Death in Amber

By Dean Fetzer

WARNING: the Jaared Sen Quartet thrillers are NOT cozy mysteries! They contain graphic depictions of violence and adult situations in a near future London.

The Amber Room is found
Stolen by the Nazis and missing since 1945, rumours of the wondrous Amber Room are turning up in London. It's 2041 and blind detective Jaared Sen isn't interested - he's got bodies of dead girls turning up in London and very few leads. Haunted by a mysterious benefactress, he's the only one who can solve the case before the killer strikes again.

And Jaared's the only one who can do it.

Praise for Death in Amber

"If you liked Dan Brown's The Da Vinci code, then you will like this one with multiple mysteries - 2 for the price of one."

"I really hope the [author] decides to keep Contractor Sen alive and working on more cases in the future, as I can't get enough of this detective!"

"Within the open paragraphs, I already had butterflies and a slightly elevated heart rate... All in all, a mysterious and gripping book; a promising start to the series."

If you love a fast-paced mystery with a touch of the future, download a sample or buy Death in Amber now. The sequel, DEATH AFTER MIDNIGHT is now available in trade paperback and ebook formats.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Fetzer
• Release date: Apr 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9780956158116

Dean Fetzer

A keen lighting designer, Dean visited the Edinburgh Festival with a theatre company from the University of Colorado and then stayed for a year, spending most of his salary in pubs. After moving to London, he took up a career in graphic design and then web communications in the City before starting pub review website fancyapint.com with a friend. Editor of Fancyapint? in London and author of two Jaared Sen books, Dean lives in East London with his wife Debra and two cats, and dreams of a that house in France.

Book preview

Death in Amber

Death in Amber

Dean Fetzer

GunBoss Books

Contents

Yekaterinsky Palace, Pushkin, 1941

Prelude and Fugue indeed

Step by Step, Slowly I Turn

Tales From the Morgue

Rainy Days and Englishmen

After the Math

It Pays Well, if Nothing Else

Into the Dragon’s Lair

There’s Days and Then There’s Days

Life, the Universe and Everything

Needles? What About the Haystack?

Finding Trouble is Easy

Lazy Sunday Afternoons

Mad Dogs and Mondays

Vale of Shadows and Tears

Rainy Days and Englishmen – pt 2

What Time is It?

Life Never Returns to ‘Normal’

Testing…Testing…

Hanging on the Telephone

What Time do You Call This?

Planes, Trains and Distractions

Dangerous Liaisons

Snakes and Ladders

Chinese Whispers

The Cabinet of Dr Caligari

Emergency Exits are Located at the Front, Back and Over the Wings

Doctor Hanson’s Rheumatism Remedy Cures Flu Too!

Did You See That?

Monotony, What’s That?

Angry? You Bet I’m Angry!

Cactus Bob’s All You Can Drink Barbeque Pit

A Needle in a Haystack Would be Easier to Find

Down in the Tunnels at Midnight – With Apologies

Who Said this Job was Glamorous?

Skeet Shooting is Not Fun

How to be a Man of Action

I’m not Drunk, Just Happy

Even the Walls Have Ears…

Not Now James, We’re Busy!

Down in the Tunnels at Midnight – Reprise

There’s No News Like Bad News

A Po-wem by Euonymus

Strange Attractors

Forty Days and Forty Nights

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity-jig

The Way You Do that Hoodoo You Do So Well

What Time is It? Revisited

Pizza Boys Are Never Innocent

Mornings Are Best Spent in Bed

Oohhhhhh My Head Hurts

Smells Like Teen Spirit – Well…Sweat, Actually

Don’t Forget to Check the Dessert Trolley

Why is it ‘Called on the Carpet’?

Crocodiles Don’t Make Easy Pets

Did You Get the Number of the Steamroller that Hit Me?

Can You Get Replacement Feet?

Car 54, Where Are You?

Action Man, the Greatest Hero of Them All!

Bring Out Yer Dead

Traces of Past Cimes

Ennui Sets in Ever so Quickly

Forest? I Can’t Even See the Trees!

Take the Last Train to Clarksville…

Torture is Such an Unpleasant Word

Unexpected Visitors Can Leave a Bad Taste in the Mouth

…and Then Three Come Along at Once!

Maybe…Maybe Not…

Small Talk's Overrated

Ever Have That Feeling You’ve Missed Something?

Sleep? I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

Roadkill’s Good Eatin’

A Grand Day Out

More Boring Police Work

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch pt2

More After the Math

Now, That’s What I Call Pate!

Welcome to My Nice, Boring Little Life

Follow the Trail of Dead

More News

The Dead Can’t Dance

£$!# &^%? @$# $(%*^¡&€+ $£@#

Don’t it Make You Feel Sick?

I Love the Smell of Napalm in the Morning

Babble, Burble, Bicker, Bicker, Bicker, Ballyhoo…Balderdash

Good Days and Bad Days

Is That a Light at the End of the Tunnel? Or Some Bastard with a Flashlight Bringing Me More Work?

I Just Called…

I Can’t Repeat What he Said…

Suspension

Breakfast in Bed it Ain’t

Into the Valley of Death…

Suspension II

Pub Lunch…Breakfast of Champions

Darkness

Treasure Hunting in Middle England

Time is Not Always on Your Side

Scooby Doo, Where Are You?

We Can Remember It for You…

Condolences Never Say What You Mean

I Hate Funerals

Yes, the Daring do

News From the States

I Hate Funerals pt2

Win Some, Lose Some

Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady

Delusions…

What Was That?

…and Hallucinations

Deep Doo-doo

Dream, Perchance to Sleep

But What is ‘Real’ Anyway?

Told You So, Told You So…

Waking up Alone Again

I Don’t Like Cleaning Up the Mess After the Party

Things Wot Bite

Needles, Haystacks, etc., etc.

Intermezzo

Have You Ever Seen an Old Soldier of Fortune?

Intermezzo II

Otherwise Known as ‘Poking the Tiger’

Waiting Up is Hard to Do

High Noon on the Chaparral …or Something

Been Caught Stealing

Around, Behind, Between, Above, Below

Intermezzo III

Even Cowgirls Can be a Pain in the Ass!

Idle Hands do the Devil’s Work

Timeslips, Cigarettes and Alcohol

‘Bump’ in the Night? That Was a Crash!

Whatever You Do, Don’t Make It Angry!

Turn Out the Lights, the Party’s Over…

Still Seeking Oblivion

If you liked it….

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Untitled

Death After Midnight

Also by Dean Fetzer

To my long-suffering wife Debra for her exasperated imprecation to just do it, already

Yekaterinsky Palace, Pushkin, 1941

The noise of the trucks was loud in the dark woods. The Obersturmbannführer checked his watch by the dimness of the dashboard lights. Just before midnight. He looked at his driver then signalled the dark trucks behind by flicking his flashlight on and off three times. A watery moon hung low in the sky, doing little to relieve the darkness of the forest.

The driver pounded his hands together to restore the circulation before putting the truck in gear and starting cautiously down the narrow road to the darkened palace.

A light flashed three times as they approached the palace, the signal from the contact. The driver flashed the headlights once in response, the light through blackout slits barely illuminating the track ahead.

The six trucks pulled up in the area behind the palace and shut their engines off. The sudden silence was deafening. The Obersturmbannführer got down from the lead truck and approached the door where the light had been.

A figure detached itself from the shadowy door and stopped. Obersturmbannführer. Are your men ready?

Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenführer, the Colonel replied with a snapped salute and clicking his heels.

This way. The figure turned and entered the palace.

The Obersturmbannführer glanced over his shoulder briefly to see that the men were following before going in.

There was little time to glance at the magnificent rooms around them, as the party moved down the hall, half seen in the darkness. The beauty of the empty place was astounding.

They came to a halt outside a pair of ornate doors; the dark stranger stood there, eyes glittering. You have never seen anything like this, he said quietly. "I know I haven’t." He turned and pulled the doors.

A collective gasp ran through the company. Candles littered around the room made the walls glow, orange, red, yellow gold, fire encased in ice. Each piece on the walls, minutely carved with exquisite precision, dryads, nymphs, hoary satyrs, vines, fantastical figures living in molten gold.

The Obersturmbannführer stepped hesitantly into the room, transfixed. What is it? he finally managed. He had an odd feeling about the place, almost foreboding, as if it was breathing.

Sensing his uneasiness, the stranger chuckled. It is only amber, Herr Obersturmbannführer. A fabulous folly carved of amber. He turned to the others. Be very careful, my young heroes, this is the only Amber Room in existence! He stopped, looking back. Oh, Obersturmbannführer, you have 36 hours.

The Obersturmbannführer pulled his gaze away from the amazing walls of amber. Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenführer, he replied, saluting crisply. To his men, Get the tools and crates, we have work to do.

A voracious glint in his eye, the stranger left them to their work. Soon…soon, you will be mine, he muttered as he left the room.

---

The room glowered at the miniscule figures working to dismantle it in haste. More men, easily influenced, moulded and used. Men had created it, but the years had given it an awareness few of them dreamed of. Soon it would be time to act again, to finally put itself beyond harm. A door banged open.

Lights and sparks danced in the depths of the amber, but somehow not a reflection of the soldiers in the room.

Prelude and Fugue indeed

His leg sounds like green wood breaking, wet and sharp. I kick him again, feeling it give way completely.

God! he shrieks, but still tries to pull himself away on the iron fencing. Rain falls continuously, masking street noises. We’ve got an audience now – ghouls. No one interferes, regardless.

It’s no less than he deserves – he probably deserves more – for what he did to eight-year-old Alexandra. If the vigilantes get him they’ll rip him apart with their bare hands.

I follow the sound of his foot dragging in the wet. That extra three or four stone of weight seems to be hampering his efforts. I don’t know how people can still get fat in this day and age.

He doesn’t make it very far. I let him go another metre or two before finishing it. Listening carefully to his gasps and faltering attempts to get away, I feel little compassion. I take aim and kick the other ankle. The crack is audible, followed by his wordless scream. He pitches forward on his face on the pavement.

Raa1, I announce – God, I hate these made up names. For the crimes of Paedophilia, Torture and Rape, I sentence you, under Restraining Order Alpha, subsection 2b, to Personality Adjustment and Retraining, effective immediately.

I didn’t do it! he pleads pathetically.

"Witness testimony and the evidence say otherwise, ‘Rall’. I continue the charge. Should Personality Adjustment fail to curb your behaviour, you will be Terminated Without Prejudice. How do you plead?"

Not Guilty!

I turn away. You all say that, I murmur in reply, as the patrol car I summoned pulls up at the curb. That’s him, I wave in his general direction. Better take him to the meds first, or those bones may never heal properly.

I consult Central before pronouncing. Raa1, at 23.07 on the 18th February, New Year 32, I hereby confirm sentence and commend you to immediate fulfilment of said sentence, Contractor Jaared Sen committing officer. May God rest your soul.

No! He screams as they pick him up. Obviously, they weren’t exactly careful of his injuries. I can’t see his face, but imagine he’s looking at me with hate and terror. If it means he doesn’t hurt little kids anymore, I can live with it.Besides, he won’t remember a thing after they ‘adjust’ his head.

I stop, thinking I’ve heard a noise behind me. No, nothing.

Unfortunately, Personality Adjustment doesn’t fix the lives scum like this fuck up. Justice is not only blind, she can be a bitch, too.

The feeling of being watched persists, though. Ignoring it, I light a cigarette and walk into the rain.

Step by Step, Slowly I Turn

Graeme was in the Range Rover when Wolf got to Westbourne Grove. Wolf pulled the Spider in behind him, turned off the lights and joined him in the Rover.

Howdy.

Graeme glared, lifted the flask and poured a second cup of coffee. Hello yoursel’. Hope this thing’s worth it. He flipped defrost on as the car started steaming up.

A patrol car hummed by, and they both slouched down in the seats.

Graeme spoke again when the car had passed. Middle of the night in Bayswater. Huh. He slurped his coffee. Sphincter went in ’bout half an hour ago. Shirl followed him in and is currently kissin’ up to the night porter. Sex-starved Paki. He tapped the earpiece in his right ear. Near as I can tell, he’s spending most of his time speakin’ to her chest. He chuckled and Wolf smiled.

Any idea who Sphincter’s talking to? Wolf asked.

I’d bet a rat’s arse it’s one o’ them Tong types. They’ve started diversifying. And, he paused dramatically, as they can intimidate or twist anything out of anyone, they’ve got a pretty good track record to date.

Wolf nodded. Which gang?

Does it matter? Graeme asked.

Well, you never know who might take offence. Wolf lifted the night glasses off the floor. Shirl all right in there?

Still pumpin’ the porter. He just mentioned a fire escape.

Ugh, you leave little to the imagination, Wolf said in mock distaste as he scanned the street. No one visible. Fire escape, huh? Could be useful. I’m going to take a look.

Wolf.

He stopped half in, half out of the Range Rover. Yeah?

Graeme popped the glove box. I know you don’ like it, but take this. You never know who might be out there.

Wolf grimaced at the Glock. You’re right. I’d rather depend on these, he lifted his hands.

Graeme nodded as if that was the answer he expected. Okay, at least put this on. He tossed him a bag with another earplug and mic set. Otherwise you won’ know what’s going on.

Wolf pulled the earplug and bead mic out of the plastic wrap, inserted the earpiece and stuck the bead to his lip before closing the door of the Range Rover quietly. He sauntered over to the hotel. Shirl’s conversation with the porter was incredibly boring in his ear. Wolf remembered his first sight of Shirley, a gawky child, all legs and teeth. She definitely wasn’t gawky anymore.

Looking both ways, he sauntered down the short alley beside the hotel and looked up. The fire escape dangled over his head. He pulled the goggles on and the alley lit up in pale green.

I’m going up, he vocalised softly, the bead mic picking up every word.

Watch yourself, Wolf, was the response. A click in his ear told him Shirl had heard and understood. Clever girl.

---

The phone rang, interrupting more than sleep. Michael groaned. Wolf felt much the same. He should have turned the bloody thing off.

Wolf groped for the handset. Aye?

Wolf? the voice on the other end asked.

Aye? Wolf repeated.

It’s Graeme, the voice continued.

Aye, I know, Wolf replied.

Well, you said you wanted to know if the uh…item moved. There was a pause. We think it has.

Wolf sat up, dislodging Michael. Where?

I followed ’ol Rat Sphincter to a cheap flop in Bayswater. Westbourne Grove. Graeme spoke to someone who was with him, probably Shirl. Yep, he’s gone up to a room in the flop. What should we do?

Wolf thought for a moment before answering. Michael was nuzzling his ear, making shivers run down his spine. Regretfully, he pushed Michael away with the hand not holding the phone. Wait. Watch. I’ll be there in 15.

Michael groaned again and rolled over. I hate it when you rush off in the middle of the night, he pouted.

Wolf stood up and began pulling clothes on. Sorry, it’s work. He pulled a shirt over his head. I’ll be back in an hour. Okay?

Michael turned the light out and rolled over, in a sulk. Wolf groped his way to the door, wishing he could stay with him.

Wolf took a step back and jumped up to catch the bottom of the ladder. The sound of it extending was loud in the alley. He waited a second to see if anyone had noticed. No one did, so he started climbing it as quietly as he could, muscles bulging under his sweatshirt. His shadow, cast by a distant streetlight, danced over the wall of the hotel as he climbed to the first platform.

Most of the windows of the hotel and surrounding flats were dark. Sensible people sleeping in the middle of the night, Wolf thought. He smiled as the thought continued, sensible people leading sensible, boring, lives. Seemed like a good idea sometimes.

The steel treads vibrated under his feet as he continued going up. One of the upper windows showed a light. He slowed his climb as he approached, careful not to make any noise.

Wolf crept up the final flight to the level of the window. He glanced at the walkway in front of him, checking for loose stones, flower pots, anything which would make a noise if he stumbled into them, stepped around a bucket half filled with water.

Stealthily, he approached the window. Paused, looked around at the surrounding windows. All he needed now was a helpful neighbour calling the Polis.

The window frame centimetres from his nose, he edged his right eye past the trim. A normal hotel room: bed, chair, small table. Three men were visible. Sphincter, the rat-faced courier sat in a chair with his back to the window, something on the table between them, glowing in the dim light. Two others, the Asian one – Chinese or Korean maybe – was sitting on the bed, side on to Wolf’s view; the black one faced him. They were well dressed, but the black guy looked like hired muscle. All brawn and no brains. The Chinese was in charge. The muscle stood between him and the door.

Shirl was still chatting to the night porter about football, of all things. I’m outside the window, he muttered into the bead.

Graeme’s voice came back. How many?

Three. Including Sphincter

Graeme sighed. Wait, Wolf. Watch. You hear me?

Wolf grinned. Sure. We’ll wait tell they split up and take them outside the hotel. Right?

Graeme answered with silence.

In the room, an argument was taking place, probably over money. Sphincter’s getting agitated, Wolf reported.

The Chinese man handed Sphincter a credit chit. He shook his head sharply. The Chinese stood up and moved closer to Sphincter. Sphincter was still protesting, but he backed up slightly. The little man didn’t touch him, but managed to turn him around and force him to the door. The bodyguard opened the door and pushed Sphincter out with a glance of contempt.

Sphincter just left, Wolf reported as he got his first real look at the icon. It was small, not more than 30 centimetres tall. The dark wood had the patina of age. The gold glowed in the harsh fluorescent, an ancient yellow. It was a beautiful thing.

Shirl’s conversation with the porter had ended. The poor guy probably had a serious case of blue balls.

Sphincter has left the building, Graeme reported. Shirl’s on the street to the west of the door. What now?

Two left, one muscle, the other Chinese, possibly dangerous. The black guy reached into his jacket and checked something under his arm. Correction, Wolf said. Armed. The big guy’s got a piece, don’t know about the other.

Graeme snorted. What now?

Shirl piped up, Wait for them to come out and jump them then.

Wolf thought about it, as the two men wrapped the icon carefully in industrial padding and bubble wrap. When it was secure, they placed it in a large Harrod’s bag. The item’s in a green Harrod’s bag.

The two checked the room for any tell tales then put on overcoats. OK, G, join S and keep out of sight and very quiet. I’ll come from the other direction and let you know which way they’re going.

---

Finding the icon’s current owners had been easier than Wolf had expected. Any leads from dealers had proven to be a waste of time.

On a hunch, he’d mentioned the item to their friendly neighbourhood mobster – Vasily Kreja – on the collector’s next visit. Vasily stared at him, then said, Mr Euonymus may know, before he turned and exited the shop.

Two days later, a note was hand delivered with the message: Check the established antique dealers in Portobello Road. Wolf put his friend and sometime partner Graeme on it.

Graeme and his daughter Shirley had known Pocock Woffe for most of his time in London – most of his life, well what Wolf thought of as his ‘life’. Anything before that happened to another person.

Wolf’s mentor, Stanley had introduced them. Graeme had always done odd jobs for Stanley; when he died, Graeme did them for Wolf. They were family.

Graeme also knew what he was doing.

Wolf sprinted as quickly and quietly as he could back down the fire escape. He made it to the entrance of the alley with seconds to spare. The two came out of the hotel, the Chinese carrying the bag. They turned toward Wolf’s hiding place, the bodyguard on the street side, the Chinese on the inside. He checked the street. A Merc was parked at the curb about four meters beyond the entrance to the alley.

OK, they’re coming my way. About three meters away, moving normally, not a care in the world. Join us when I make my move, he said quietly.

As the two drew even with the alley, Wolf staggered out. ’Scuse me. Spare some change, please? he improvised.

The two looked at each other, and the muscle stepped in front of the bagman. Piss off, he hissed. Got no change.

Please, I’m so hungry. Anything you can spare, Wolf said pathetically.

The man started to get angry. I just tol’ you we ain’t got no fuckin’ change! Now crawl back down yer hole and stop botherin’ people. He opened the coat and flashed the handle of a large revolver.

My, that’s a big gun. Wolf looked frightened for a second, then stood up straight and changed tack, Well, I’ll just take that bag, then.

Graeme and Shirl had come up behind them while the short exchange took place. Graeme jammed the Glock into the back of the black guy who froze. Shirl jammed something into the Chinaman’s ear; he shrieked once, half-whirled and collapsed. The bag bounced off the pavement. Shirl caught it before the second bounce.

Graeme hit the other one behind the ear as he turned to see what happened to his mate, and again when he went down.

Wolf looked at Shirl. She stepped over and jammed a small bulb with a button on it into the black man’s ear and pushed the button. He jerked spasmodically, out for the count. She straightened, the large revolver in one hand, and shrugged, displaying the bulb in the other. Stinger. Didn’t want ’em pulling any of that martial arts crap.

They quickly dragged the two unconscious men into the alley, removed their wallets, cash, rings, watches and stuffed them all in a wheelie bin on the other side of the alley with the gun.

Wolf left the father and daughter team to finish tidying up, took the keys to the Merc, and stepped out of the alley looking both ways. He walked normally to the Mercedes. He opened the door and crawled into the passenger seat. The glove box wasn’t locked and there wasn’t anything in it other than a logbook in the name of Benjamin Jackson. Just the usual rubbish in the door pockets. He came across a gold lighter in the dash compartment and pocketed it. He popped the boot and found nothing there either. He took the keys, locked the car back up, opened the engine compartment and removed a few wires here and there. Malicious, but fun.

He closed the hood and stepped onto the pavement. He fed the keys down a handy drain.

As he turned around pain exploded behind his left ear. He dropped with the blow, spun and swept his leg, encountering nothing. He feinted a roll toward the gutter, then rolled to his right. A leg appeared where he would have been. He kicked quickly at the kneecap, but the blow glanced away.

A foot caught him behind the left ear again, and he blacked out momentarily. He tried to get his arms under him and push away from the pavement. A weight dropped onto his back and another blow to his head sent him back into blackness.

Tales From the Morgue

There was a body in the hall. Dr Alicia Sampson, Head of Forensic Pathology for the Corporation of London, Milton Court, didn’t spare it a glance as she stalked down the hall.

Jack Sullivan followed her into her office. Here’s that report from Tox you’ve been waiting on.

Alicia nodded as she took it. Thanks. She looked up from her desk. Anything interesting come in while I was out?

Jack Sullivan sat down in the chair opposite. Couple of jumpers. One natural causes, near as we can tell. He grinned. And, we’ve got a mystery.

Alicia played along. Don’t keep me in suspense, Sullivan.

No obvious signs of trauma, no punctures, no stomach contents.

Alicia looked a bit sharper. Toxicology? she asked.

Jack shifted in the chair. It gets worse. No initial findings in the Tox report. I’ve sent it back for a full spectrum.

Natural causes?

Jack shook his head. Could be. But the subject’s between 18 and 24.

Intrigued, Alicia stood up. Show me, she said and followed him out of the office. He walked to the freezer and pulled out a drawer.

No name, no ID or identifying marks, just a thin dress. Jack always liked a mystery – Alicia admitted silently she liked them too. Why else would she have chosen Forensics after a promising start as a surgeon?

The body was an attractive young female, black or Indian, long black hair, prominent nose, small high breasts, flat belly, no signs of childbirth, about 20. Probably Indian. Well formed, no excess body fat. The sort of body Alicia would have killed for 20 years before.

What were the clothes? she asked after her visual inspection. Did you say a ‘thin dress’?

Jack nodded. Just a white, cotton dress. No underwear. Handmade cloth, no shoes. The mystery deepened. But she hadn’t walked anywhere. No dirt on the feet – she was dumped. He stared at the face. Oh, found some blue fibres on the feet. Synthetic, carpet probably.

Any sign of sexual activity? Alicia asked.

Judging from the vaginal bruising, she’s had sex or been raped, but there don’t appear to be any traces of semen or condom lubricants – she’s been cleaned up, he replied.

Hmm. Someone covering their tracks? Alicia pulled latex gloves over her hands, lifted a hand. Flexible. Rigor passed?

Jack nodded. Near as we can tell, the body had almost completed rigor before it arrived here.

Alicia nodded back, still gazing at the face, Any guess at time of death?

At least 36 hours ago. Probably more. Jack walked from the head to the other side of the slab, also looking at the face. Polis are still looking at the missing persons files. He shrugged. She may not have been reported yet, but I’d guess someone will miss her.

Alicia stared into the beautiful face a moment longer, willing it to talk, give up secrets. Have you run the stomach contents?

Jack smiled that death’s head grin he had sometimes, his pale skin almost translucent in the bright lights. Like I said, nothing. She hadn’t eaten for some time. The stomach had shrunk, but it hadn’t been long enough to start wasting tissue. Some fluid, but nothing solid.

Someone starved her? Alicia asked, surprised.

Jack nodded. Or she did it herself. Don’t forget, it’s Ramadan. She could have been fasting for that.

Yes, but most Muslims eat after sundown, she replied. Not many fast for the whole time. Who’s investigating? Anyone we know?

It appears to be Leibowiz, at the moment, Jack said. There seems to be some confusion. I’ve heard Sen may be called. He paused. But that’s unofficial – grapevine working overtime.

Alicia raised an eyebrow. Anything else?

Jack shifted uncomfortably. Well, the higher-ups think it’s a waste of time and will backseat it if the ID comes through…Doesn’t cheer me up, if she was killed.

No, Alicia agreed. Keep an eye on the Tox report. Let me know if anything interesting surfaces, OK?

Jack nodded. Sure.

Rainy Days and Englishmen

The street is full of alien shadows. Rain obscures the detail. Figures loom from the darkness with alarming suddenness, but remain insubstantial. Hallucinations. I only sense them, physical eyes destroyed long ago. Music rages in my head, obscure bands long dead, covering the sounds of these phantom beings.

Blindness is a condition popular belief tells you enhances the remaining senses. I can’t wholly discount the theory. My eyes have been gone so long, some kind of latent sense has developed which allows me to function (mostly) without seeing. It has taken decades. It manifests itself as a sort of pre-cognition combined with spatial awareness. But not exactly. How do I explain to normals? You would need to taste it. I apologise if it seems like I see more than a blind person should, but hey, life sucks.

Whores from far away places call to me on the street corners, accents jarring in the hiss of the rain. I ignore them. Short-lived comfort. Russians, Croats, Bosnians, Afghans, Taiwanese…why here? Land of promise and all that crap. Somebody lied.

The cigarette in my fingers burns down to the skin. I welcome the pain. Life bores me. I’m tired and empty, a shell with nothing inside. Burn out. Hard vacuum. Music is the only thing that stimulates – and doesn’t always work.

I wander aimlessly down this London’s streets. No purpose and no desires. A cigarette appears, lit, in the corner of my mouth, a familiar friend. Inhale the acrid cloud; welcome the sensation of cool smoke filling the lungs.

The rain is falling more heavily now. I turn up the collar of my black leather long-coat, raindrops tapping at the worn leather. The electric traffic hums and slithers by, casting floods at the pavements. The hookers swear at the traffic. My boots are waterproof, fortunately.

A car hisses up and stops. Close. I loosen my coat, hand straying inside. A window hums open.

Easy, Jaared. I know better than tryin’ to sneak up on you, a woman’s voice drawls, with a hint of laughter.

I smile in reply. "Skeet, you couldn’t sneak up on me."

Skeet chuckles. Fancy a lift?

I move around the car in answer, sensing the traffic and waiting before I open the door. Toss the butt in the gutter. I never run into you by accident, Skeet. What’s the occasion? I say, settling into the passenger seat.

She shrugs. Saw ya’all go into the Paki’s shop and thought maybe I should take you for a drink for old times’ sake.

Skeet is from the South. Not of England, of the old U.S., like me. It shows up most in her no-nonsense approach and a particularly black and white way of seeing things. It is more diluted in me…perhaps. That was a very long time ago.

I bow my head. I’m honoured. I face straight ahead, appearing to stare blankly through the windscreen. Skeet is also a very good driver. Akrim’s family are originally from the northern part of Kerala not Pakistan.

She shrugs again. Pakis are Pakis. I can’t tell the difference. Black and white. Ya’all should get that scar seen to – you’d be better looking.

The scar that starts on the left side of my face and finishes above my right temple has been there a very long time. I understand it’s no longer red and obvious, but it isn’t invisible either. The wrap-arounds I wear cover most of the damage, but not all.

It’s a reminder. I say in answer, fingers straying to touch it.

"To you or them?" she asks.

I think, them. And I suppose it was, originally. I forget it’s there most of the time. I don’t answer her.

We drive in silence the rest of the way to The George, an old haunt of mine.

---

The ‘Paki’ in question is one Akrim Sedani, a trader in various wares and gear in London’s West End. He ‘found’ me walking past his shop a little earlier.

What do you want, Akrim? I demand, teeth on edge from the sweet tea he insists on serving me.

I can feel the breeze from the waving motions he makes with his hands. No, no, I cannot impose on you with a silly matter like this.

I’m getting impatient with Akrim’s ditherings. Which matter, Akrim?

Never mind. Never mind! More tea? he asks, lifting the pot.

I shake my head angrily and reach across the desk to grasp his shirt in one hand. The knuckles pop as I lift him inches from his chair. I hiss into his face, Akrim, you son-of-a-camel jockey, I worked for your grandfather when he started this shop. Now, have some respect for your elders and tell me what you want before I prove that an old man can still beat the shit out of you. I push him back into the chair.

He puts down the teapot, going still. Then you will know my father was not a camel jockey, he says quietly. Then the waving motions are back. Okay, okay, it is silly really.

Tell me, I sigh, slumping into the chair.

He sighs. My brother’s daughter, Shyla, has disappeared. She is supposed to be married tomorrow. Akrim dotes on his niece – and he loves a good wedding.

Naj’s daughter? I hear him nod. How long?

Four days, maybe five. I got a contractor on it two days ago.

Legit? I ask, meaning a licensed contractor.

No. He puffs out his chest. I can afford it, and legit cannot see everything, can he?

Annoyed, I pick up the cup again. Take a sip. The sweetness is like biting on aluminium foil. Grimace. Anything?

No. She apparently took a train to Cambridge and vanished. No money trail. Nothing.

Who? I ask, meaning the contractor.

Guramar Harmpan.

I sigh. No wonder he hasn’t found anything. I’ll speak to him.

Thank you, Jaared, he fawns. It is more than I ask, but…

I listen closely to him. No, that’s not right…watch/feel him. And you expect me to magic her out of thin air?

He nods again, knowing I can sense it.

I light another cigarette, thinking about it. Stand up. I’ll see what I can do. For you. I inhale the smoke. Naj, I owe nothing and do nothing on his behalf. Clear?

He nods again. I know you don’t like Naj, but Shyla’s my favourite.

Yes. I’ve met her once or twice with Akrim and his family. A striking girl, with the brains to match her famed beauty.

I turn to go. Usual terms, minus ten percent. He doesn’t see me out.

---

’Aven’t seen you inna while, Mr Sen, Jake the doorman offers as he opens the door. Skeet passes me and enters.

Haven’t been in the neighbourhood lately, Jake, I respond.

The George is a bit of a relic. Built in 1873, the current owner/landlord doesn’t belong to one of the conglomerates running what remains of the pub world these days. George (yes, that is his name) doesn’t believe in having giant vid screens or those inane virtual pool tables in a pub. You can actually have a conversation in his pub. It’s always busy. I think he started a bit of a backlash against the spotless, character-less, soul-less pub-bars that continue to sprout up on every corner in London. It’s dingy, tattered and has seen more punters than a skin whore in a 48 hour brothel, but I like it. And as it’s a private club, you can smoke.

Skeet muscles her way to the bar; I pick a table near the back, but not too close to the pool table (a real one).

I don’t think Skeet is pretty in a conventional sense. I guess she’s older than she says – I’ve known her too long to believe everything she tells me. I don’t know what colour her hair is, as I get the feeling she changes it often. I like to think of her with very short bleached blonde hair. No, it’s not a fantasy. I just think it suits her hardness.

Her face (which she allowed me to feel – in that clichéd way blind people are supposed to – in a very drunk moment a long time ago) is angular with striking cheekbones and strongish jaw. Reasonably proportioned.

I think

Reviews for Death in Amber

[peterclack · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book starts in 1941 with Nazi troops robbing the amber from the Amber Room of a Russian palaces.Cut to about 2050. The world is no longer broken up into states as we understand them. They are probably closer to the Greek idea of the City State, the polis. London is one such. To a large extent it is under the control of The Company which doesn’t advertise the full extent of its interests. It started off as a contractor for services that people didn’t like to do – like rubbish collection, sweeping streets, but has now reached much further into society. It has developed the means to replace parts of people and extending their lives. It can also implant thought transmitters into the brain. But it is important to remember that a) the Company doesn’t control everything and b) is feared by those who it doesn’t employ. This has the makings of a dystopia like Brave New World.The story consists of three quests. The first is to recover a stolen Russian icon. The second is to find Shyla, Contractor Jaared Sen’s niece who has disappeared. The third is to find and recover the stolen amber from the Amber Room in 1941.The Russian icon is recovered almost immediately, but they are immediately robbed of it themselves. It does not make a reappearance until towards the end.A pathologist contacts Jaared because she has two deaths that puzzle her. Both are young girls who are Indian and who are dressed in simple cotton shifts arranged apparently ritually. Their stomachs are empty and no cause of death can be identified. A third body is found and analysis reveals that she has been administered a poison that has a very short life before breaking down into innocuous substances. A bookseller and his friends are contacted secretly and given the task of finding the amber. They have no choice in the matter. They try to find out who is behind the request and the bookshop is burned to the ground. After this warning they focus seriously on their quest. Eventually they get a lead to a well-protected country house. They break in but find nothing. They are, however, warned off and told that the amber was there but has now moved on. They should give up the search because they will never find it.Meanwhile Jaared’s private detective assistant Skeet disappears. She has been instrumental in helping him in the search for Shyla. Eventually he, too, ends up in a country house. Jaared is caught by guards and put into a prison cell. He discovers he shares it with Skeet and Shyla. Both women have been starved, Shyla to the point of serious malnutrition. When a guard comes in he overpowers him and takes on the principle people in the house, killing them.Skeet and Shyla are taken to hospital to recover from their ordeal. Jaared is promoted not only because of his success in solving the mystery of the disappearance of Shyla and Skeet but also the strange bodies that were appearing in the morgue. He also revealed a network of corrupt officers within the Company. When Skeet is released from hospital they spend a happy fortnight together.This is a compelling story very well written. I am glad to see that more Jaared Sen books are in the pipeline.

[ulfhjorr · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I was unable to get into this novel. The premise, of two teams of investigators searching for a famed piece of art stolen by Nazis, was interesting to me. However, the execution, primarily the use of parallel story lines that both cut back and forth quickly and included a lot of inner stories, made the reading slow-going. By the half-way mark, I was unable to continue because nothing had grabbed my interest to make fighting through the writing.

[ponsonby_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Given to me by the author in e-book format as part of the Member Giveaway programmeI had a hard time with this book, frankly. The basic situation is one of two converging plot-lines, centring on the mystery of the Amber Room, which was a great treasure in a Czarist palce in the Soviet Union, was looted by the Nazis and has not been found (although a reconstucted room has been built at the orginal location). Two teams of investigators, one of them supernatural are involved, in looking into the deaths of beautiful young women, and this is connected with the Room. The book is not actually very long (about 250 pages) but it seems long because the build-up is such a large part of the story. The conclusion, by contrast, seems hurried. It is set in the near future. There have been several other novels about the Amber Room (I have not read any of the others)

[lukes_171461 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Given to me by the author in ebook format as part of the Member Giveaway program.In “Death in Amber” Dean Fetzer offers a yarn that includes mystery, intrigue, a priceless and unique work of art, thieving Nazis, and strong elements of the supernatural. And a hero the like of which I have never run across before.Mr. Fetzer focuses on the Amber Room, the unique masterpiece of Baroque art – an ornate room built entirely out of amber and given to Czar Peter the Great by Prussian King Frederick. It was a highly prized pawn in Russian-German diplomacy at the outset of World War II, and serves as the jumping-off point in this mystery. This story, too, has unique elements that set it apart from other mysteries. Set in the near future, it features Jaared Sen, a blind investigator with special powers of perception and great supernatural fighting and surviving skills. In an alternate narrative thread, we have Wolf and his crew of specialized thieves. And lording it over all are the supernatural creatures themselves.The story progresses through these two threads: the difficult investigations on both sides go forward side-by-side in alternating sections, and these sections are one or two pages long. It took me a while to acclimate myself to this jarring scheme, maybe a third of the book, but after that, I got into the rhythm. Unfortunately, the mysteries unfold with such slowness that the first three quarters of the book feel like one long tedious drudge. Lack of reasonable pace is a problem here. Toward the end of the book, where our two protagonists meet, I built up a hope that they might join forces, but, that was not the payoff. The payoff was a brief interaction between Sen the supercop and an extremely mysterious non-human female character wherein Sen’s senses are overwhelmed by the supernatural properties of the Amber Room. As interesting as all this sounds, it just doesn’t become airborne for me, it never leaves the plane of the mundane; ultimately finishing the book felt like completing an exercise. One part of the narrative deserves mention: in the midst of the plodding setups of our mysteries, we have Alicia the medical examiner and her professor husband. The husband is murdered, a gratuitous bit of violence in an unnecessary plot element, but Mr. Fetzer’s handling of Alicia’s shock and grief, and of her steadfast friends’ intervention in her life at this horrific time, is sensitive, properly-paced, and utterly believable. It makes me think Mr. Fetzer can handle these emotions really well, and I would be interested in a book of his that dealt more closely with elements like these. Overall, though, “Death in Amber” moves too slowly for me, and its potentially high-voltage supernatural elements beg for more depth and background.

[hairball_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is a review of the electronic book, Mobi format. It is a disjointed review, but the book is disjointed, so I don't think that's completely unfair.There are two story lines in the book that eventually meet up, sort of--and the people in one of them will go on to the next book. Unfortunately, I liked the people in the other story line better--maybe they show up in the next book and just aren't in the provided excerpt. In any event, I wasn't charmed enough by this book to go on to the next. The way the two lines intersect is pretty haphazard--the author is building too many stories on top of each other to lay the foundations of the series.I felt that there were too many conspiracies being built into the whole thing--how many kinds of immortals do you need, really? I may just be a crankypants, though. And maybe too many supernatural/quasi-supernatural things going on at the same time. I'm not a huge fan of supposedly tantalizing vagueness that will get answered X number of books into the series. Finally, this book could use a good editor. The poor use of commas really gets to me--I can't help myself. Plus things like someone's name changing within a page--that kind of continuity fault is just shabby.