Neon Madman Read Online Free Page A
Author: John Harvey
bought an open ham and tomato sandwich and a piece of cheesecake to keep my stomach in check.
I gave her the money and she smiled again as she handed me the change. Her name was Tricia and she was nineteen or twenty and outside that coffee shop she didnât exist. Not for me anyway. For someone else I guessed that she did, but not for me.
Which was why we were still able to smile at each other after a couple of years.
I sat down in the corner and stirred the coffee for several minutes although I hadnât been taking sugar for around six months. I was thinking and it wasnât about what I was doing.
I was thinking about a big Spade heavy who had shown how easily he could take me apart. Trying to figure out how our lines had become crossed. It didnât sound as though heâd been at the hotel himself, so that meant someone else had seen me and either recognised me or followed me back to my office. Someone who was there for a little more than pleasure.
They could have been using the hotel as a meeting place or a pick-up point and got spooked at seeing a private investigator suddenly snooping about the place. Or they could have been watching it themselves ⦠it or him. The guy who had taken Marcia Pollard there for a little after-lunch romp. Just to make sure that the avocado didnât go to waste. The guy who went there every Tuesday and Thursday. As regular as a work out in the gymâand probably a hell of a lot more enjoyable.
There hadnât been a name in the register, of course, and Pollard had told me he didnât want to know who was involved with his wife, just if anyone was. But I had a natural curiosity.
Murdoch, the grey-haired woman had told me. James P. Murdoch.
âHeâs a very important man,â she had added in an awed whisper.
At the time I hadnât thought twice about it, but now it seemed as though she might have been telling the truth.
I realised that I had eaten all of the roll and half of the cheesecake without noticing what I was chewing. I got up and ordered another roll. I didnât want to get involved in a long argument with my stomach later about whether Iâd fed it or not.
âWhatâs the matter, Mr Mitchell? You look worried.â
She stood there smiling, a flap of dark hair, falling down over her forehead and the light over the counter making the slight down of her arms shine whitely. She was a very pretty girl. I wondered what sheâd be like when she was ten or twelve years older and starting to get the itch once her old man was off to work and the kids were in school I didnât want to know the answer.
âItâs nothing,â I said, âOnly the heat.â
She smiled sympathetically and agreed. I took my bread roll back to the table and thought about eating it. It tasted good. Only by that time the coffee had started to get cold.
James P. Murdoch. I tried the name out inside my head a few times. It sounded convincing enough. The sort of name I felt I should have been able to place but couldnât.
I drained my coffee cup, ate the last mouthful of cheesecake, said goodbye to Tricia and went back to my office to play with the London telephone directory.
It was a game I was used to. I must have been one of the few people who could recite whole sections of it from a relatively early age. While other kids my age were marvelling at Roy of the Rovers or Jack Slade, I was sitting there with a volume of EâK open on my knees.
The plot was lousy but the list of characters was fascinating!
Later, when I was working as a young CID copper attached to Holmes Road police station, it was to come in more than useful. And since I had left the force and taken to working for myself, I used it even more.
Only this time the name wasnât there.
There were quite a few J. Murdochs, but I figured that if he was as definite about using the full Christian name and initial as he seemed to be, then he would have filled in the
I gave her the money and she smiled again as she handed me the change. Her name was Tricia and she was nineteen or twenty and outside that coffee shop she didnât exist. Not for me anyway. For someone else I guessed that she did, but not for me.
Which was why we were still able to smile at each other after a couple of years.
I sat down in the corner and stirred the coffee for several minutes although I hadnât been taking sugar for around six months. I was thinking and it wasnât about what I was doing.
I was thinking about a big Spade heavy who had shown how easily he could take me apart. Trying to figure out how our lines had become crossed. It didnât sound as though heâd been at the hotel himself, so that meant someone else had seen me and either recognised me or followed me back to my office. Someone who was there for a little more than pleasure.
They could have been using the hotel as a meeting place or a pick-up point and got spooked at seeing a private investigator suddenly snooping about the place. Or they could have been watching it themselves ⦠it or him. The guy who had taken Marcia Pollard there for a little after-lunch romp. Just to make sure that the avocado didnât go to waste. The guy who went there every Tuesday and Thursday. As regular as a work out in the gymâand probably a hell of a lot more enjoyable.
There hadnât been a name in the register, of course, and Pollard had told me he didnât want to know who was involved with his wife, just if anyone was. But I had a natural curiosity.
Murdoch, the grey-haired woman had told me. James P. Murdoch.
âHeâs a very important man,â she had added in an awed whisper.
At the time I hadnât thought twice about it, but now it seemed as though she might have been telling the truth.
I realised that I had eaten all of the roll and half of the cheesecake without noticing what I was chewing. I got up and ordered another roll. I didnât want to get involved in a long argument with my stomach later about whether Iâd fed it or not.
âWhatâs the matter, Mr Mitchell? You look worried.â
She stood there smiling, a flap of dark hair, falling down over her forehead and the light over the counter making the slight down of her arms shine whitely. She was a very pretty girl. I wondered what sheâd be like when she was ten or twelve years older and starting to get the itch once her old man was off to work and the kids were in school I didnât want to know the answer.
âItâs nothing,â I said, âOnly the heat.â
She smiled sympathetically and agreed. I took my bread roll back to the table and thought about eating it. It tasted good. Only by that time the coffee had started to get cold.
James P. Murdoch. I tried the name out inside my head a few times. It sounded convincing enough. The sort of name I felt I should have been able to place but couldnât.
I drained my coffee cup, ate the last mouthful of cheesecake, said goodbye to Tricia and went back to my office to play with the London telephone directory.
It was a game I was used to. I must have been one of the few people who could recite whole sections of it from a relatively early age. While other kids my age were marvelling at Roy of the Rovers or Jack Slade, I was sitting there with a volume of EâK open on my knees.
The plot was lousy but the list of characters was fascinating!
Later, when I was working as a young CID copper attached to Holmes Road police station, it was to come in more than useful. And since I had left the force and taken to working for myself, I used it even more.
Only this time the name wasnât there.
There were quite a few J. Murdochs, but I figured that if he was as definite about using the full Christian name and initial as he seemed to be, then he would have filled in the
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