PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) Read Free Page A

gone out drinking. Friday night had started as a hangover cure but became an alcoholic rollover, ending at some stage at the Jazz Cafe and then another black out.
    “Drinking and women,” I said, truthful but unrepentant.
    “Ugh, I don’t want to know,” her mood darkened a little when usually she would have laughed. I sensed it wasn’t going to be a day of light-hearted fun.
    “Let’s go,” I said, anxious to change the mood.
    “Can we get coffee afterwards? I want to talk to you,” said Dani.
    “I’m meeting a good friend tonight. Marty. So I was planning on sleeping this afternoon.”
    Dani was quiet. She looked disappointed.
    “Why don’t you join us? We can talk a little beforehand,” I added. I dreaded the announced ‘talk’ without knowing what it was going to be about. I’d much rather a conversation either happened or didn’t.
    “No, I want to talk to you properly. Anyway, who’s this Marty? You’ve never mentioned him before.”
    “He’s my oldest friend from Newcastle. We fell out about five years ago, but, he came to the funeral and, well, we made up. Met him for drinks on Thursday night.”
    “So you weren’t out with a woman?” she accused mischievously, perhaps lightening up because I’d mentioned the funeral and she knew she shouldn’t be giving me a hard time.
    “The girl came later. There’s quite a story attached to that. One I’ll probably never tell you,” I said and gave her a wink.
    “Sometime next week then for the talk,” she said definitively, “if it’s not too much trouble.”
    “I’ll come to find you on Monday afternoon about two o’clock. It’s a bank holiday.”
    She nodded her assent and started fiddling with her camera.
    As I lit a cigarette, I considered Dani and her borderline possessive behaviour. Every friendship had its pros and cons, I thought. And Dani wasn’t usually such hard work, so there must be something on her mind. Something not easy to talk about. But why talk to me? I’m hardly the kind of well-rounded individual that you tell your problems to. I’ve got quite a few of my own to be getting on with. I looked at my watch, we were late for the first interview of the morning.
    * * *
    Opposite Chalk Farm station was The Imperialist, an old free house pub, now “the hub of Camden’s vibrant music scene” as we were fond of writing at FP. On our approach, we could hear a bass line thudding from the upstairs of the pub, shaking the windows and ornamental lamps. A deep voice sang out:
     
    FIGHT THE POWER
    BITE THE HAND
    FIGHT THE POWER
    BITE THE HAND
    CANONISE CRIMINALS
    CANONISE CRIMINALS
     
    It was EgoFunk in action. Playing their radical punk reggae at a volume the whole of Camden could hear.
    There was no bell so I knocked on the door, but there was no chance they were going to hear us above the noise. I found the number of EgoFunk’s manager on my mobile and pressed call. A few seconds later I heard my tinny mobile phone speaker project the same bass line that was swimming all around us through the brickwork and glass. I couldn’t hear a word she was saying so I hung up and texted:
     
    We’re downstairs. Let us in. FP
     
    A few minutes later a black girl dressed like a rasta-pirate opened the door. Her slender arms were covered from top to bottom in intricate tattoos, spider-webbing and overlapping with schizoid intensity.
    “You must be Lishman.”
    I nodded and introduced Dani.
    “I’m Kari. EgoFunk’s manager.” She stepped out onto the pavement. “Let’s grab a coffee before you meet the band.”
    Dani motioned for Kari to pose under The Imperialist’s sign and snapped a photo. Kari raised a fuck-you middle finger and smiled a crooked smile.
    After getting coffees to go, the lead singer of EgoFunk came downstairs to meet us in the empty bar of The Imperialist. Tall and slim, he was naked from the waist up and showing off his pale skin covered in similarly overlapping thin spidery tattoos. He had mid-length blonde