?”

“Better safe than sorry. And I’d calculated that while Usborne might be fast enough, and adroit enough, to prevent me using one of my hands, I thought it quite unlikely that he’d be able to immobilise both of them. So, I had a canister of pepper spray ready to deploy with either hand. Literally up my sleeve, or sleeves. Unlike the handgun, which would have taken me forever to dig out and make ready for use, the pepper sprays were ready for instant deployment. They were in the usefully capacious sleeves of my Rohan jacket, tucked in at the elasticated wrist. And within a split second I could have used either one, to devastating effect.”

“Usborne wouldn’t have liked that,” said Cordelia, remembering the sounds he’d made in the Mercedes that day in the woods in Barnes.

“No, he still hasn’t fully recovered from the last time,” said Edwin cheerfully. “Which only serves him right. But the point is, I was fully prepared to deal with Usborne if he proved to be aggressive.” He took a sip of his hot chocolate, now more like cold chocolate. “But he didn’t prove to be aggressive. Quite the opposite. As I said, he welcomed the chance to unburden himself. As odd as it sounds, we had quite the heart-to-heart chat, there on that bench in the private Kensington garden. For a start, he’s immensely sorry about the attack on you…”

“Ha,” said Cordelia.

Edwin held up his hands, palms towards her in a gesture of appeasement. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

“And it’s attacks, by the way. Plural. Attacks plural, not attack singular. They did also try and crush me with their car, forcing me to dive off Richmond Bridge into the river. The no doubt filthy and very unhealthy river.”

“Yes,” said Edwin gently. “Very true. All very true, and we did get on to that incident later. But initially what had really got to Usborne was that assault in the car. He may have only been driving—”

“‘Only’?” said Cordelia with heavily sarcastic quotation marks around the word.

“As he put it, he may only have been in the front seat driving, while Blackwell did the actual dirty work, but Usborne was nevertheless very upset…”

“Very upset?”

Edwin nodded with understanding. “Of course, you’re quite right to be sceptical. And I listened with a healthy measure of scepticism, too. Not to mention two canisters of pepper spray at the ready. But if you want my opinion—do you want my opinion?”

Cordelia put her boiling rage on hold and said, “Yes. Please.”

“In my opinion, Usborne’s emotional upset, and his contrition—”

“Contrition?”

“Just listen for the moment, please. In my opinion, these are all quite genuine. Usborne was trained as a soldier. He’s conditioned to kill the enemy, under combat conditions. That’s what he’s been trained for. What he has not been trained for is to murder a helpless young woman in the back of a car.”

“Not so helpless, as it turned out,” said Cordelia.

Edwin grinned. “Indeed, not so helpless as it turned out. But nevertheless, having his associate try and suffocate an innocent girl…”

“Not so innocent, either,” said Cordelia. “But go on.”

“To have someone like that, like you, slowly killed in the back seat while he was driving around like a hired goon, as he put it, that really got to Usborne. He wanted nothing to do with it.”

“If he wanted nothing to do with it, why did he do it?” said Cordelia.

Edwin sighed. “It seems that Blackwell is really the villain of the piece.”

“Well of course he’d say that.”

“Yes, of course he’d say that,” said Edwin. “But I believe him when he says it. Oh, and he told me what happened when the police found them, after they’d been pepper-sprayed and we reported them.”

“So, the police did do something,” said Cordelia. “Good. What happened?”

“They said you were a sex worker they’d picked up.”

“What?” Somehow, of all the things they’d done to Cordelia, this seemed the worst.

“They said they’d picked you up for fun and frolics. And you pepper-sprayed them and robbed them. Effectively, they claimed to have been mugged by you, or rather by the sex worker they were pretending you were.”

“And the police believed this?”

“Probably not. But there, for the time being, the matter rests.” Edwin smiled. “But don’t be disheartened. The incident is on record.”

“Their version of the incident is on record.”

“We’ve put them and their car on the police’s radar now. Which may prove very useful. Now, where was I?”

“Usborne blaming Blackwell for everything.”

“Oh, yes. Well, for instance, when Fin Ballas was killed in Cambridge, that was Blackwell’s doing. Ms Spatetree had sent Usborne and Blackwell to visit the brothers with the twin purposes of putting the fear of god into them and retrieving the copy of Commando Gold.”

“Melantha didn’t want them to have Commando Gold?”

“They definitely weren’t supposed to. In fact, they’d stolen it from Melantha.”

“How did they manage that?”

“Well, Melantha was employing the brothers to spread the lie on Wikipedia that the book had never existed. She was quite happy to pay them money to do this, but as it turned out, they were willing to work for copies of the Commando paperbacks.”

“I can understand that,” said Cordelia. “Sort of. Sadly.”

“Melantha had—indeed still has—a large stockpile of the paperbacks, all in immaculate condition, because, as Monty told us, she bought up the remaining publisher’s stock when she set about supressing the books. Anyway, the agreement was that the brothers would receive copies of the books—”

“Including signed copies.”

“Yes, no doubt Melantha and her father would have received some signed copies via Bunny. In any case, the Ballas brothers would have received dozens of all the books.”

“Except Commando Gold.”

“Correct. But when the Ballas brothers came to visit Melantha, to be briefed by her in person and to collect their payment in kind, one of them also filched a copy of the forbidden book.”

“I bet I know which one,” said Cordelia. “Which brother slipped a copy, I mean.”

“In any case, whichever one it was, when Melantha discovered they had a copy of it, she demanded it be returned. In fact, she didn’t bother making demands. She simply sent Blackwell and Usborne to retrieve it. And, as I said, to ‘put the frighteners’ on the brothers. They knew you’d been to visit them, because the brothers had obediently reported it, and your interest in Commando Gold.”

“Why would they have done that?” said Cordelia.

“Because they were hoping for a bonus,” said Edwin.

“Oh, well, that makes sense.” Cordelia thought it through. “So, they told Melantha about Tinkler and me, and she arranged for Usborne or Blackwell—”

“Or both.”

“Or both of them to go around to Tinkler’s and stick my photo—”

“Provided by the brothers.”

“To stick my photo, provided by the brothers, onto Tinkler’s front door, with a commando dagger.”

“Provided by Melantha,” said Edwin. “She does seem to have a taste for the melodramatic.”

“But then why would she want to put the frighteners on the brothers? They’d been good, helpful, obedient little informants. Surely they deserved their bonus, not intimidation by one-armed vets from Afghanistan?”

“Well, apparently the bonus was part of the problem,” said Edwin. “Because the bonus they wanted was not in the form of cash.”

“Ah,” said Cordelia. “The dawn suddenly breaks. They asked for a copy of Commando Gold.”

“Despite already having one,” said Edwin.

“But that makes perfect sense,” said Cordelia.

“Does it?”

“You have to understand the collector’s mentality. They had one copy.”

“And there were two of them,” said Edwin.

“Right.”

“So, they made a bid for a second copy of Commando Gold,” said Edwin. “When they shouldn’t even have had one. And somehow it slipped out that they did have that one.”

“So, Usborne and Blackwell were sent to Cambridge to retrieve it,” said Cordelia.

“And to make sure they hadn’t revealed anything they shouldn’t have when they spoke to you.” Edwin paused. “In any case, things got a little out of hand when Usborne and Blackwell confronted the brothers. And Blackwell ended up killing Fin, instead of just inflicting a beating on him, as intended. At which point, the surviving brother fled the scene, with the full support and connivance of Usborne. Without his assistance, Blackwell would have killed him too. After all, why let a witness live when you’ve already begun killing people? So, Usborne saved Ossie’s life.”

“According to Usborne,” said Cordelia.

“Yes,” said Edwin. “But I’m inclined to believe him. He isn’t such a bad chap.” Edwin smiled. “It was frankly a relief not to have to put a bullet in the back of his head.”

He seemed cheered by the turn of events.

“I still don’t trust him,” said Cordelia.

“A very sensible attitude,” said Edwin. “Given your experiences with him. But do keep an open mind. And see what you think when you see him.”

“When am I going to see him?” said Cordelia.

Edwin glanced at his watch. “In a couple of hours. We’re going to meet him for lunch.”

25: THE OBLONG BOX

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” said Cordelia.

What she was doing was sitting with Edwin at a table in Albert’s, their local gastropub and watering hole. At least, it was a watering hole for Rainbottle, who was on the floor slurping thirstily at a thoughtfully provided doggie bowl.

Albert’s was an attractive, tiny place with stained-glass doors and an endless rotating supply of Australian barmaids. And they did good food.

“You don’t have to be here,” said Edwin. “You can leave now if you like. I just thought…”

“No,” said Cordelia. She realised that her foot was tapping nervously on the floor and she made it stop. “I’ll stay. I’ll look him in the eye. I didn’t have a chance last time we met.”

“For what it’s worth, he seems genuinely traumatised by the experience. Driving the car while an unarmed young girl was being murdered in the back seat.” Edwin smiled at her. “Although, of course, it turned out you weren’t unarmed.”

Cordelia knew he was just trying to cheer her up.

“He’s also racked with guilt about breaking the old man’s arm,” said Edwin. “He means Monty.”

“I see,” said Cordelia. “I’m sure that’ll make Monty feel much better. What about killing Fin Ballas?”

“As I told you, apparently he had nothing to do with that. He was there when it took place, but it was entirely Blackwell’s handiwork. And it was Usborne who helped the other brother to escape. Much to Blackwell’s fury.” Edwin looked up. “Ah, here he is.”

Cordelia jerked her head towards the door and saw that Usborne had just entered. He was wearing jeans, a grey roll-neck sweater and a brown leather jacket. This was apparently his casual attire, although his shoes were still polished to an implausible gleaming perfection which was anything but casual.

At least he had the good grace to look hesitant and shamefaced as he glanced around the pub. Then he saw Cordelia and Edwin and looked even more shamefaced.

But he marched right over to their table and sat down with them.

Now Cordelia did look him in the eye, and was gratified to note it was still red from the pepper spray.

*   *   *

Cordelia didn’t expect to have any appetite for lunch and had planned to sulkily refuse to join the men in ordering. But Usborne beat her to it by saying he wasn’t hungry. Edwin, however, insisted. He seemed to feel it was essential to break bread with the enemy. So, they all ordered the house speciality, gourmet burgers—which Cordelia had to admit were generally very good.

Then Edwin said he’d go to the bar to get drinks, and Cordelia felt a flare of alarm at the prospect of being left alone at the table with her would-be killer. But, in the event, Usborne insisted on getting the drinks instead. Since he was buying, Cordelia chose the most expensive wine on the list, just by way of petty revenge, and Edwin asked for one of his eccentric micro-brewery beers.

Usborne returned with the drinks on a tray, rather skilfully balanced as he carried it one-handed. The barmaid certainly seemed impressed. After he handed out the drinks, Usborne startled Cordelia by taking out his phone. But he wasn’t making a call.

“Are these the books you’re after?” he said.

He showed Cordelia a photo of what seemed to be a miniature bookcase. Really very miniature, it was an oblong construction of glass, metal and wood and not much larger than a loaf of (economy, white, sliced) bread. It was essentially just a sawn-off length of bookshelf, housed in a very sturdy-looking, glass-fronted case.

With a lock on it.

And fitted snugly inside the oblong box were thirteen paperbacks, ranked side by side. A complete set of the Butch Raider Commando novels. The photograph was sharp enough to clearly read the titles on the spines. Cordelia felt a reluctant sense of approval at seeing they were in the correct sequence.

And a far from reluctant sense of approval at seeing that there, on the end of the shelf, was Commando Gold.

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “Those are the books I’m after. Or at least one set of the books I’m after. What the hell is that thing they’re in?”

“A lockbox,” said Usborne, putting his phone away again. “It’s on the mantelpiece above the fireplace in Melantha’s study.” He looked at Cordelia with his red eyes.

“It’s just sitting on the mantelpiece?” said Edwin.

“That’s right,” said Usborne.

“It’s not fixed in place in any way?” said Edwin. “Screwed down or anything like that?”

“No,” said Usborne. “But it’s a heavy bastard to lift. A heavy-duty lockbox.”

“And I believe you told me,” said Edwin, “that Melantha’s study is the first room you come to when you go up the stairs in your house.” He’d obviously already discussed this with Usborne.

“Right,” said Usborne.

“And the door is usually open,” said Edwin.

“Affirmative,” said Usborne.

“And so, if someone was to go up the stairs, they could hardly fail to look through the open door. And if they did look through it, would this lockbox above the fireplace be readily visible?”

“It would be the first thing they’d see,” said Usborne.

Cordelia was wondering where the hell all this was going.

“And you told me that the front door of your boss’s house, rather surprisingly, is unlocked?” said Edwin.

Usborne nodded. “When we’re all at home, it’s unlocked. Ms Spatetree likes what she calls the luxury of having it that way. But she knows the place is secure because she has both of us there.”

“And there are no burglar alarms or anything similar?” said Edwin.

“Not turned on until we go to bed,” said Usborne.

“Which means you wouldn’t know if someone came in through the front door?”

“There are the dogs,” said Usborne. “They’d bark if they heard.”

“And would they hear someone come in?” said Edwin.

Why did Cordelia get the impression he already knew the answer to this?

“Depends on what part of the house they were in,” said Usborne. “They wouldn’t hear if they were in the kitchen, say.”

“Which is where the three of you take your meals,” said Edwin.

“That’s right. We all eat together in the kitchen. And Ms Spatetree likes to feed the dogs at the same time.”

“And what time is that?” said Edwin.

“Seven thirty on the dot.”

“So,” said Edwin, “if Cordelia came through the front door at seven thirty on the dot, no one in the house would know she was there.”

“Wait a minute,” said Cordelia.

“And, from the front door, she could go directly up the stairs…” said Edwin.

“Hang on,” said Cordelia.

“And when she came to the top of the stairs,” said Edwin, “she’d see the open door of the study and, through it, she’d see the lockbox above the fireplace.”

“Hang on just a fucking minute,” said Cordelia.

“And she could take the lockbox, come back down the stairs, and be gone in… what? Less than two minutes?”

“Less than a minute,” said Usborne. “Although that lockbox is really heavy.”

Cordelia was shaking her head vigorously. “This is not going to happen.”

Edwin smiled at her and, oddly, so did Usborne.

“You’re right,” said Edwin. “It’s not going to happen. But that’s what Melantha is going to think has happened. Whereas, what will actually take place is Usborne will get the lockbox and hand it to you at the front door. You won’t even have to go into the house. In fact, you won’t even have to be at the front door if you don’t want to. I can do that.” Edwin’s eyes were gleaming happily. “But I thought you might like to take delivery of the goods, so to speak.”

“It’s damned heavy,” said Usborne, looking at Cordelia rather doubtfully. Because she was just a girl. Which suddenly made Cordelia damned determined to take delivery of the damned lockbox.

“And it will be locked,” said Usborne, making a rather obvious point. “You’ll need to get into it without the key. I have no idea where she keeps the key.”

“Let me worry about that,” said Cordelia. She had full confidence in her lock-picking skills. “But won’t Melantha know that you’ve taken it?”

Usborne shrugged. Both his shoulders were still in full working order at least. Unlike Monty’s. “Why would I take it? She has no idea I’m in contact with you guys.”

Cordelia thought it through. “So, she’ll think I just waltzed in and grabbed it?”

“I don’t think she’ll think it was anyone else,” said Usborne.

“Then I’ll really be on her shit list,” said Cordelia.

“You’re already on her shit list,” said Edwin. “This way at least you’ll have the books.”

*   *   *

The lockbox really was fucking heavy.

Cordelia trotted up the front steps of Melantha’s mansion in Stanhope Gardens at 7.30 sharp on a forbidding dark Wednesday evening with strong winds driving stinging rain and doing nothing to lighten the general mood.

But the front door opened promptly, letting out a slice of warm, yellow light and throwing Usborne’s shadow onto the steps. He handed her the lockbox.

Cordelia took it and went down the steps with it and he closed the door behind her.

It was as simple as that.

Except that the lockbox really was fucking heavy.

She was grudgingly impressed that Usborne had been able to carry it down the stairs with his one good arm.

Cordelia staggered a little as she loaded it onto the back seat of the Volvo, which Edwin had parked waiting around the corner in the mews. “Everything all right?” he said.

“Yes,” said Cordelia, getting into the passenger seat beside him. “That thing must be made of solid steel, though.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to pick the lock?”

“Absolutely,” said Cordelia, who’d taken the opportunity to inspect it as she carried it. A simple Yale mechanism. “No problem.”

Then they drove home, where Cordelia wasn’t too proud to let Edwin help her carry the lockbox up to her attic room.

There, they set it on her table and Edwin went back downstairs to the eagerly waiting Rainbottle, while Cordelia set to work. The lock was located at the centre bottom of the glass panel which fronted the lockbox and allowed her to look at the books so temptingly displayed inside, but didn’t allow her access to them.

She supposed if worse came to worst, she could smash that glass.

But after fifteen minutes of fiddly labour—the lock was a bit hard to get at—she opened it.

The glass panel hinged upwards, and she reached inside and touched the books.

Which one to look at first?

She decided to pace her pleasure and inspect each book in turn, leaving Commando Gold for last.

So, she took out the first book in the series, Commando Dagger.

And, as soon as she did so, she knew something was terribly wrong.

It was far, far heavier than any paperback could possibly be.

Cordelia opened the book. A rectangular hole had been cut through all the pages of the book, creating a hollow in which snugly rested a dully gleaming golden bar.

It was just as Monty had described to her; it was stamped with the Nazi eagle and the words Deutsche Reichsbank and 1 Kilo Feingold 999.9.

Oh, shit.

26: WHAT TO DO

“So, it wasn’t the lockbox that was heavy,” said Edwin, looking at the offending item, now empty, on the table in Cordelia’s room.

“No,” said Cordelia.

“It was its contents.”

“That’s right,” said Cordelia. “Thirteen kilos of gold in thirteen hollowed-out paperbacks.”

“I see,” said Edwin. And he meant it quite literally, since he could see the baker’s dozen of Nazi gold bars spread out before him. Cordelia thought it was rather annoying that the thirteen bars couldn’t be arranged in a neat, regular pattern. But thirteen was a prime number.

“And this is worth how much?” said Edwin.

“The price of gold keeps changing,” said Cordelia. “This week, thirteen kilos is worth just under a million pounds. Last week it was just over.”

“So, call it a million pounds,” said Edwin. He looked up from the gold and at Cordelia.

“And what do you want to do?” he said.

“What do I want to do?”

“Do you plan to keep it?”

“Of course not,” said Cordelia. “I don’t want the gold. I want the paperbacks.”

“You aren’t even tempted?”

She shook her head. “I might be if it didn’t have swastikas stamped on it.”

“Quite,” said Edwin.

*   *   *

The barmaid at Albert’s was glad to see them back. Or at least she was glad to see Usborne back. Apparently, she’d been seriously wowed by his one-handed tray-carrying prowess.

“Ms Spatetree’s spitting blood,” said Usborne as soon as they sat down.

“I’ll bet,” said Edwin.

“But at least I now know where the books actually are,” said Usborne.

“Where?” said Cordelia.

Usborne explained how, after the robbery, Melantha had gone to check on the book stash, which it turns out wasn’t even in the house. The books were stored in the garage. “I’d never noticed them but they’re there on a shelf at the back,” he said.

Quite exposed and unguarded, really.

Had they but known, Usborne could have let Cordelia into the garage—he had keys, of course—and she could have helped herself to as many books as she wanted at her leisure, and no one would have been any the wiser.

Oh well.

“We’re going to have to sort this,” said Usborne, looking at them across the table. “And quickly. If we don’t sort it quickly, she’s going to hire extra outside help. And if she does that…”

“You won’t be able to control it,” said Edwin.

“I’ll have even less control,” said Usborne.

“We wouldn’t want that,” said Edwin.

So, they ordered drinks and lunch, and worked out what they were going to do.

27: BACK TO CAMBRIDGE

When Edwin and Cordelia drove to Cambridge that night, they left even later than they had on the previous occasion.

Because of the lateness of the hour and the absence of traffic, it was a much quicker drive this time.

And because of the nature of their errand, it was a considerably more silent one. Understandably enough, neither of them felt much like talking.

Edwin parked directly outside the Ballas brothers’ house, dark and silent in a dark and silent street.

“Doesn’t look like the police have been here,” said Cordelia.

“There’s certainly no crime-scene tape,” said Edwin.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here,” said Cordelia. The thought made her strangely sad.

Just to be absolutely scrupulous, she used the Stone Circle Bug Sniffer to give it the once over.

But, just like before, there was no sign of any security tech.

“All clear,” she said.

Edwin opened his door and started to get out. Cordelia made herself say, “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

Edwin closed the door again.

“We’ve discussed this,” he said gently.

“I know,” said Cordelia. “But I think you’re just being nice to me. Letting me off the hook, so I can just sit here in the car, when you really could use my help…” She looked at the house. “In there.”

Edwin shook his head. “I’m not just being nice. I can manage very well without your help, and more importantly, I need you out here to keep an eye on things and let me know if I have to get out of there quickly.”

Cordelia knew that, in large part, this was just a kind lie. So, she forced herself to say, “I can come in with you. I can help you with…”

“There really is no need,” said Edwin. “I can manage on my own.” Then he tried to make a joke, a rather tasteless one, but under the circumstances elegant wit was a big ask.

“It might be a different matter if it was the other brother,” he said.

“Yes,” said Cordelia, playing along and appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood. “Then you really would need my help.” But the thought of big, fat Ossie, and not knowing what might have happened to him, just caused her mood to plunge.

“Now, you said you left the back door open?” said Edwin. “Last time we were here?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “If it’s locked, I’d advise you to get the hell out of there quick.”

“Good advice,” said Edwin, and then he picked up the heavy-duty black bin bags and the big roll of gaffer tape and got out of the car.

*   *   *

Apparently, the back door was indeed still open, because Edwin didn’t come haring back immediately.

But he didn’t take long, either. In total, he was gone for perhaps five minutes, although to Cordelia it felt more like five hours. And then she saw his dark figure approaching from the house.

He was moving remarkably quickly considering what he was carrying.

It was slung over his shoulder, making his silhouette ugly and asymmetrical. Cordelia realised that Edwin must be a lot stronger than she’d thought, given the ease with which he carried his burden. This was confirmed by the swift and efficient way he loaded it into the boot of the car.

Cordelia had been promising herself she’d get out and help him at this point. That it was the least she could do. But, when it came to the critical moment, her nerve failed her.

But Edwin hadn’t been expecting her help. He just closed the boot firmly and quietly, got back in the car beside her, and they drove off.

All the way back to London, though, Cordelia was acutely aware of what they were carrying in the back of the car.

28: THE HANDOVER

Considering some of the other things she’d had to do recently, Cordelia was surprised at how hard she found it to just pick up the phone and call Melantha Spatetree.

But she made herself do it.

When Melantha realised who was calling, there was a shocked silence. Then, recovering herself somewhat, she said, “I’m surprised to hear from you.”

“I’m not surprised you’re surprised,” said Cordelia. Then she realised how stupid that sounded and there was an awkward silence for a moment.

“Well, what do you want?” said Melantha.

“I’m not stupid,” said Cordelia.

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“This was all a mistake. I didn’t mean to take that… stuff,” said Cordelia. Obviously, she had to give the impression that it was her, not Usborne, who had done the thieving. “I thought I was just taking a set of the books.”

“You didn’t notice they were a trifle heavy?” said Melantha, with rather scathingly understated irony.

“I thought that the lockbox was made of solid steel or something,” said Cordelia, truthfully enough.

“Well, now presumably you know that’s not the case,” said Melantha.

“Yes, I do. And the point is, I had no idea what I was taking,” said Cordelia. “And if I had known, I would never have taken it.”

“Oh, really?” said Melantha with polite disbelief.

“Yes, really. Like I said, I’m not stupid. I know that stealing anything worth that much is going to bring big trouble with it. And I know you won’t rest until you get it back from me.”

“I see,” said Melantha. For the first time, Cordelia sensed she had her full attention.

“And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder,” said Cordelia.

“Quite sensible,” said Melantha.

“And the rest of my life might not be very long if you have people after me, trying to recover your lost property.”

“Very perceptive,” said Melantha. “It might be a very short life indeed.”

“So, I want to give it back,” said Cordelia.

“What?” said Melantha, completely thrown.

“I want to give the gold back,” said Cordelia.

There was silence on the line for a while and then Melantha said, “Just like that?”

“No, not just like that,” said Cordelia. “I want something in return.”

“What?”

“Two complete sets of the Commando novels,” said Cordelia. “In perfect condition.”

“And that’s all?”

“Including, and this is a deal breaker,” said Cordelia, trying to sound stern, “two copies of Commando Gold.”

“I see,” said Melantha.

“Can you do that?” said Cordelia.

“Well, I can,” said Melantha. “Or at least, I could. If I believed you. If I believed that you were willing to hand back thirteen kilos of gold when all you get in return is some old paperbacks.”

“That’s not all I get in return,” said Cordelia. “I also get you off my back. When you get your merchandise, that’s the end of it. With no hard feelings and no comebacks. I get your promise that I’ll come to no harm.”

For what that’s worth, thought Cordelia.

“Oh, I see,” said Melantha, suddenly all sweetness and light. “Of course. You have my most earnest assurance of that. Why would I even want to harm you?”

To make sure I don’t tell anyone, thought Cordelia.

“If you return the gold, we’ll consider the matter permanently closed.”

Consider my mouth permanently closed, thought Cordelia.

“Good,” said Cordelia, doing her best to sound like someone stupid enough to believe all this. “So, I’m getting two sets of books and I’m also getting my life back.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds like quite an advantageous bargain,” said Melantha.

*   *   *

Cordelia and Edwin drove to West Kensington in his Volvo. It was a very tense drive.

There was no reason why they should be stopped by the police; they were two rather boring-looking white people in a very boring car.

But if they should be stopped by the police, they would be in very big trouble indeed.

Luckily, the drive elapsed without incident and a mere half an hour after they left Barnes, having sat in traffic for a nerve-racking period at some roadworks by Putney Bridge, they were pulling into the cobbled mews behind Melantha Spatetree’s house in Stanhope Gardens.

Usborne was waiting for them.

Two very familiar-looking vehicles were parked in the little alleyway, just beyond the garage with its wide, glossy door. A dark blue BMW and a silver Mercedes, both of which Cordelia associated with being very nearly murdered.

If anything, she began to feel even more tense than before.

Usborne was dressed in one of his casual outfits, jeans and a windbreaker. And he looked very pleased, and relieved, to see them.

Edwin pulled up and parked the Volvo, on the other side of the garage to the BMW and the Merc, keeping the garage door clear. There was plenty of room in the alley for all three cars.

Edwin and Cordelia got out. Cordelia was carrying a big blue Ikea bag. It was empty, but there was another one on the back seat of the car which wasn’t empty. It had a beach towel on top of its contents to shield them from view.

“Everything all right?” said Edwin.

Usborne nodded and glanced towards the house. “Blackwell’s inside with the boss. They won’t come out here.”

“Good,” said Edwin. Then, to Cordelia, “You go in and get started.”

The big garage door was made of wood painted a high gloss green. Cordelia assumed there was a mechanism to tilt it up and open the garage for access for vehicles. But there was also a normal-sized door, in matching glossy green, set at one side, so people could get in and out without all the faff of opening the big door.

It had a Yale lock and Usborne unlocked it now to let Cordelia inside.

Then he went to help Edwin at the boot of the Volvo.

Cordelia didn’t particularly want to see what they were doing, so she hurried into the garage.

It was a single open room, a big concrete space illuminated by the pitiless white glare of fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. And it was quite warm in here. Apparently the very rich even kept their cars warm and comfortable. Then Cordelia remembered that Usborne and Blackwell had a flat above the garage. Maybe it was heated for that reason. There was no way up to the flat from inside the garage, though. It was accessed by a staircase outside in the mews.

In addition to the two cars parked outside, there were two more in here. One on the far left, the other on the far right, with a large gap in the middle where the Merc and the BMW had been parked.

The other two cars were also luxury vehicles of some kind.

But Cordelia didn’t even bother to look at them.

She only had eyes for the shelving which ran right across the back wall of the garage. It had all sorts of automobile-related stuff on it.

But it also had books.

Paperback books.

Cordelia put on the latex gloves she’d brought with her and hurried to the shelves.

Sure enough, the books were all copies of Butch Raider’s Commando novels. There were even more of them here than in the Thai brothel bookcase back at the Ballas brothers’ house in Cambridge.

Crucially, and unlike the brothers’ collection, there were multiple copies of Commando Gold.

Cordelia got to work.

She took two copies of every title except Commando Gold. She checked the condition of each carefully, but she didn’t really need to. They were all publisher’s stock, never read or circulated or sold. In short, as good as new.

Cordelia put these two dozen books in the Ikea bag as a kind of layer at the bottom.

Then she covered them with copies of Commando Gold.

She took every copy. They almost but not quite filled the bag, making for a heavy load. Cordelia turned around and looked at the garage. While she’d been busy, she’d been aware of activity behind her. Edwin and Usborne had come in, carrying the thing that had come in the boot of the Volvo.

They were now positioning it on the floor by one of the cars.

Cordelia studiously avoided looking at it as she made her way through the small door and back into the daylight.

She put the bag of books in the car—not in the boot—and got out the second Ikea bag. It was much less full than the bag of books but much heavier. She used both hands to lift it. Edwin met her at the door and helped her in with it.

Cordelia took the beach towel out of the bag. It was a brand-new beach towel bought cheap. It didn’t have to be bought cheap, but it did need to be brand new, i.e. unused, for obvious reasons. Removing it exposed the bars of gold gleaming dimly underneath in the equally new and unused bag.

Cordelia began taking the bars out. Edwin and Usborne helped. Like her, they were both wearing gloves.

Cordelia moved to the centre of the open space of concrete floor between the two cars. “Here, I think,” she said.

They carefully put a dozen of the gold bars on the floor in a neat rectangular pattern, four by three.

Then they stood back and inspected their handiwork.

It was very striking, the geometric purity of the gold on the bare grey floor. It looked like an art installation at one of London’s more painfully trendy galleries.

It would certainly catch someone’s eye, especially when they first entered the garage.

And it would definitely distract from the large bundle wrapped in black plastic, which lay beside the car on the far right. Cordelia avoided looking at that.

“Right,” she said. She sealed the thirteenth bar of gold in a plastic sandwich bag and put it in the pocket of her jacket. “Let’s do it.”

*   *   *

The three of them came out of the garage. Usborne carefully left the small door ajar and put the key in his pocket. He looked at Cordelia. “I’ll give you a minute or two, and then I’ll come in.”

“Fine,” said Cordelia. She was very tense and didn’t feel much like talking.

Edwin, on the other hand, seemed quite relaxed and chatty. “There’s nowhere to park around here so I’ll just keep driving around. I’ll drive slowly past the front of the mews and look in at regular intervals. I should be able to judge when to return.”

“Good,” said Usborne. “Let’s get started, then.”

Edwin got into the Volvo and pulled away. Cordelia was astonished at how bereft and abandoned she felt as she watched him drive off. Her stomach felt cold and queasy. Usborne was still with her but that didn’t seem to count for much.

Cordelia realised that she should get going. The gold bar was heavy in her pocket. That reminded her. She stripped off her latex gloves—it would look a bit strange to be wearing these, and would tend to tip off the opposition that nefarious doings were afoot.

She put the latex gloves in the back pocket of her jeans and, from her jacket, she took a pair of woolly gloves in a bright striped rainbow pattern and put them on instead. Nothing could look less sinister than these.

Usborne was watching her with approval. “Smart,” he said. He’d clearly followed every stage of her thinking. “You’ve removed your fingerprints from the other bars?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “And our DNA. We cleaned them with bleach. It won’t damage gold. Not pure gold, which is highly chemically non-reactive. In fact, that’s one way of testing the purity of gold.” Then she realised that she was jabbering nervously. Usborne obviously realised this, too, but he was just waiting patiently for her to finish and settle down.

He was probably used to people having nerves, what with having been in the army and in combat and all.

“Okay,” said Cordelia.

“Right,” said Usborne. “I’ll follow you in a minute or two.”

“Don’t leave it too long,” said Cordelia. “I don’t know how long I can stall them with small talk.”

“I can’t come in too close on your heels,” said Usborne, “or that will look suspicious.”

“Okay,” said Cordelia, her heart sinking. Suddenly she could see a hundred ways this could go wrong. Would go wrong.

Usborne put his hand on her shoulder. Cordelia realised it was his good hand, which was a stupid thing to realise, really. Of course it was.

“It’ll be all right,” said Usborne.

Cordelia nodded, unconvinced, and walked out of the mews and around the corner and up the steps to the front door of the big house and rang the bell. It took several consecutive eternities for someone to answer it, and then that someone turned out to be Blackwell.

“Well, look who’s here,” he said, and grinned.

Her first glimpse of him had made Cordelia sick with terror, but almost instantly that terror had transformed into a molten rage. Cordelia wanted to stick her fingers into his mouth at either edge of that big grin and make it even bigger by ripping his face apart.

This reaction made her feel a lot better, and it was a much calmer Cordelia who followed him into the house. He closed the door behind her and then showed her, with surreal politeness, to the drawing room. Déjà vu added itself to the avalanche of sensations Cordelia was experiencing.

“I’ll get Ms Spatetree,” said Blackwell. “Just take a seat.”

More surreal politeness.

He left the door open when he left, which Cordelia much preferred to it being closed.

And it meant she could hear him go upstairs, and then after a moment hear voices, one of them a woman’s voice pitched in cadences of at least mild surprise. And then the sound of the two of them coming down the stairs together.

All of this took some time, which made Cordelia very happy because, as she’d said to Usborne, she wasn’t sure how long she could stall them. Anything which helped fill this difficult waiting period was very welcome indeed.

Melantha came in with Blackwell. She looked quite surprised to see Cordelia sitting there, as if she’d doubted the veracity of Blackwell’s account. “Well, this is an unexpected pleasure,” she said. “You really shouldn’t drop in unannounced, though.” She sat down opposite Cordelia. Blackwell remained standing in the doorway. “We might have been out.”

“If you had been, I’d have come back later.” Cordelia’s voice was croaky. She hadn’t realised how dry her mouth was. She cleared her throat. She didn’t mind if Melantha thought she sounded scared.

That would all contribute to the general effect she wanted to make.

And anyway, she was scared.

“It is a trifle rude, though,” said Melantha. “Just dropping in out of the blue. You should have called first.”

“I didn’t want you to be too prepared for my visit,” said Cordelia. “If you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” said Melantha.

“I do,” said Blackwell.

Melantha turned to look at him. “But we’ve assured Ms Stanmer that no harm will come to her if she honours her side of the agreement.” She turned back to Cordelia. “And you do intend to honour it, don’t you?”

Cordelia didn’t know what she would have done at this point if she hadn’t heard the sound of the front door opening. Blackwell glanced casually down the hallway and then looked back at Cordelia and Melantha, quite relaxed. It was obvious that Usborne had just come in.

Thank fuck.

Because, as she’d said, Cordelia didn’t have much in the way of small talk.

“That’s why I’m here,” she said. “To honour my agreement.” She reached into her pocket and took out the gold bar in its plastic bag. She got up to hand it to Melantha.

She didn’t need to go all the way to Melantha’s chair to do so, because Melantha had instantly risen when she’d seen it and come towards Cordelia as if magnetically drawn. They met halfway.

Any questions Melantha might have about why Cordelia was still wearing her rainbow woolly gloves in this nice warm room were completely obliterated by her total concentration on the gold bar. She was staring at it with a sort of ecstatic relief. Blackwell was staring at it, too.

Usborne came in and joined the gold-bar-staring party, though he and Cordelia did exchange a quick glance first.

Melantha stripped the plastic bag off the bar with a sort of intense savagery, then screwed it up and threw it to one side. Usborne bent down and picked it up and pocketed it. Which was a perfectly, beautifully plausible thing to do in his role as flunky. But it also, Cordelia was grateful to note, covered her if she’d left any trace of herself on the bag.

Melantha was turning the gold bar over in her hands. Blackwell was watching as if mesmerised. Then Melantha suddenly looked up at Cordelia. “Where’s the rest of it?” she said.

So much for the niceties.

“It’s here, too,” said Cordelia.

“Here?” said Melantha.

Cordelia rose to her feet. Everything had to move quickly now. Too quickly for them to ask any questions. It was like skating over thin ice just fast enough to avoid it breaking up under you.

“Let me take you to it,” she said, and started for the door.

Blackwell moved to block her, but Melantha shook her head. She set the gold bar down reverently on the cushioned seat of the chair where she’d been sitting, as if it was some pampered pet, and she followed them out of the room with Blackwell in front of Cordelia and Usborne behind her.

Melantha brought up the rear, carefully closing the drawing room door behind her, presumably so that the gold wouldn’t escape.

“Where are we going?” said Blackwell. “Where is it?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Cordelia. “It’s right here.”

They were standing at the front door. Blackwell was obviously reluctant to open it and let Cordelia back out into the big wide world. But when he said, “You mean outside?” and Cordelia said, “Yes,” he opened it very promptly.

Cordelia went down the steps with Blackwell right at her side, and Melantha and Usborne close behind.

“Where?” said Blackwell. He really was a boringly pedantic little shit.

“Right here,” said Cordelia, and she turned into the mews.

They followed her obediently to the garage. They didn’t question the fact that the small door had been left ajar. They just followed her inside.

And when they saw the gold, that was that.

There it was, all of it—all except for the one bar they already had—neatly displayed for them, looking very handsome in its gleaming golden contrast to the harsh pockmarked grey of the concrete floor.

They didn’t think to ask how Cordelia had got it here.

Melantha got down on her knees and touched it.

Blackwell joined her.

And so did Usborne.

Only Cordelia hung back, remaining by the open door.

The others were on the floor, touching the gold.

“It’s all here,” said Melantha.

“Christ,” said Blackwell.

Usborne said nothing. He just began to helpfully stack the bars into a neat pile.

That was when Melantha noticed the other new addition to her garage. She was staring at the big black-wrapped bundle lying by the car on the far side. It looked like exactly what it was.

A dead body wrapped in bin bags.

“What’s that?” said Melantha.

“Shit,” said Blackwell.

They had both got to their feet and were staring at the body.

At this point, Usborne had stacked four gold bars and just happened to be holding them in his hand—you have to be quite strong to hold four kilos like that so casually.

He continued to hold the gold bars casually as he strode swiftly towards the small open door and through it.

Cordelia was already through it and waiting in the mews outside.

Moving with calm, businesslike speed and efficiency, Usborne set the gold bars down on the cobbles—after all, he only had the one good hand—and then shut the door of the garage and double locked it.

Cordelia watched as he next moved the four bars far off to one side. She didn’t immediately understand why he did this.

But then he got into the Mercedes, switched the engine on, and drove it so it was parked snugly right against the garage door. He switched off the engine and got out again.

Cordelia realised that, parked like this, the Merc not only blocked the small door, assuming that could somehow be opened from the inside, but it also prevented the large one from being opened, since it needed to move forward before it could move upward.

And it couldn’t move forward with the Merc tight against it.

Usborne left the key in the ignition of the Mercedes.

He thoughtfully also left the Yale key for the small door on the seat.

He left the door of the Merc open, picked up the gold bars, and carried them to the BMW and loaded them into that. There was the sound of a car behind her and Cordelia turned around to see the very welcome sight of Edwin pulling into the mews.

Usborne locked the BMW and strode past Cordelia and Edwin, who’d just got out of the Volvo. In answer to Edwin’s questioning look he said, “Just going into the house to get the bar we left in there.”

“All right,” said Edwin, glancing at his watch. “But everything has been set in motion now, so don’t take too long.”

“I won’t,” said Usborne.

Cordelia got into the Volvo with Edwin and they drove off. It felt wonderful to be in this car without any of the previous loads it had carried.

And with a brand-new and much more welcome load.

Cordelia glanced over her shoulder at the bag of Commando paperbacks, resting securely on the back seat.

They were on the Old Brompton Road when they heard the first of the police sirens. They seemed to be coming from every direction.

“I hope Usborne didn’t take too long,” said Edwin.

29: TOFFEE POPCORN VODKA

Cordelia sat on the chrome-and-red-leather bar stool and resisted the temptation to spin around on it. It was quite a strong temptation and such behaviour would have nicely matched her celebratory mood. But she told herself that this was business and that she must maintain a businesslike demeanour.

Erik wouldn’t have minded, though.

Erik Make Loud was in a very good mood himself. A very good mood indeed.

They were sitting opposite each other, on either side of the long counter in his 1950s diner-themed kitchen. A counter which they had just finished very thoroughly cleaning and then meticulously drying, before spreading out the thirteen Butch Raider Commando novels on it. The thirteen utterly immaculate, fine condition Butch Raider Commando novels.

Note the number thirteen.

They looked very nice against the pale mint green Formica of the countertop.

Erik certainly thought so. Erik couldn’t stop grinning. Occasionally, he’d pick up one of the books, inspect it from assorted angles, then put it down again and pick up another one and repeat the process.

He could inspect them from any angle he liked, reflected Cordelia. He wouldn’t find any flaws.

There was the sound of high-heeled footsteps, and Cordelia and Erik turned to see that they’d been joined by Erik’s live-in girlfriend. “So, this is where you are,” said Helene.

“Look what I got, doll,” said Erik happily.

“So I see,” said Helene, sitting down and joining them. She smiled at Cordelia. “Successful mission, eh?”

Cordelia smiled back with what she hoped was a modest smile. It was hard to keep it modest, though. Because Erik was saying, “She did me proud. Look at these, doll. A complete set. In fine condition. And I do mean a complete set.” He held up Commando Gold. If it was possible to hold a paperback triumphantly, that was definitely what Erik was doing. “If you look on Wikipedia, you’ll see wankers saying this one doesn’t even exist.”

“They’ll stop saying that now,” said Cordelia.

“That’s right,” said Erik. He was positively exultant. “The fuckers are going to have to change their fucking tune now.”

“That’s the really rare one?” said Helene.

“The rarest of the rare,” declared Erik with satisfaction.

“Let’s have a look, doll,” said Helene.

After a pause of a fraction of a second, Erik handed the book to her. But he did so with perceptible reluctance, as if he was trusting a particularly clumsy relative to hold his newborn child. He watched anxiously as she examined the cover of the book and turned it over. I hope her hands are clean, thought Cordelia, who was at least as anxious as Erik.

They both stared tensely at Helene as she finished reading the blurb on the back cover and then, in a nightmare come to life, began to open the book…

“Babe,” said Erik quickly.

Helene paused in the act of opening the book. “Yes, babe?”

“Please… be careful not to break the spine…”

“Break the spine?” said Helene, either genuinely baffled or doing a world-class job of feigning innocence and tormenting them.

“Of the book,” said Cordelia.

“Oh,” said Helene, closing the book again. “Well, we wouldn’t want to break the book’s spine. We wouldn’t want to end up with a poor little paraplegic paperback, would we?” She was heavily laying on the sardonic tone, but she did hand the book back to Erik, who visibly wilted with released tension.

In fact, the sense of relief in the kitchen was palpable.

If Helene was aware of this, she didn’t seem bothered. Mostly she seemed vastly amused. She sat on her stool and spun around, and Cordelia, repressing pangs of envy about the stool-spinning, suddenly realised Helene was actually high as a kite.

As she slowed to a halt in her rotation, Helene pointed at the book, which Erik was still holding protectively, like a rescue animal saved from some horrible experience in the wild. “Nazi gold, eh?” she said.

“That’s right, doll,” said Erik.

“It’s a bit of a hot topic, isn’t it?” said Helene. “Been all over the news lately. You remember that woman in Chelsea?”

“South Kensington,” said Cordelia, before she could stop herself.

“That’s right,” said Helene. “That rich old bitch in South Kensington? And her chauffeur? The police caught them in her garage with a dead body and a fortune in Nazi gold. They’d killed some poor bastard to get it, or something. I reckon she was banging the chauffeur.”

“Of course she was, doll,” said Erik, clearly relieved by the change in topic—or what he, in his naivety, believed to be a change in topic; Cordelia, of course, knew better—and he restored Commando Gold safely to its place among the paperbacks on display across the counter.

“And there was another chauffeur, who went on the run,” said Helene. “And they tried to blame everything on him.”

“That’s right, doll,” said Erik soothingly, and probably not even listening.

“But then that witness turned up,” said Helene.

The witness was in fact Ossie Ballas, who had been in hiding, terrified for his life. And not without reason, thought Cordelia. The news of his brother’s body being discovered—Grisly Find in Millionairess’s Garage—had brought him out of hiding. “And he testified that he’d seen the killing,” said Helene. “And it wasn’t the other chauffeur. The other chauffeur saved his life. Saved the life of the witness. It was all on the first chauffeur.”

“And her,” said Cordelia.

“Her?” said Helene, gazing at Cordelia. Her pupils were enormous. Definitely stoned.

“The rich bitch from South Kensington,” said Cordelia.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Helene. “It was all on her and the chauffeur. The first chauffeur. He killed the guy and she was the one who hired him to kill him.” Helene paused thoughtfully. “I reckon she was banging both of them. Both the chauffeurs.”

This had actually been Cordelia’s own pet theory. At least until she got to know Usborne.

“Of course she was, doll,” said Erik. “How about some vodka, huh?” He looked back and forth at the women eagerly. “How about a drop of vodka to celebrate?”

“All rat,” said Helene. Which was apparently her especially enthusiastic way of saying “All right”.

“Could it possibly be toffee popcorn vodka?” said Cordelia, seeing the opportunity of fulfilling a long-nurtured ambition. Well, nurtured since the last time she was here.

“Too right it could,” said Erik.

“Damned right it could,” added Helene.

Erik hopped down from his stool and kneeled on the floor by the kitchen cabinet in which the vodka resided in its manifold and multifarious flavours. He popped the cabinet open.

While he was momentarily out of sight at floor level, Helene revealed herself to be really quite alert despite being very stoned, because she took advantage of his fleeting absence and passed Cordelia a folded piece of paper.

Cordelia accepted it automatically. If it had been a set of satanic runes passing on a curse, she would have been in big trouble.

But even as she put it away out of sight—just in time for Erik not to see it as he rose to his feet again with a bottle clutched victoriously, and for him to remain completely unaware of what had just transpired between his girlfriend and Cordelia—Cordelia realised what it was.

It wasn’t a set of satanic runes. It was a cheque representing the second half of her payment for not sleeping with Erik. She remembered her discussion about the deal with Helene in this very kitchen—indeed, sitting on these very bar stools.

It all seemed a terribly long time ago, in the distant past. But really it had been only a matter of days.

As Erik set the bottle of toffee popcorn vodka proudly on the counter, Cordelia fondled the folded cheque in the pocket of her jeans. She’d completely forgotten that this nice little slice of income was coming her way.

It was a lovely little bonus on top of the whacking great fee Erik had just paid her for the thirteen books spread out before them.

The thirteen books Erik was now hastily transforming into a single neat stack and moving far, far away down the length of the counter.

Cordelia quite understood. This was to avoid any potential damage by vodka spillage.

Speaking of vodka…

Erik poured them all a toffee popcorn tipple, into stylish little shot glasses of a pleasant frosted blue shade. He handed the glasses around with great ceremony. Cordelia sniffed at hers. Yep. Toffee popcorn all right.

“Let’s drink a toast,” said Erik expansively.

“All right, babe,” said Helene.

“Here’s to a complete set of very rare paperbacks,” said Erik.

“Boring,” said Helene. “Don’t look hurt, doll.” This was addressed to Erik, who did indeed look a little hurt. “We can do that as our next toast. Our next thirteen toasts, if you like.”

At this suggestion Erik brightened and Cordelia began to brace herself for a long, drunken afternoon. It was actually quite a pleasant prospect, what with Melantha and Blackwell safely behind bars, and her job for Erik successfully completed.

“Okay,” said Erik. “But what are we going to drink to, for our first toast?”

“To success with crime,” said Helene, firmly. “Here’s to the other chauffeur. He got away with half the loot.”

Cordelia had to resist the urge to correct her. I think you’ll find it was only five out of thirteen bars of gold.

“That’s what I like to hear about,” said Helene. “People getting away with crime.”

30: CHEQUE

Toffee popcorn vodka was delicious, but it did tend to give you a hangover.

Cordelia had a chance to appreciate this the following day, sitting in the pearly autumn sunlight in her snug attic room. Whether it was the hangover, or the sudden release of tension after completing a very demanding project, she felt a keen sense of letdown.

In fact, she had the blues.

So, she threw herself into her work. She still had the assignment from Duncan Fairwell, of selling him back his own books. But, before she did that, she had something a little more exciting to embark on…

Cordelia gazed fondly at the stacks of copies of Commando Gold which occupied a large portion of the big wooden table where she ate her meals and, rather more importantly, displayed prized books.

She began to feel better already.

She felt better still when she went online and auctioned the first copy, and sold it for an eye-watering sum. Eye-watering for the customer, very gratifying for Cordelia.

So gratifying that she had to resist the impulse to do it again, immediately.

Because if she did that, and people realised there was a large cache of the books being sold off, the price she could command for them would inevitably drop, steeply and swiftly.

She’d just have to bide her time and wait for a month, or, better yet, two or three, and then sell the next one. If she maintained discipline and spaced them out like that, she could keep the price high and the books would make a very nice little income stream for the next few years.

She regarded them stacked there with even more fondness than before.

Having received payment for the auctioned copy of Commando Gold, she then forced herself to do the right thing. It actually didn’t take much forcing…

Cordelia had resolved that half the proceeds from the sale of every copy of Commando Gold would not go to her. She took out her chequebook—she hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Helene she was planning on getting one—and wrote a cheque for the correct amount, making it payable to Monty Harrington.

With Melantha behind bars, Monty was now deprived of his stipend, or pension, as he liked to call it. After all these years depending on it, Cordelia imagined this would be quite a shock to the system. To the quirky, camp and somewhat bent system of Monty Harrington.

Cordelia felt he might have a bit of trouble managing without his regular monthly payment. And she didn’t like to think of him having trouble managing. Especially with his broken arm, in its silly cartoon sling.

And especially since Cordelia had been responsible for putting his meal ticket behind bars.

So, she’d decided Monty would get half of whatever she made from selling Commando Gold. The money would help him out.

And it would make her feel better.

Having written the cheque, she put it in an envelope with a brief covering note explaining where the money had come from and why she was sending it. Then she cadged a stamp off Edwin, who complied with a smile because he knew what she was up to.

And then Cordelia went for a pleasant autumnal stroll to the red post box on Church Road and posted it to Monty.

A few days passed, uneventful except for a cheery phonecall from Tinkler, who had some surprising news about Ossie Ballas.

It seemed that the publicity surrounding recent events had flushed out the person who had been the nemesis of Ossie (and his late brother)—the individual on the other side of the edit war about the existence of Commando Gold. Surprisingly enough, this was a woman. A woman living in California. Even more surprisingly, she and Ossie had begun exchanging messages and had struck up a friendship.

More surprisingly still, this had blossomed into more than a friendship. A love affair—Cordelia could hardly believe she was using these words, but there you were—had sprung up between the two erstwhile Wiki adversaries.

In fact, the woman had flown over from California and was currently staying in the Ballas house in Cambridge.

Unbelievably enough, Ossie actually had a girlfriend.

Admittedly, she looked like the back end of a bus, according to Tinkler. But nonetheless it was a development which would have done justice to the most witless of romcoms.

And Cordelia was pleased for Ossie. Indeed, for both to them.

She was also pleased, not long after this, to get a letter addressed to her in Monty Harrington’s distinctive handwriting.

And she wasn’t surprised to find that it contained another Bettie Page postcard. This time featuring Bettie in a leopard-skin bikini.

But she was surprised to discover that it also contained her cheque.

Returned to her, uncashed.

On the back of the postcard, in Monty’s inimitable handwriting, it said:

My Dear Sweet Cordelia,

How very kind of you to think of me. And how generous of you to share your hard-earned income with me. It really is a very sweet thought.

But quite unnecessary.

Because, although you are right and my pension from Melantha has been cancelled, I am now in receipt of another source of regular income.

It seems that some kind soul has purchased an annuity for me.

He said it was only fair since he broke my arm on the understanding that I would continue to receive my pension.

So, you see, I am as well off as I was before.

And my arm, by the way, is healing nicely.

You must come over for a visit soon. Bring dear Edwin. We never did discuss Seamus Heaney.

With love,

MH

An annuity?

Cordelia did some quick calculations.

And she worked out that this could have been purchased with less than the value of one of the five bars Usborne had absconded with.

But why be cynical?

It was still a nice gesture.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My warmest thanks to Ann Karas for reading early drafts of the manuscript and offering comments and advice. Thanks also to my editor Rufus Purdy and my agent Stevie Finegan, and to Nick Landau and Vivian Cheung at Titan, and my old comrade in arms, Ben Aaronovitch, for supporting my writing.

Special thanks are due to the very talented Julia Lloyd for the visual flair and painstaking hard work she brought to creating the cover art for this book.

For those who are interested in such things, Erik Make Loud and his ménage feature on a regular basis in the Vinyl Detective novels, as indeed does Jordon Tinkler.

The Picasso portrait of Françoise Gilot exists and is pretty much as described, although it is not owned by a woman called Melantha Spatetree.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrew Cartmel is a novelist, playwright, amateur chef and gardener, and a faithful servant to his cat. In addition to the Paperback Sleuth novels he is the author of the bestselling Vinyl Detective series, hailed as “marvellously inventive and endlessly fascinating” by Publishers Weekly, which features many of the same characters. His work for television includes a legendary stint as script editor on Doctor Who. He also writes plays for the London Fringe, including the recent award-winning comedy Dressing Gown, and has toured as a stand-up comedian. He lives in London quite near the scene of many of his fictional crimes. You can find Andrew on Instagram at @vinyldetectivelondon, on Twitter/X at @andrewcartmel and listen to his weekly radio show, Vinyl Detective Radio, via Medway Pride or Reclaimed Radio.

For more fantastic fiction, author events,
exclusive excerpts, competitions, limited editions and more

VISIT OUR WEBSITE

titanbooks.com

LIKE US ON FACEBOOK

facebook.com/titanbooks

FOLLOW US ON TWITTER AND INSTAGRAM

@TitanBooks

EMAIL US

readerfeedback@titanemail.com