The Devil's Moon Read Online Free Page A

packet of cigarettes.
    The deliberation with which he did this reminded Watts of his friend and comrade-in-arms, Jimmy Tingley, recuperating from more than just physical injuries somewhere in Italy. Watts had been keen to visit the ex-SAS man but Tingley had discouraged him, saying he needed time alone and would be back in touch when he was ready.
    Although close, the two men had never been in each other’s pockets, so Watts had accepted this, albeit reluctantly.
    Watts drained his glass and stood as the man took a sip of his beer, a puff from his asthma inhaler and a drag from his cigarette. He coughed as he smoked. Watts glanced back at the swirling river and listened to the low rumble of distant thunder.
    He took his empty glass back to the bar. As he turned to leave a man standing a few yards along the bar beckoned him over.
    He was an ageing rock ’n’ roller, abundant white hair in a ponytail, face deeply lined. He was a long, lean man, though he had a little round belly over his tight leather jeans. Watts figured late sixties, early seventies: both the musical period and the age of the man.
    He was with a woman in her forties who oozed rock chick. She had matching leather jeans tucked into cowboy boots. She was buxom beneath her denim jacket. Leather trousers rarely looked good on anybody, especially an old man with stick-thin legs, but Watts was kind of impressed that these two had the swagger to give it a go.
    The man pointed a be-ringed finger at the bright cover of the Crowley novel Watts was holding in his hand. ‘Don’t see many of those these days.’
    Watts glanced down.
    â€˜Looks in great nick,’ the man continued. ‘The colours haven’t faded at all.’
    The man was familiar and not just because Watts had seen him in here before.
    â€˜Worth a bob or two.’
    â€˜You know the book?’ Watts said.
    â€˜Got a copy myself – without the cover, mind.’
    â€˜Is it any good?’
    â€˜Not that I remember. Not the point though, is it? You must be Don’s son.’ Watts took a moment, surprised by the statement. ‘Don Watts. Also known as Victor Tempest? The late lamented – by me at least.’ The man smiled, wrinkles deepening further all across his face. ‘And many others, I’m sure.’
    â€˜Did I see you at the funeral?’ Watts said, though he knew he hadn’t. Only three people had attended.
    The man shook his head and grinned again. His eyes glittered with amusement and intelligence and probably the amount of drink he’d consumed.
    â€˜Funerals are a bit close to the bone for me.’ He sniffed. ‘Intimations of immortality and all that.’
    Watts didn’t correct him. Instead, he nodded and smiled back.
    â€˜You want to sell it?’ the man said.
    Watts lifted the book. ‘This? Probably. In due course.’
    â€˜Let me know – I’ll top anything you get offered.’
    â€˜How do I find you?’ Watts said.
    â€˜Knock on the wall – that should do it.’
    Watts looked from the man to the woman, whose laugh turned into a barking cough. ‘You live next door?’
    â€˜Gustav Holst’s old gaff,’ the man said. ‘Well, his gaff for a bit.’ He held out a veined hand. His fingernails were long and almost horny. ‘Billy Caspar.’ He gestured at the woman. ‘And this is Fi, my old lady.’
    She gave Watts a shallow nod.
    Watts recognized him now. Lead guitarist and vocalist for one of the big rock bands of the late sixties and seventies. Stadium rock.
    Caspar was known for dabbling in the occult.
    Watts took his hand. ‘Bob Watts.’
    â€˜The disgraced copper.’
    Watts nodded cautiously. ‘That would be me.’
    â€˜Well, where would rock ’n’ roll be without a bit of disgrace, eh?’
    Watts smiled.
    â€˜I’ve got a place down Brighton way,’ Caspar said. ‘The other side of the Downs