Read Online (1998) Denial by Peter James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter James
Tags: Mystery
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him?’
‘I’ll tell you next week.’
Chapter Sixteen
At a quarter to six Justin Flowering left his desk at the
Mill Hill Messenger
, saying nothing to his news editor, hoping that he would be able to surprise him with a scandalous story about the actress Gloria Lamark in his overnight basket.
He popped a piece of gum in his mouth and headed in the direction in which the stranger on the phone had instructed him earlier. His route took him along a street filled with dilapidated light-industrial units, the largest of which was a repair depot for London taxis, and then straight through into the long, dark archway beneath the railway line.
Half-way along, as instructed, he waited, lolling against the wall, chewing his gum, thinking about his job. He was nineteen and on a one-year work experience with the paper. His dream was to become a sports writer, and maybe one day a commentator, like his hero Des Lynam. He was tall, wiry and athletic, and hoped he’d get through this interview with the mysterious caller, get back to the office, finish his article and still have time to catch the last half-hour or so of his club’s football practice tonight.
A car was approaching, followed by a van. He looked at the van, but it was red, and it drove on past. More vehicles followed, but no white van.
He thought again about the strange, very tall man, Gloria Lamark’s son, who had been so angry with him at the funeral this afternoon; the way the man had screamed at him when he’d tried to ask him a few questions about his mother, as if he should have had her entire biography printed in his brain.
Maybe he should have. He had tried his best to find out a bit about the actress before going to the funeral and had even checked out her website.
Another van was approaching now. This was white. He stiffened and moved to the kerb. The van indicated and pulled over. The driver was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. In the darkness of his cab, it was impossible to make out his face.
Justin climbed in and pulled the door shut. The driver held out his hand. ‘Hallo,’ he said, in a voice that sounded familiar.
As their hands met, Justin felt a slight prick, like an insect bite, in his palm. The driver held his hand, clamped tight. As Justin tried to free it, the driver’s face blurred.
The driver’s face was still a blur, but now Justin Flowering was watching him through a steamed-up window, the smell of pine in his nostrils.
Drenched in sweat, he was spreadeagled in a sauna cabin, with his back propped up, his legs splayed out in front of him and strapped firmly to the slats, his arms pulled out either side of him and also strapped to slats. The heat was agonising. He was still in his suit and he was desperately thirsty.
The driver was looking at him through the glass window in the door, through the cloud of searing steam, and Justin knew his face now. It was Gloria Lamark’s son, Thomas.
The man was playing some kind of ridiculous practical joke on him, keeping him here in the sauna, accompanied by a television set and a video-recorder placed on a chair in front of him, both wrapped in plastic to protect them from the steam, playing one of his mother’s old films for him. On the screen a biplane was being flown by a woman, while a man, an actor Justin did not recognise, was clinging desperately to a wing strut.
Justin was angry, but at the same time he was wary of the man. There was an air of darkness about him, as if he could kill someone without any trouble at all. He needed tohandle this carefully. Then the door opened and Justin was grateful for the blast of cool air that accompanied it.
Thomas Lamark came in and nodded at the television set. ‘
Wings of the Wild
, Justin F. Flowering. Her best film. Are you enjoying it?’
To appease the man, Justin nodded.
‘I really don’t like your tie, Justin F. Flowering. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you should wear a
black
tie to a funeral? A plain black
‘I’ll tell you next week.’
Chapter Sixteen
At a quarter to six Justin Flowering left his desk at the
Mill Hill Messenger
, saying nothing to his news editor, hoping that he would be able to surprise him with a scandalous story about the actress Gloria Lamark in his overnight basket.
He popped a piece of gum in his mouth and headed in the direction in which the stranger on the phone had instructed him earlier. His route took him along a street filled with dilapidated light-industrial units, the largest of which was a repair depot for London taxis, and then straight through into the long, dark archway beneath the railway line.
Half-way along, as instructed, he waited, lolling against the wall, chewing his gum, thinking about his job. He was nineteen and on a one-year work experience with the paper. His dream was to become a sports writer, and maybe one day a commentator, like his hero Des Lynam. He was tall, wiry and athletic, and hoped he’d get through this interview with the mysterious caller, get back to the office, finish his article and still have time to catch the last half-hour or so of his club’s football practice tonight.
A car was approaching, followed by a van. He looked at the van, but it was red, and it drove on past. More vehicles followed, but no white van.
He thought again about the strange, very tall man, Gloria Lamark’s son, who had been so angry with him at the funeral this afternoon; the way the man had screamed at him when he’d tried to ask him a few questions about his mother, as if he should have had her entire biography printed in his brain.
Maybe he should have. He had tried his best to find out a bit about the actress before going to the funeral and had even checked out her website.
Another van was approaching now. This was white. He stiffened and moved to the kerb. The van indicated and pulled over. The driver was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. In the darkness of his cab, it was impossible to make out his face.
Justin climbed in and pulled the door shut. The driver held out his hand. ‘Hallo,’ he said, in a voice that sounded familiar.
As their hands met, Justin felt a slight prick, like an insect bite, in his palm. The driver held his hand, clamped tight. As Justin tried to free it, the driver’s face blurred.
The driver’s face was still a blur, but now Justin Flowering was watching him through a steamed-up window, the smell of pine in his nostrils.
Drenched in sweat, he was spreadeagled in a sauna cabin, with his back propped up, his legs splayed out in front of him and strapped firmly to the slats, his arms pulled out either side of him and also strapped to slats. The heat was agonising. He was still in his suit and he was desperately thirsty.
The driver was looking at him through the glass window in the door, through the cloud of searing steam, and Justin knew his face now. It was Gloria Lamark’s son, Thomas.
The man was playing some kind of ridiculous practical joke on him, keeping him here in the sauna, accompanied by a television set and a video-recorder placed on a chair in front of him, both wrapped in plastic to protect them from the steam, playing one of his mother’s old films for him. On the screen a biplane was being flown by a woman, while a man, an actor Justin did not recognise, was clinging desperately to a wing strut.
Justin was angry, but at the same time he was wary of the man. There was an air of darkness about him, as if he could kill someone without any trouble at all. He needed tohandle this carefully. Then the door opened and Justin was grateful for the blast of cool air that accompanied it.
Thomas Lamark came in and nodded at the television set. ‘
Wings of the Wild
, Justin F. Flowering. Her best film. Are you enjoying it?’
To appease the man, Justin nodded.
‘I really don’t like your tie, Justin F. Flowering. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you should wear a
black
tie to a funeral? A plain black
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