Read Online Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1) by James White - Free Book Online Page A

pursuit. As her fingers closed around it, Nick lunged forward and delivered a crashing punch to the back of her head with his now-empty right hand and she was out like a light. He stood back. The German lay motionless on the floor in a growing pool of blood, Lucia was sprawled across the bed, both of them out cold. Nick retrieved the Luger from her fingers and pocketed it. He patted down the man and found a wallet; the man’s name was Jurgen Platt, as Nick had suspected. Inside Lucia’s clutch bag was some more dough and a small knife. No gun. He smiled to himself and threw the bag onto the bed beside her.
                  “No deal,” he said out loud. Crossing quickly to the gramophone, he retrieved the papers and set it back how it had been. They’d suspect, but they wouldn’t be sure. On a whim, he retrieved the flat keys from Lucia’s bag, turned off the light and left. Jurgen would be all right, but he’d have a headache; they both would.
     
    Nick stepped carefully back out into the fog of the night. He wondered where the Italian was. As silently as he could, he paced away from the flat, across the square, then doubled back along the next street up and stopped. There were no sounds of pursuit. He carried on home as quickly as he could, stopping frequently in alley mouths to check for any sign he was being followed. There were none. He was about to enter his flat, when on a whim he decided to take a detour. It wouldn’t take them long to find him and when they did, his flat would be the first place they searched.
                  Nick only had one friend, one person he truly trusted. It was time to pay Stephen a visit.

 
    CHAPTER 5
     
    “You look terrible. When’s the last time you slept? And do you know what time it is?”
    “Nice to see you, too, Stephen.” Nick leaned on the doorpost and looked at the grizzled old man in front of him. A thick, bushy, grey beard merged into a shock of unruly grey hair, and a small pair of glasses balanced precariously on the end of the man’s nose. His visible skin was lined like ancient parchment and he stood stooped like a gnarled tree that had weathered countless storms. He shuffled aside.
    “I suppose you’d better come in.”
    Nick stepped in and minutes later they were sat in Stephen’s small front room. The old man removed the fireguard and stoked up the fire, throwing some more coal on.
    “There’s brandy on the side there. I suppose you’ll be wanting a drink.” Stephen motioned at a decanter on the sideboard and Nick poured them both a drink. They sat in silence for some moments then Nick fished in his pocket.
    “I need you to have a look at this.” He handed the papers from the gramophone to Stephen and waited patiently as the old man adjusted his glasses and peered over them. There were four pieces of paper, two of them folded, the other two photographic prints, all carefully rolled up.
    “Where did you get these?” Stephen asked after a time, looking back up at Nick over the top of his glasses.
    “From the flat of a woman who was murdered.”
    Stephen nodded as if this was to be expected. “You know what they are?”
    “I’ve an idea, but I’d like to hear your thoughts.”
    Stephen held one piece of paper aloft. “This one’s a page of a bank statement: Swiss numbered account, showing money in and out. A lot of money in. The other piece of paper, handwritten names, mostly foreign. Unusual. These two photos, well, I’d say these are photos taken of a British military briefing document. Looks like standing orders for troop deployments. This is pretty heavy stuff, Nick.”
    Nick nodded his head.
    “So who made these? Someone has photographed all of these then these prints have been produced from the film. That requires expertise and equipment. Your dead woman?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Or someone else. Nick, the film could still be out there. What about these names and this bank statement? What have you got yourself mixed