The Piccadilly Noir Series - Midnight Streets (eBook)

Phil Lecomber (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
432 Seiten
TITAN BOOKS (Verlag)
978-1-83541-200-8 (ISBN)

Infos

A pacy, evocative dark historical thriller about a working-class private detective in 1920s London's Soho, who has grown up alongside the morally dubious characters who are key to cracking the cases he investigates, for fans of Laura Shepherd Robinson and the TV series Peaky Blinders. When Cockney private detective George Harley saves a young girl's life on a dark London night in 1929, he doesn't realise it marks the beginning of an investigation which will change his life forever. The incendiary book which inspired the girl's abduction also seems to be linked to a series of grisly murders that are taking place on Harley's patch, and though he's delighted to be asked by Scotland Yard to help find the killer before they strike again, he could do without the local razor- and cosh-wielding mobsters thinking he's in the police's pocket. Set during the Golden Age of Crime Fiction, Harley's world is a far cry from the country house of an Agatha Christie whodunnit. This working-class sleuth does his 'sherlocking' in the frowsy alleyways and sleazy nightclubs of Soho - the city's underbelly - peopled with lowlife ponces, jaded streetwalkers, and Jewish and Maltese gangsters: a world of grubby bedsits, all-night cafés, egg and chips, and Gold Flake cigarettes. Here, the midnight streets are black as pitch and, as Harley finds himself embroiled in the macabre mysteries of a city in which truth is as murky as the pea-souper smog and the sins are as dark as stout porter beer, he begins to realise he may never find a way out.

Phil Lecomber was born in Slade Green, on the outskirts of South East London. Most of his working life has been spent in and around the capital in a variety of occupations. He has worked as a musician in the city's clubs, pubs and dives; as a steel-fixer helping to build the towering edifices of the square mile (and also working on some of the city's iconic landmarks, such as Tower Bridge); as a designer of stained-glass windows; and--for the last quarter of a century--as the director of a small company in Mayfair specializing in the electronic security of some of the world's finest works of art. Twitter/X: @PhilLecomber

Textauszug

4

HARLEY STOPPED AT the entrance to Meard Street and tapped out a smoke from the packet of Gold Flake. He nodded towards the lamplight, where a few frayed wreathes of smog had begun to gather.

‘I told you we were in for another London Particular, didn’t I? I can always sense it coming. You get that taste like iron filings at the back of your throat.’

Cynthia pulled her coat collar up against the night chill and gave him a frown. ‘Alright, my little Geronimo, there’s no need to look so delighted about it.’ She rubbed her upper arms, trying to produce a little warmth.

Harley took a long drag on his cigarette and regarded his girlfriend, who at that moment – standing beneath the gas lamp in her suede-down overcoat and velvet toque hat – was looking rather glamorous. Not for the first time he posed a silent question to himself: What on earth was she doing with him?

Now, George Harley was no diffident youth. During his formative years on the tough streets of Shoreditch, and the subsequent action he’d seen in the war, he’d cultivated a respectable amount of self-confidence. He was quite aware he had a sharp brain, and a set of skills which allowed him to successfully navigate the sometimes-perilous day-to-day existence of a private detective working in the underbelly of the city. And though under no illusions of possessing matinée idol features, he had managed to survive his time in the trenches without receiving any disfiguring injuries – something that couldn’t be said for a lot of the poor buggers you saw on the streets – and he’d been told, on more than one occasion, he had a certain ‘rugged charm’. So, what was the problem? The problem was one of class: Cynthia Masters’ formative years hadn’t been spent on the tough streets of Shoreditch, but in leafy Hampstead. She was the cultured offspring of a wealthy, middle-class family (albeit a slightly bohemian, liberal one), one of the first female members of the Queen’s Hall Orchestra. And therefore, although all the evidence suggested they had a strong and genuine relationship (among other things, they shared a love of books and a sardonic sense of humour), Harley could never fully quash the niggling doubt that he might be just some kind of entertaining social experiment.

He was brought round from his reverie by a poke in the ribs.

‘Hey! Corporal Harley. Do you really mean to make a girl wait out in the cold and fog whilst you finish your cigarette?’

‘Sorry. I was just thinking.’

‘What is it, Einstein? Got cold feet all of a sudden?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, here we are at your current favourite watering hole, the famous Shabaroon. Full, no doubt, of your colourful villainous cronies and very probably the odd former sexual conquest.’

‘Now, hold on a minute—’

‘And I was just wondering whether you mightn’t be a little embarrassed at the thought of revealing me to the throng.’

‘Why the bloody hell would I be embarrassed?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said with a theatrical sigh. ‘Perhaps I’m a little too humdrum? Too respectable?’

‘If you must know, I was just thinking that maybe we should have chosen somewhere a bit more upmarket. I mean, meeting your sister for the first time – I want to make a good impression, right? And the punters in the Shab are… well, let’s just say that one or two of them are little more than just “colourful”.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about Lilian. She’s led rather a different kind of life to me. I told you she was adopted? Well, in her case, nature has had a bigger influence than nurture. She left home at nineteen, under somewhat of a cloud. Fell in with a few colourful types of her own, as a matter of fact. No, I don’t think the Shabaroon will hold any surprises for Lilian.’

Harley killed his cigarette under his shoe. ‘Now I am intrigued. Come on then, let’s get you in out of the cold.’

‘What is a shabaroon anyway?’ asked Cynthia, linking arms with him as they approached the pub, which gleamed with welcoming promise in the gloom of the Soho street.

‘It’s a milestone-monger. Someone who looks like they’re on the George Robey,’ said Harley, grinning because he knew what was coming next.

‘Very good. Now once again in English please?’

‘A tramp. Well, actually, anyone who looks a bit filthy.’

‘Shabby?’

‘Exactly,’ said Harley, stopping to open the swing doors of the pub.

*   *   *

The sight which greeted Cynthia on entering the saloon bar of the Shabaroon was that of a fine, handsome London pub. The L-shaped room was flanked on either side by long leather bench seats and rows of circular tables. The ochre-tinged pattern on the oil-cloth flooring – originally designed to mimic the neoclassical mosaics of a stately Georgian mansion – was now so distorted by a collection of faded patches, scuff marks and dubious stains as to leave it looking more like an extended version of the Turin Shroud. The crimson-papered walls were lined with a selection of Gillray’s most grotesque and bawdy caricatures, interspersed with mirrors which extolled the virtues of various spirits and ales. As yet, only a low rumble could be heard emanating from the public bar next door, but there was still plenty of drinking time left for its small cast of taxi drivers, costermongers and navvies to develop a more bellicose soundtrack for their neighbours in the saloon bar. But the main focus was the bar itself; there, at the centre of things, in all its grandeur of polished brass, lacquered mahogany and shimmering glass, it was a vision as exciting to a thirsty punter as a schoolboy’s first glimpse of a fairground carousel. And then there were the Shab’s customers, at least half of whom sat drinking alone, dotted around the bar in meditative attitudes, as if posing for a life-drawing class for students of a Cockney Toulouse-Lautrec. Individuals who might pass for perfectly ordinary in the crush of the underground carriage or tram, but who here, singled out for scrutiny, all appeared to be advertising the promise of an entertaining backstory.

‘We could go through to the lounge bar, where it’s quieter,’ said Harley.

Cynthia shook her head, momentarily transfixed by an elderly woman with a towering bird’s nest of hair, who had just produced a small pug dog from her voluminous handbag and was now feeding it like a newborn from a bottle of stout.

‘What, and miss the main event? No fear.’

‘Alright then, let’s get you a drink.’

‘Here he is – Georgie Boy!’ exclaimed the barmaid, her accent as brash as her bottle-blonde hairdo. ‘And you must be Cynthia. He’s told us all about you, dear.’

‘Has he, now?’

‘Cynthia, this is Juney,’ said Harley, trying to ignore his girlfriend’s withering look. ‘It might have Hal’s name over the door,’ he pointed to the portly man in a checked waistcoat and unconvincing ginger toupée who was serving at the other end of the bar, ‘but it’s Juney here who really runs the place.’

‘Please to meet you, Juney,’ said Cynthia.

‘Oh, but she’s lovely, George. And don’t she talk nice? I’d say you’re punching a little over your weight with this one.’

‘Alright, steady on.’

‘Oh, go on with you, I’m only pulling your leg.’

‘Hold up. Is that Teddy Gables that Hal’s chucking out?’ said Harley, watching the landlord, as he escorted a skinny youth with a Hessian sack to the door. ‘What’s he been up to this time?’

‘Spectacle cats.’

‘Whatever are spectacle cats?’ asked Cynthia.

Juney laughed, shaking her head. ‘It’s his latest hare-brained scheme. He’s got two white kittens in that sack that he’s trying to flog, with little spectacle markings around their eyes. Teddy swears it’s a freak of nature. But you can still see the hair dye on his fingers, the pillock. He certainly ain’t got his old man’s nous.’

‘His dad, Sonny Gables, is a big name in knocked-off gear,’ Harley explained to Cynthia. ‘He could sell balloons at a funeral, that one. But Teddy? Well, I reckon the midwife must have given him a big whack with the stupid stick when he came out.’

‘Ain’t that the truth?’ said Juney. ‘Now, what’ll it be, love?’

‘Whisky and a splash for me, and a gin and French for Cynthia.’

Having received their drinks, they retired to one of the small tables by the windows. Cynthia unbuttoned her coat, giving Harley a nudge with her elbow.

‘Penny for your thoughts.’

‘Sorry, I was just thinking about the Turpin case.’

‘Those poor girls. Have you heard how they’re faring?’

‘Alice is doing alright, by all accounts. I had a long conversation with her father on the phone yesterday. Mia Janssen is convalescing in hospital. She’ll be returning home when she’s strong enough. By the way, I got a nice surprise from the ambassador.’

‘Really? What was it?’

‘A healthy little cheque, plump enough to bring a smile to the face of my morbidly depressed bank manager. That, along with the fee from the Pritchard case, means… well, I should be on velvet for a good couple of months at least.’ Harley took a sip of his Scotch. ‘So, silver linings and all that.’

‘Mercenary,’ said Cynthia, poking the end of his nose.

‘By the way, I meant to ask you: this author, Alasdair Cassina – just how well do you know him?’

‘Well, he was part of the...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 18.3.2025
• Verlagsort: London
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror ► Krimi / Thriller
• Schlagworte: 1920s • 73 Dove Street • Bad Penny Blues • Blood &amp • Blood & Sugar • Body Horror • Boxer • Callum McSorley • Cathi Unsworth • cockney • criminal • Cutthroat razor • Daughters of Night • Emma Flint • Femme fatale • Fog • Gangster • Gerald Kersh • Gold Flake cigarettes • Graham Greene • Jake Arnott • Julie Owen Moylan • laura shepherd-robinson • Limehouse • London • Mobster • Noir • Occult • Other Women • Patrick Hamilton • Pi • Piccadilly • pimp • Ponce • private investigator • Prostitute • Smog • SOHO • squeaky clean • streetwalker • Sugar • That Green Eyed Girl • the big sleep • The Long Firm • The Square of Sevens • Twenties • west end • Whore
• ISBN-10: 1-83541-200-9 / 1835412009
• ISBN-13: 978-1-83541-200-8 / 9781835412008