Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1)

Prologue

Nick woke with a jolt, instinctively throwing himself to the floor, his reactions running a split-second ahead of his sleep-dulled mind as he clawed his way across the carpet towards the window. He lay still on the floor for a few seconds, listening, trying to hear over the racing of his own heart and calm the tremor in his hands. Another nightmare?

In his dreams he’d been back there, the front, in the mud and filth with the rounds popping round and the stench of the bodies rotting in the wire, but there was something else. Something had snapped him back to the present, to now. What?

He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his hammering heart, trying to still the shaking adrenalin rush surging round his body. Gingerly he rolled over. He could feel dampness on his leg; for a moment he had the absurd thought that he’d been shot. He shook his head. How would he be hit, up here in his flat, above the quiet London street? Old habits died hard. He looked down at his leg. A bottle of Scotch lay rocking on its side next to a shattered crystal tumbler, the dark stain in the carpet seeping into the leg of his trousers.

              Nick sat up, ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing back the fringe from his eyes, feeling the shaking subside, already replaced by the familiar nagging of fatigue and the thump of an imminent hangover. Clambering to his feet, he kicked at the bottle of Scotch in annoyance, sending a spew of amber splashing over the threadbare carpet. The clock said it was just after five. He peered out of the window into the dying night. The dreams, the nightmares; he normally woke up shouting, bathed in sweat; he had a horrible feeling the sound had been real rather than phantasmal, a slightly uneasy moving of the gut, but that could be the drink. He couldn’t even remember getting home.

              Outside, the roads were dark and silent, the hissing gas lamps long since extinguished, the dawn not yet arrived. There was not a soul to be seen, but the sound had been close. A shot? He was almost sure. Familiar and close enough to register in his slumbering mind and for his body to react. One more legacy of his bitter experience. He looked down at the now empty bottle weeping its last upon the carpet, sighed and moving to the front door, slipped a battered greatcoat over his athletic frame.  

              The stairs creaked in complaint as he negotiated their crooked tangle, stumbling against the wall as a dull rush of nausea swept over him. Shrugging it off with a deep breath, he left the security of the house and moved to the middle of the empty road and listened. People said the city was never quiet, but they were wrong. In those long, lonely hours from two until four there was barely ever a sound as seemingly the whole of London slumbered. An illusion in itself, as Nick knew too well; behind innocuous-looking doors, the jazz age was swinging towards what must surely be its last hurrah in an orgy of dance and drink. Nick’s street was quiet, but less than two streets over in any direction he knew a handful of places he could get a drink, and company, even at this hour.

              He shivered; despite the heavy greatcoat the dampness of the night held a chill, and he felt another chill, the chill of a memory of first-light stand-tos and imminent death that he hurriedly pushed to the back of his mind. Just up ahead, Newman Passage slipped from Rathbone Street beside a pub into a small courtyard, and as Nick gingerly approached he was already wondering why he hadn’t brought a weapon of some sort with him. He peered carefully down the claustrophobic darkness of the alley, but could see nothing beyond the empty cobbles. Stepping carefully along the passage with his back tight against the cold wall, he stopped. In the shadow of a corner in the small courtyard ahead lay a bundle of rags he instinctively knew was a body.

CHAPTER 1

Nick hated the smell of official buildings; the sterile disinfectant and wood polish tinged undertones that spoke of efficiency and order. More than he hated that, though, he hated the boredom and suspicion-filled atmosphere of police stations, particularly this one, Tottenham Court Road, his local. Which was why he would have given almost anything not to be here again, slouched in a chair in the waiting area, enduring the suspicious glances of passing policemen, not to mention those of the other occupants of the room: the snivelling woman in the fur coat, stopping her sobbing to glance around fearfully every once in a while; the man Nick felt sure was a career criminal, hard face set looking unblinkingly straight ahead; and the tired father with his little girl. All of them waiting, all of them suspicious of each other and their reasons for being here – guilt by association.

              Nick let out a sigh, rather more loudly than he’d meant to, drawing more glances from the other occupants and a disapproving stare from the desk sergeant. Nick focussed on his own shoes; shuffling the scruffy brown brogues across the floor, he flicked a look at his wristwatch, wondering how long he would be here. There was always a gnawing fear you may not come back out, or at the very least be stifled for hours or even days by inane questions and procedures. You’d have thought a murder would have jumped the queue.

Just then a young man in a smart suit came through the internal door and cleared his throat.

“Nick Valentine?”

Nick climbed to his feet and gave a weak smile that was returned with a disapproving grimace. He sighed, resigned to what was to come. Reaching the man, Nick held out his hand. The man looked at it before awkwardly shaking it.

“Nick,” said Nick.

“Yes, I know,” the man said coolly. “Detective Miller. This way.” He ushered Nick down a corridor filled with the racket of clacking typewriters and into the relative silence of a small interview room. The iron radiator in the corner gave a groan that reverberated around the pipes. A uniformed constable came in and stood by the closed door as they sat, keeping his eyes professionally locked on the middle distance. Nick leaned back in his chair, hands splayed across the table in front of him. Detective Miller spent what seemed an inordinate amount of time shuffling papers in a manila folder in front of him. Finally he stopped and fixed Nick with a cold stare.

              “I don’t like men like you; let me start by saying that. Your war record speaks for itself up until the time it disappears into a load of quite unsatisfactory dead ends. Then you resurface, discharged from the Foreign Office from places unknown in 1926, for conduct unbecoming. Yet they let you keep your pension. Why?”

“I thought we were here to discuss the body I found?”

“We are here to discuss a murder and your role in it. From what I see, you are something of an unsavoury character, well known to this station and with possible, might I add, very likely, criminal affiliations.” Miller glared at Nick.

“Supposition on your part. Shouldn‘t there be a good cop here as well?” Nick quipped.

“What?” Miller seemed confused.

“Never mind. Look, let me guess, you’re new here right, your first spell out of uniform in a new station, trying to make your mark. I get it. I should imagine that you’re really popular around here, bellowing out orders and pulling all the strings you can get your hands on.” Behind Miller the uniformed constable suppressed a smirk. “But I’m just a concerned citizen reporting a crime, nothing more, nothing less.”

“I’ll be the judge of that!” barked the detective. Nick noted with satisfaction that he’d stung him. “Where were you between 1919 and 1926, I wonder, Mr Valentine? What were you doing that you wash up here flitting around dance halls and bars, working as some sort of liquor-soaked private detective? If you can even call it that. Amateur detectives? Those days are long gone, Mr Valentine.”

“Well I guess that’s why I’m not trying to solve this murder and they’ve got a hotshot like you on it instead. I’m not a detective, I’m a security consultant, and if you want to know what I did then go see the Foreign Office and see how far you get with them. Now, do you want to know what I saw and heard or are we going to waste more time?” Nick sat forward and fixed Miller with a hard stare. The man flushed and seemed lost for words for a minute, something he attempted to disguise by fiddling in his jacket for a pen. He flushed harder as he scoured his pockets unsuccessfully.

“Here, borrow mine,” said Nick, holding his pen out. Miller looked at it then took it with a mumbled thanks. He started to scribble some notes then clearing his throat, he spoke without looking up.

“Can you tell me in your own words how you found the body?”

“Of course. It was just after five this morning; I was up in my flat when–”

“How do you know what the time was?” interrupted Miller.

“I looked at the clock.”

“Fine, please continue.”

“Thanks. Like I said, I was up in my flat and I was woken up by a noise. I think.”

“You think? What kind of noise?”

“I have nightmares. About the war. I think it was a shot that woke me up.”

“Or a nightmare?”

Nick shrugged. “Something woke me up. There’s a body.”

“Why do you think it would be a shot, though?”

“She was shot wasn’t she?” Nick retorted, struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Just answer the question.”

“Call it instinct.” There was a long pause. Miller looked up into Nick’s challenging gaze and quickly looked back down at his paper.

“Please go on,” he mumbled.

“So, I headed outside to see–”

“You think you heard gunfire and you went outside?”

              “Jesus, Miller, we’ll be here all day if you keep this up. Yes, I thought I heard gunfire and I went outside.”

The door swung open with a bang.

“That’s enough!”

Miller spun round angrily and glowered at the new man who’d entered. Nick sized him up. He was tall and wiry, and young; a sparse, fair moustache perched uncomfortably above thin lips; his suit was expensive and he wore a Cambridge college tie. His piercing, pale eyes fixed on Nick who had a feeling this wouldn’t be good.

“I thought I gave instructions that I was to interview Mr Valentine?”

“With respect, this is a police matter and–” began Miller.

“Not anymore. I suggest you go and see your superintendent for an update, Detective…?”

“Miller,” said Miller in a tone somewhat lacking certainty in the face of the new man’s authoritative tone.

“Miller, good, noted. Now get out. Both of you.”

Miller looked like he was about to say something, looked at the uniformed constable, who shrugged, and thought better of it. He stood stiffly but as he went to leave he turned to Valentine. “I’ll be watching you,” he warned.

Nick raised an eyebrow.

“Then that makes two of us. Now leave please,” commanded the new man. Nick watched as the two policemen filed out. The man in the smart suit shut the door behind them then turned and fixed Nick with an unconvincing smile from those thin lips. “So, Mr Valentine, or should I say ‘Major’?” he sneered, crossing to the table and sitting down stiffly, back ramrod straight. “What an ‘honour’ to meet you.”

              Nick decided that he really didn’t like this man. He’d met many of his type and typically disliked them all. The type with the arrogance that comes from having everything handed to them on a plate and the expectation that everything always would be. Nick slouched lower in his seat and took his hands off the table. “And who do I have the honour of meeting?” he asked with as much disdain as he could muster.

The man sniffed and looked at Nick closely as if deciding what to impart. “My name is Carruthers. I work for the Home Office. I’m sure for a man of your background I’ve no need to expand on that.”

“Not at all. Since when is a murder in Fitzrovia a Home Office matter?”

“That is rather what I was hoping to ask you.”

Nick kept the surprise off his face and fished in his jacket pocket for a packet of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Actually I do.”

Nick curled the corner of his mouth and lit up anyway, pleased at the flicker of annoyance he elicited. A long silence passed between them, Nick had nearly finished his cigarette and he had a sudden longing to leave this place and get some fresh air. The man thought he was good but he wasn’t.

“You know the silent treatment usually only works with nervous people who have something to hide. I’m neither. Like I told the police at the time, I just found the body. There’s no more to tell than that, so I’m a bit bewildered as to why you’re here.”

“Let’s just say I’m a man who doesn’t believe in coincidences and there are already one too many in this case, Mr Valentine, and I don’t like that one bit.”

              “Well would you care to enlighten me, or I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere terribly fast.”

“Very well. You knew the deceased?”

“I don’t know who the deceased is. I didn’t touch the body.”

“How did you know they were dead?”

“Have you seen the body?”

Carruthers shifted uncomfortably and paled. He obviously had.

“Then you’ll know that she was shot in the back of the head and the exit took most of her face off. Large calibre weapon at point blank range. Anyway, generally, when the front of someone’s head is missing, they’re dead.”

“Quite,” swallowed Carruthers.

“So no, I don’t think I know the deceased.”

“Really? I think perhaps you do, in the circles you keep.” Again the slight sneer.

Nick dropped his cigarette and ground it under his heel. He looked up at Carruthers and shrugged.

“Julia Ramon Cortez. You might know her better as Ramona?”

In spite of himself, Nick started. He thought for a second, a second that Carruthers felt obliged to fill.

“I believe she’s in the same circle as your ‘acquaintance’ Clara De Vere?”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I knew Ramona,” he said quietly. “She was part of Clara’s circle, but that’s a big circle. I knew her by sight, saw her out, but probably only ever said a few words to her.”

“You see my problem here? I’ve got you at the murder scene with a victim that you knew.” Carruthers let that statement hang while Nick lit another cigarette.

“I can see it, but I still don’t understand why that means you’re talking to me rather than the police.”

Carruthers looked irritated; perhaps it was the smoke. Nick hoped so.

“The reason I’m talking to you is that Cortez was a person of interest to us. We were watching her, now she’s dead and you’re the one that finds the body. Who knows where your loyalties lie with a background like yours. Like I said, I don’t like coincidences.”

“You weren’t watching her very well,” Nick said quietly. The other man flushed and banged the table. Nick noted the unprofessional display of emotion; this man was raw.

“Stop trying to misdirect me, dammit!” Carruthers blustered then paused and took a deep breath. “Look, we need to find out who killed Ramona.”

“Sure. What about Ramona, though? Why her?”

“Ramona’s not important. Who killed her is!” snapped Carruthers irritably.

“I’m sure she was important to someone,” Nick said quietly.

Carruthers flushed. “Yes, I, I meant…”

“I know just what you meant.”

“There’s more to this than a murder,” Carruthers finally spluttered.

“Really?” The question hung in the air. After a time, Nick gave a wry smile, shook his head and ground his cigarette out. “If you’ve no more questions I think I’ll be going.” He made to stand but Carruthers leapt to his feet.

“You’ll be going nowhere until you tell me all you know about this.”

“I already have. What I think you want is my help; you just don’t know how to ask for it. How about you tell me why you were watching Ramona and maybe I can help you fill in some of the gaps?”

The younger man paced the room, shooting glances at Nick before finally settling behind the chair.

“What I’m about to tell you is confidential. Cortez was Spanish, on the surface of it, a Republican sympathiser from Madrid working over here as a dancer.”

Nick nodded.

“We have reason to believe, though, that that was a cover and her real loyalty lay slightly farther to the right. She came to London from Italy and had plenty of opportunity to mix with the fascists there in her role as a nightclub entertainer. We’re not sure if she may have been turned to the cause there, or indeed sent there by elements in Madrid. As you are only too aware, the Soho demimonde gives people the opportunity to mix with all kinds of foreign elements and it’s devilishly hard to keep an eye on it all.” He sat down in exasperation.

“We’ve got Italians, Spanish, French, Swiss, Jews, God forbid, even Germans multiplying in the streets of Soho, drinking together in bars, all bringing in strange ideas of nationalism, religious fervour, bolshevism, any other kind of ‘ism’ you can mention and all kinds of strange customs. It will not have escaped your notice that Europe seems to be heading towards a tense period once more. My job is to try and monitor all these types; it’s near impossible.”