Read Online PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) by JOHN YORVIK - Free Book Online
Authors: JOHN YORVIK
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There was that rank smell of dead fish and washed up seaweed cooking in the sun.”
“Yes, I remember,” I’d say, imagining the smell of dead fish and seaweed. Her best stories were always full of detail.
Still a young couple, they’d watched on from a bench, kissing and cuddling as I drew with a stick in the sand of the small harbour beach. It was the last time we were together as a family. My mother said she should have guessed something bad was going to happen, because when she stood up, she’d seen that I’d drawn a boat in the sand. And above the boat, I’d drawn a long wavy line, which she said represented the sea.
I had nightmares about that line.
I woke up from that nightmare and entered another one, which came back to me piece by piece as my brain slowly rebooted. It was eight o’clock on a bright spring morning. As I lay there, I tried to separate the certainties from what might be merely paranoia. Someone out there had delivered photos of Natasha Rok’s body to my flat on Monday morning. The police had issued a photofit of the murderer that closely resembled me. That made sense because I was seen with Natasha Rok on Thursday night. Last night, someone with a number I didn’t recognise sent a message to my new mobile to meet them at a speakeasy at the back of a kebab shop. Unless, someone had got hold of Marty’s phone and found my new number, it was Marty using a burner.
Presuming Marty had sent the message. Why would he be so cryptic? Was he involved with the Natasha Rok murder or was he involved in troubles of his own? Maybe the attack in the Old Street pub wasn’t as random as I’d supposed. And say Marty had turned up at the speakeasy but someone had followed him, maybe he decided it wasn’t safe to talk to me. But who was following him? Were the muggers following Marty? After all, there was one thing that linked Natasha Rok, the speakeasy muggers and the Old Street attack and that was the heavily accented English. That in itself wasn’t unusual in London, but the fact that they all sounded Polish was significant.
Was Marty mixed up with a Polish gang? Or was it Natasha that was important to the gang? A relative? Were they trying to find out who killed Natasha and avenge her death before the police could make an arrest? If that was the case, I was in terrible danger and it might be safer to turn myself in to the police. The photos of swastikas came back to mind. Presuming it was Natasha who had scratched and painted those signs, what was she trying to tell us? Were neo-Nazis involved in her death?
After another ten minutes of mulling over unanswerable questions, I decided to proceed with the assumption that a Polish gang was on my trail and it was probably only a matter of time before the police named me and the manhunt got serious. As far as I could see, I was caught between the law and the lawless. I didn’t know who my friends were and if they could be trusted. It wasn’t looking good.
I got up and took a long hot shower. Then I got ready and packed all my things into my rucksack. I turned on my mobile to see if there was a message. Nothing. I turned it off again and set up my Walkman, pressed play, and left the room for the last time.
* * *
As I was leaving through the lobby, I put my key on the desk. Seconds later I felt the reception clerk tap me on the shoulder. He asked me something. I signalled for him to wait and pulled the wires out of my ears and clicked stop on the Walkman.
“What room were you in, sir?” he said.
“244.”
“Thought so. This came for you. But there’s no name on it just a room number.” He handed me a brown padded envelope.
“There must be some mistake. No-one knows I’m here.”
“Okay, sir.” And he tried to take it back from me.
“Ah, I know what it’ll be,” I said, holding on to it. “When did it arrive?” I continued, forcing a smile.
“The night clerk received it. Someone left it on the desk during the night.”
“Really?
“Yes, I remember,” I’d say, imagining the smell of dead fish and seaweed. Her best stories were always full of detail.
Still a young couple, they’d watched on from a bench, kissing and cuddling as I drew with a stick in the sand of the small harbour beach. It was the last time we were together as a family. My mother said she should have guessed something bad was going to happen, because when she stood up, she’d seen that I’d drawn a boat in the sand. And above the boat, I’d drawn a long wavy line, which she said represented the sea.
I had nightmares about that line.
I woke up from that nightmare and entered another one, which came back to me piece by piece as my brain slowly rebooted. It was eight o’clock on a bright spring morning. As I lay there, I tried to separate the certainties from what might be merely paranoia. Someone out there had delivered photos of Natasha Rok’s body to my flat on Monday morning. The police had issued a photofit of the murderer that closely resembled me. That made sense because I was seen with Natasha Rok on Thursday night. Last night, someone with a number I didn’t recognise sent a message to my new mobile to meet them at a speakeasy at the back of a kebab shop. Unless, someone had got hold of Marty’s phone and found my new number, it was Marty using a burner.
Presuming Marty had sent the message. Why would he be so cryptic? Was he involved with the Natasha Rok murder or was he involved in troubles of his own? Maybe the attack in the Old Street pub wasn’t as random as I’d supposed. And say Marty had turned up at the speakeasy but someone had followed him, maybe he decided it wasn’t safe to talk to me. But who was following him? Were the muggers following Marty? After all, there was one thing that linked Natasha Rok, the speakeasy muggers and the Old Street attack and that was the heavily accented English. That in itself wasn’t unusual in London, but the fact that they all sounded Polish was significant.
Was Marty mixed up with a Polish gang? Or was it Natasha that was important to the gang? A relative? Were they trying to find out who killed Natasha and avenge her death before the police could make an arrest? If that was the case, I was in terrible danger and it might be safer to turn myself in to the police. The photos of swastikas came back to mind. Presuming it was Natasha who had scratched and painted those signs, what was she trying to tell us? Were neo-Nazis involved in her death?
After another ten minutes of mulling over unanswerable questions, I decided to proceed with the assumption that a Polish gang was on my trail and it was probably only a matter of time before the police named me and the manhunt got serious. As far as I could see, I was caught between the law and the lawless. I didn’t know who my friends were and if they could be trusted. It wasn’t looking good.
I got up and took a long hot shower. Then I got ready and packed all my things into my rucksack. I turned on my mobile to see if there was a message. Nothing. I turned it off again and set up my Walkman, pressed play, and left the room for the last time.
* * *
As I was leaving through the lobby, I put my key on the desk. Seconds later I felt the reception clerk tap me on the shoulder. He asked me something. I signalled for him to wait and pulled the wires out of my ears and clicked stop on the Walkman.
“What room were you in, sir?” he said.
“244.”
“Thought so. This came for you. But there’s no name on it just a room number.” He handed me a brown padded envelope.
“There must be some mistake. No-one knows I’m here.”
“Okay, sir.” And he tried to take it back from me.
“Ah, I know what it’ll be,” I said, holding on to it. “When did it arrive?” I continued, forcing a smile.
“The night clerk received it. Someone left it on the desk during the night.”
“Really?
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