Kiss Me Quick Read Free

the Pale?’
    ‘Fringe, Eddie. Beyond the Fringe ,’ replied the young detective thoughtlessly, as he knelt down for a closer look at the body.
    ‘Smart-arsed bunch of disrespectful public-school irons, the lot of them.’
    ‘That’s as maybe, Eddie, but you wouldn’t get this going on in the Establishment Club.’ He continued inspecting the body.
    ‘Talk straight, Treadwell.’
    ‘OK, how’s this? The knife obviously stopped his pump straight away, accounting for the small amount of blood around the wound and hardly any on the floor. No signs of a struggle. His tie’s still in place, so doesn’t look like he’s been in a fight. No cuts to the hands or arms, suggesting he didn’t raise them to protect himself. Probably didn’t think he had to. And by the time he did, it was too late. I’d say not only did he know his attacker, but he trusted him.’ He glanced up at Tobin. ‘Don’t you think?’
    ‘Nice way to start the New Year,’ interrupted Lionel Duval, emerging from the beaded curtain that separated the back room from the main club. Sleek as a shark in a slate-grey suit, his perfectly coiffed silver hair put him in at around fifty; his smooth boyish features put him in at under forty; and the gold-framed tinted glasses that covered those cold dead eyes put him in as a night-time operator. ‘The Fourth Estate will love this shit. That Duncan Webb of the People , he’ll be all over it like a bad case of the pox. Always looking for intrigue, that man.’
    The irony wasn’t lost on the young detective. As he stood up to greet Duval, he couldn’t help but smile. ‘A scarred-faced gangster found with a knife practically nailing him to the floor of a Soho clip-joint isn’t exactly “cat stuck up a tree” material, Mr Duval.’
    Duval was a study in indignation. ‘Clip-joint? Eddie, who’s the adjunct?’
    ‘This is Detective Vince Treadwell and …’ Before Tobin could finish, Duval had reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wedge-heavy manila envelope. Tobin cut dead Duval’s indiscretion by dipping his brow into a furrowed frown, raising his voice and putting him straight. ‘Otherwise known as “Vinnie Clean Face”.’ Not subtle but effective. Duval went into reverse and slipped the envelope back into his pocket.
    Tobin then felt the need to clarify the nickname, ‘We call him that on account he’s so young and fresh faced. A college boy.’
    It was an apt description of the young detective, but a risible explanation of the moniker. Vince registered the point with a small cynical laugh, accompanied by an equally disdainful shake of his head.
    ‘Oh, nice to meet you, Detective Tread …?’
    ‘Treadwell. Detective Vince Treadwell.’
    ‘Tread-well. Detective Vince Treadwell,’ Duval echoed, making a show of committing it to memory. Satisfied it had sunk in and been stored away, he pulled a big convivial grin, showing rows of expensively capped teeth. ‘And please call me Lionel. All my friends call me Lionel.’
    ‘You need Murder Squad, Mr Duval.’
    Duval understood the message, but kept on grinning.
    ‘So how come you called DS Tobin?’ continued Vince.
    Duval looked at Tobin for a lead, but none was forthcoming. Tobin wasn’t that fast on his feet – not even in his boxing days.
    ‘I called Eddie here because, well, he’s an old acquaintance. And I knew he’d follow the correct procedures, deal with it in the proper manner. Murder Squad, Vice Squad, they’re all much of a muchness to me. All you boys in blue, pinstripe, houndstooth or Harris fucking tweed for that matter are, like I said, Vince, friends of mine.’ Laughing now, Duval offered Vince his hand.
    Vince pointedly ignored it, gestured to the body and asked, ‘So what happened here?’
    The continued snubs appeared to be water off the shark’s back. Duval’s grin stayed fixed as he replied, ‘Well, from what Colin told me—’
    ‘Who’s Colin?’
    ‘The doorman,’ replied Tobin.
    Vince took out