Read Online Hard Fall: A gripping, noir detective thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries, Book 1) by P.T. Reade - Free Book Online
Authors: P.T. Reade
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I started, but was again interrupted by Amir.
“Sorry, Thomas. Time’s up. That’s it.”
The look on Amir’s face told me that arguing would be pointless.
“Thanks,” I told Jamal, shaking his hand. It means a lot.”
“It better,” Amir said. “There’s a fine line between help and risking my ass.”
“I know.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Maybe,” I said, wondering why Henry Atkinson hadn’t mentioned any sort of relationship with Billy Bennett.
“Maybe.”
NINE
My mind fumbled with the jigsaw of pieces.
I wanted to go directly to Atkinson and ask him why he’d failed to mention that he’d known the bus driver well enough to provide a work reference for him. I also wanted to ask if he’d heard about the other missing kid more recently. There was anger and the first sparks of a connection firing in my brain but by the time I left Amir’s it was already dark and too late to get to Atkinson.
The drink from earlier in the day had given me just a bit more than a taste. So I went home, changed my clothes, and went to the pub. I sat at the edge of a bar for about three hours, drinking and going over the case in my mind. I spoke to no one, not even the semi attractive woman who asked what I was drinking. I lost myself in the facts of the investigation. The only reason I went back to my apartment was because I damn near nodded off at the bar close to midnight.
When I got home and slipped out of my clothes, I realized that after the recent camera purchase, rent payments, and the tab for that night, I had a grand total of £16.00 to my name. I didn’t stay awake long enough to let that bother me, though.
I slipped into a deep sleep, but it felt like only a few minutes had passed when I was jarred awake by the ringing of my cellphone. The damn thing never rang, and hearing it was like hearing the shrieking of a banshee. Wincing at the noise and feeling an approaching hangover creeping in, I answered it, squinting against the grey daylight pushing through the greasy windows.
“Yeah?” I muttered.
“Mr. Blume, this is Jamal.”
“Oh. Hi.” My mind was fuzzy, slow to piece together how Jamal had helped me yesterday evening.
“Look, so after dad went to sleep last night, I went back in and started looking.”
“Oh, crap,” I said. “Don’t let him find out.”
“Whatever, man. He doesn’t know half the stuff I do.”
“I’m a little uncomfortable knowing that,” I said.
“Anyway, look. You got an e-mail address I can send you some stuff to?”
“Yeah.” I gave it to him, unable to remember the last time I had checked it. “But why don’t you give me the basics here, on the phone.”
“Well, for starters, Billy Bennett isn’t Billy Bennett.”
“I don’t have time for games, Jamal.” I mumbled absently while my head pounded.
“Okay, okay. Get this, Billy changed his name years ago, then again more recently. He’s not even originally from London.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Yeah. Saw the paperwork myself. His birth name is William Hudson.”
“And what do we know about Hudson?”
“Enough to re-open the Ellington case,” Jamal said proudly.
“Wait, how do you know I’m working on the – oh, never mind. What else?”
“This is the interesting part. It seems that Mr. Hudson had a rough childhood; orphan, bounced around a few foster homes up north. Yorkshire, in fact. A couple of investigations of abuse are noted on his file, but nothing stood. Eventually he vanishes from the system… Then one ‘Billy’ Hudson resurfaces almost twenty years later with a string of petty crimes against his name. Psych reports indicated hints of sociopathy and borderline personality disorder.”
Something about the North of England sounded familiar and stirred at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place it.
“Mr. Blume, you
“Sorry, Thomas. Time’s up. That’s it.”
The look on Amir’s face told me that arguing would be pointless.
“Thanks,” I told Jamal, shaking his hand. It means a lot.”
“It better,” Amir said. “There’s a fine line between help and risking my ass.”
“I know.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Maybe,” I said, wondering why Henry Atkinson hadn’t mentioned any sort of relationship with Billy Bennett.
“Maybe.”
NINE
My mind fumbled with the jigsaw of pieces.
I wanted to go directly to Atkinson and ask him why he’d failed to mention that he’d known the bus driver well enough to provide a work reference for him. I also wanted to ask if he’d heard about the other missing kid more recently. There was anger and the first sparks of a connection firing in my brain but by the time I left Amir’s it was already dark and too late to get to Atkinson.
The drink from earlier in the day had given me just a bit more than a taste. So I went home, changed my clothes, and went to the pub. I sat at the edge of a bar for about three hours, drinking and going over the case in my mind. I spoke to no one, not even the semi attractive woman who asked what I was drinking. I lost myself in the facts of the investigation. The only reason I went back to my apartment was because I damn near nodded off at the bar close to midnight.
When I got home and slipped out of my clothes, I realized that after the recent camera purchase, rent payments, and the tab for that night, I had a grand total of £16.00 to my name. I didn’t stay awake long enough to let that bother me, though.
I slipped into a deep sleep, but it felt like only a few minutes had passed when I was jarred awake by the ringing of my cellphone. The damn thing never rang, and hearing it was like hearing the shrieking of a banshee. Wincing at the noise and feeling an approaching hangover creeping in, I answered it, squinting against the grey daylight pushing through the greasy windows.
“Yeah?” I muttered.
“Mr. Blume, this is Jamal.”
“Oh. Hi.” My mind was fuzzy, slow to piece together how Jamal had helped me yesterday evening.
“Look, so after dad went to sleep last night, I went back in and started looking.”
“Oh, crap,” I said. “Don’t let him find out.”
“Whatever, man. He doesn’t know half the stuff I do.”
“I’m a little uncomfortable knowing that,” I said.
“Anyway, look. You got an e-mail address I can send you some stuff to?”
“Yeah.” I gave it to him, unable to remember the last time I had checked it. “But why don’t you give me the basics here, on the phone.”
“Well, for starters, Billy Bennett isn’t Billy Bennett.”
“I don’t have time for games, Jamal.” I mumbled absently while my head pounded.
“Okay, okay. Get this, Billy changed his name years ago, then again more recently. He’s not even originally from London.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Yeah. Saw the paperwork myself. His birth name is William Hudson.”
“And what do we know about Hudson?”
“Enough to re-open the Ellington case,” Jamal said proudly.
“Wait, how do you know I’m working on the – oh, never mind. What else?”
“This is the interesting part. It seems that Mr. Hudson had a rough childhood; orphan, bounced around a few foster homes up north. Yorkshire, in fact. A couple of investigations of abuse are noted on his file, but nothing stood. Eventually he vanishes from the system… Then one ‘Billy’ Hudson resurfaces almost twenty years later with a string of petty crimes against his name. Psych reports indicated hints of sociopathy and borderline personality disorder.”
Something about the North of England sounded familiar and stirred at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place it.
“Mr. Blume, you
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