Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1) Read Free Page B

have your money for you next time we meet. Any questions?”
    Nick shook his head.
    “Just so you’re clear, I don’t trust you. We’ll be watching.”
    “The feeling’s mutual,” replied Nick, standing and moving to the door.
    “Oh, one more thing.”
    “What?” Nick paused with his palm on the door handle.
    “The body had been searched, but they missed this.” Carruthers held out a small, tattered piece of paper, eyes narrowed. Nick took it. His stomach lurched. Scrawled on it in barely legible writing was Nick’s address. He nonchalantly stuffed the note in his pocket.
    “Any idea why she had that?”
    “None at all.”
    “Of course. We’ll be watching.” Carruthers flashed that thin-lipped, insincere smile.
    Nick nodded. He headed out the door, feeling Carruthers’ eyes on his back. He needed fresh air, needed it now. A prickling sensation of dread was already rising like nauseating bile, bitter in his dry mouth. The handwriting on the note was his own.

 
    CHAPTER 2
     
    The first thing Nick needed was a drink. He blinked in the watery sunshine as he stepped out of the police station, gulping in breaths of damp fresh air that whispered of rain to come. He paused, trembling slightly, thrust his hand in his pocket and felt the crumpled paper. He looked up at the nodding green branches, breathing hard to try to quell the nausea. Steadying himself, he stumbled shakily onward, his mind racing, trying desperately to fill in the blanks of the previous night and make sense of everything he’d just heard. The hangover didn’t help, but it was the dread coursing through him, the memories that the chat with Carruthers had brought rushing back, of dark times and darker deeds.
                  The Ship was nearest and Nick felt better as soon as he had a double measure of whisky in his hand. The watery sunlight outside threw dappled patterns through the stained glass panes onto the dark wood bar. Hunched in the embracing gloom of the pub, leant against the bar, Nick felt better. Better still once the first was inside him and he had a second. He should get home. By now Clara would have finished work and come around; she’d be worried not to find him there. He wondered if she’d found anyone else there; Carruthers would surely have had his apartment searched. Not that he cared. There was nothing there worth finding, or that Carruthers’ men would find, more to the point. Clara. Why did the dead girl have to know Clara? It was all too close.
                  Nick didn’t like being coerced. He liked it only slightly less than he liked finding dead bodies of people he knew, or dead people he knew outside his flat with his address in their pocket. He had an idea how it had got there; Clara had mentioned that a friend of hers was having trouble with a loan, or more exactly, with the people that had loaned to her. Nick had scrawled his address on a piece of paper and told Clara to tell her friend to get in touch. He let out a sigh. He would have ended up involved in this one way or another. Somehow he didn’t think this was about a bad debt. Dead debtors don’t pay; they also don’t attract the attention of people like Carruthers. He drained his second glass of Scotch, wincing slightly, but it helped to settle the bilious feeling that had crept over him earlier, and went some way to dispelling the fatigue nagging away at the ragged edges of his eyes. He toyed with the idea of one more, idly fingering the glass, before resigning himself to heading home to face Clara and whatever else the day had to throw at him.
                  He’d barely slipped the key into the lock before Clara threw the door of his apartment open, concern glimmering in those pale blue eyes. Her blonde bob was ruffled, her eye makeup smudged and there was the hint of tears in the smudged mascara. Nick felt his heart wrench; Clara’s face was an open book, so expressive. He hated seeing her upset. She threw