The Last Dream Before You Die

By Paul Dalzell

Jack Bone is a detective, and nothing gets in the way of solving a casenot even the recent death of his partner. Still reeling from loss, Bone accepts an assignment in Wolfston, investigating the profitability of Englands last woolen mill. Theres something strange about the staff at the mill, thoughespecially the night shift, who seem to have a lot of secrets. The employees at the Wolfston mill are vampires, and they dont like Bone snooping around.

He escapes unscathed, but that isnt the end of his troubles. Bones busy caseload also includes the suspected smuggling of illegal aliens into England in trucks owned by Astra Clothing. Nearby, in Leeds, he encounters the Russian gangsters who are running the show. In a curious twist, he finds safety with the Wolfston vampires, who agree to help him with his case while keeping him safe.

Bone is right on the gangsters tail when they produce their own powerful vampire, threatening the lives of Bones close friends and family. Fearing further loss, he vows to bring the Russians to justice before its too late, but how can he fight an immortal foe? This might be Bones last case, but he wont go down without a fight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Apr 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781458203120

Paul Dalzell

Paul Dalzell lives and works in Hawaii. He is originally from the north of England and has spent most of his life working and traveling in the South Pacific and Southeast Asia. The Last Dream Before You Die is the first book in a series of Jack Bone detective stories.

Book preview

Chapter 1 (Sunday, November 20)

Death stalked Jack Bone on a Sunday morning in November. The two women and four children feeding water birds on the shore were the sole legacy he would leave behind when he died.

Bone had brought his sister, Maureen, to Golden Acre Park on the outskirts of Leeds so her two boys, Tom and Peter, could walk and feed ducks on the lake. Bone’s secretary, Jeannie Idle, was also with them, looking after her two grandchildren, a boy and girl about the same age as Maureen’s kids.

You look like someone just walked over your grave, Jack, Maureen said as she turned to look at her older brother lounging on a park bench. A penny for your thoughts?

Her voice broke him out his reverie and he looked up at her. Eh? Oh, just thinking.

About what?

Nothing.

Jeannie Idle broke in. Don’t bother, Maureen. My Tommy was just the same. Black moods, stone face, strong and silent, even after he moved on from the police force and became a private detective.

Maureen shrugged and walked over to where Bone sat. Have you got any interesting cases at the moment?

Bone stared out at the lake. A pair of swans glided past the noisy throng of ducks squabbling over the bread. When one of the swans turned and looked at him, he felt a sense of foreboding. As it happens, yes—although I don’t know if I should have taken it on. There’s a large clothing firm called Astra. They’ve factories all over Europe, but their main facility is in Leeds. Illegal immigrants have been found in three of their trucks coming back to England from Europe. The management wants me to put a stop to it.

Will you?

I hope so. It might be more than a one-man job, though. He paused. It’s just the sort of thing that Tommy and I would have done together.

Maureen was silent a moment before she said softly, so Jeannie wouldn’t hear, We’ve all been concerned about Jeannie since Tommy died, but what about you, Jack? How’re you doing? And how’s the business?

Bone grunted. Me? I’m okay, but I’m still worried about Jeannie. She’s aged in the months since Tommy died. Hard to believe that knocking a mole off his shoulder was a death sentence.

Maureen sighed, I know. Skin cancer’s easy to treat if found in time. But once it gets loose …

He shrugged. The work keeps rolling in. Wish Tommy was here to see it all. I’ve been subcontracting some of the legwork to part-timers.

Part-timers?

Photographers and computer techies looking for extra money. Out-of-work actors and models who’ll do legwork. A couple of ‘working girls’ I know.

Maureen laughed. Really?

I’ve even used students. They always need money. It’s not like when we were at school and the government gave you a grant to go to college. Nowadays, they graduate with a degree and thirty grand of debt. There’s a lot more demand for private detective agencies than you’d realize. Insurance companies checking up on fraudulent claims, even the government trying to catch out dole cheats.

I know you do industrial work, but I always thought your business was more about firms suspecting an employee of absconding with the Christmas fund. This is much bigger. Who recommended you to Astra? Was it Beaumont?

Honorable Freddy; yeah. Astra said I was held ‘in high regard’ by the chief superintendant. Did you know he’s the favorite to be the deputy chief constable for West Yorkshire?

He’s been good to you, Jack, and he was your partner for barely a year.

Aye, but he got to see real policing at street level. I think he’s always been grateful for that. He knew he would be fast-tracked for the senior ranks, being who he is.

Every time I glance through Yorkshire Life magazine, there’s usually a Beaumont chairing some committee. Isn’t his father the lord lieutenant of North Yorkshire?

Aye, he’s got the uniform, the sword, and the fancy hat. You know what they say: noblesse oblige. In Freddie’s case, it’s true.

He wasn’t the one who sent the Chinese gentleman your way?

What’s Jeannie been saying?

Only that you took on a rather odd case for a Mr. Lau and that he had a glamorous assistant. Jeannie said her shoes and other accessories alone were worth over a thousand quid.

She was a good-looking lass, all right, but I think that working for a bloke like Lau, she’d have to be more than ornamental. There are thousands of pages about him and his companies on the Internet. He’s one of China’s richest men—which is another way of saying one of the world’s wealthiest. The whole time we were talking, Ms. Wu was taking down details on her BlackBerry and communicating with the outside world. She broke off twice for whispered consults on her phone while Lau and I chatted away. When we signed the contracts, she lent me her pen. It was a silver Gucci ballpoint.

What did Mr. Lau want?

He’s got a fixation about some woolen mill in the Pennines. Place called Wolfston, not far from Haworth—you know, near Brontë country. He wants me to find out how it can possibly be profitable.

Eh? He’d be better off hiring an accountant, wouldn’t he?

That’s what I said. I can’t say that I was all that interested, but he said that a woolen mill still operating in England doesn’t make any economic sense, which I suppose is true of most manufacturing industries.

Why’d you take it on, then?

Well, Astra need to make some preparations before I officially start with them. The managing director has to inform the board, get folks lined up for interviews, and make sure their legal staff are comfortable with me poking about and giving their employees the third degree. So I thought I’d spend a few days pottering about in the Pennines. Bone looked around and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Besides, Mr. Lau gave us ten thousand good reasons for taking on the case.

Maureen looked mystified, then eyes widening said, You mean he gave you—

Yes, and that’s not for prime time. Ten grand and expenses for a few days snooping around Wolfston. I asked ‘Why me?’ and he said I’d come highly recommended by a former client. I didn’t press him further, since he’d bunged ten grand my way.

The children had finished feeding the ducks, and Jeannie Idle shepherded them toward Jack and Maureen’s park bench.

How about some coffee and sandwiches? she asked, smiling brightly. Despite her cheerful expression, deep lines of sadness were etched into her face.

They walked around the lake shore to the park café, the four children running ahead of them. Bone asked, Did you find out anything about Wolfston, Jeannie?

Hardly anything, other than what’s on the mill’s website. I checked out a few travel guides. The Lonely Planet guide to Yorkshire had a few lines about Wolfston, that it was a typical West Riding mill town offering little of interest to the casual visitor. Only the Moorcock Inn was listed for accommodation. If Wolfston is trying to remain inconspicuous, it’s being very successful.

I’d never heard of the place until Lau mentioned it the other day. I’ve been thinking about a cover story when I go there. Haworth is nearby, right? What if I were a freelance writer doing a magazine article on literature and the Pennines?

Jeannie said, Well, apart from the Brontë family, you could mention Elizabeth Gaskell. She wrote more about Lancashire and Manchester in North and South, but as she wrote a biography of Charlotte Brontë, it’s a logical link. Also, part of Pride and Prejudice is set in the Derbyshire Peak District.

Bone knew Jeannie was an avid reader and member of a couple of book clubs. He hoped they’d brought her some solace since Tommy’s death.

Jeannie went on. More recently, there’s J. B. Priestly and John Braine from Bradford. There’s also Keith Waterhouse and Simon Armitage from Leeds. Let me think about it tonight. I’ve made you a reservation for tomorrow at the Moorcock. When Bone thanked her, Jeannie chuckled.

What’s so funny? he asked.

Oh, just that I’ve never had such a hard time making a simple hotel reservation. I had to call several times to get someone to answer the phone. Then, when I said I’d like to make a reservation for three days, the man at the other end just said, ‘Are you sure?’ I pressed on and said the reservation was for a Mr. Bone, and I began to spell it out, just in case—well, you know. The man on the phone said, I know how to spell Bone, missus.’ I asked about a check-in time, but he’d already hung up."

Good heavens, said Maureen. How rude!

So I’m assuming you have a reservation at the Moorcock. I wanted to call back and give the man your credit card number, but to be honest; I think I would have drawn another blank.

Well, we’ll find out tomorrow.

Here we are. Let’s get you and the kids settled. Maureen and I will get some sandwiches and coffee.

Jeannie settled herself and the four children at an outdoor table on the café terrace, while Bone and Maureen went in and bought coffee, sandwiches, crisps, and soft drinks. As they emerged, Jeannie was entertaining the four children with a story.

Maureen said, I asked Jack about Mr. Lau’s assistant.

The elegant Miss Wu, said Jeannie. Yes, she was certainly something to see. I escorted her and Mr. Lau out to the elevator. A delivery man came out of the elevator and walked into a door staring at her. I had to give him some ice in a plastic bag for the bump on his head. Must have been quite a contrast with the way you look, said Maureen.

Jeannie laughed and said, Don’t be cruel Maureen!

Bone had no illusions about his appearance. He was just shy of six feet, with a spreading belly straining at the waistband of his pants. His brown sandy hair was receding from his forehead and speckled with grey. As Bone approached his sixtieth birthday, the face he saw each morning in the mirror had long ago lost the taut skin stretched over sharp cheekbones. His expression was permanently bleak, a result of a career in the police force and more recently a private detective dealing with human frailties. Bone’s expression was not improved by a scar running from the corner of his right eye to the middle of his chin, given to him by a knife wielding gypsy.

Aye well, beauty and beast, said Bone.

The four children were quiet as they ate their sandwiches and crisps and drank their soft drinks, but when they finished, they became restless.

Maureen and Jeannie organized them while Bone checked that nothing had been left behind. Walking through a tunnel under the main road, they strolled back to the car park, where Bone bought everyone an ice cream from a van parked there.

Bone looked toward his car and noticed it was sitting low to the ground. He mentioned it to Maureen and walked over to look at the vehicle. He came back a few moments later. Jeannie, can you take Maureen and the kids home? Some bastard’s slashed all four tires on my car!

The children laughed; Tom said, Mum, Uncle Jack said bastard!

Chapter 2 (Monday, November 21)

The following day, Bone drove the fifteen miles to Wolfston, stopping to refuel in Stanbury before driving up to the little town at the head of Wolfston Dale.

As he drove up the dark, narrow valley, he remembered yesterday’s sense of foreboding and his conversation with Maureen. He wished he could feel more about Tommy’s death. Bone had actually been glad when Tommy expired and was at peace, after his short and painful struggle with cancer.

Like most policemen, he had developed an emotional carapace to keep the world at bay. He felt out of step in a world where people were increasingly expected to share their feelings. He wondered if it was just in the nature of being a phlegmatic and dour Yorkshireman. He smiled to himself—Bone by name and bone by nature.

He arrived at the outskirts of Wolfston and crossed over a stream that ran under the road. Bone saw that Wolfston was laid out on a west-to-east axis along the valley on either side of High Street. On the slope to his right, to the north, was the woolen mill. At the head of the valley, Bone noticed a large mansion set a little way up the slope of Wolfston Moor.

He made a circuit of Wolfston to get a feel for the town and was struck by the empty streets and eerie calm. He parked behind the Moorcock Inn, took his bags from the back seat, and entered the rear door of the pub. The back door led along a passage paved with flagstones, past doors to the toilets and another door leading into the saloon. It was 1 pm. The pub should have been busy at the end of the lunchtime rush, but when Bone went inside, he saw there were only a few patrons nursing pints of beer, a couple playing dominoes. They were all men, and they raised their heads simultaneously to stare as he made his way to the bar. The saloon was gloomy, despite the pub lighting. Bone was used to being in inhospitable situations, but he had trouble recalling as much blatant hostility. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his back, walked to the bar, and addressed the barmaid.

Figuring niceties would count for nothing, he said I’m Bone. I’ve got a room booked.

The woman was well-preserved, mid-fifties, with generous curves. She turned away from Bone and shouted, Perkins, that man’s here about the room.

Bone looked through the doorway that led away from the bar into a corridor, off which were two rooms and two doorways, one marked Cellar. A man, also in his mid-fifties, emerged from the first of the rooms off the passage and walked into the bar. His face, looking as if it were cut from local millstone, was topped by a thatch of gray hair, his eyes as blue as Pennine slate.

He looked at Bone with a bleak stare and said, I’m Perkins. You’ve met the wife already. Come through, and I’ll show you to your room.

Perkins opened the folding hatch on the bar to allow Bone to follow him down the passage to the second door. It led to another corridor and a set of stairs to the first and second floors of the inn. Bone followed Perkins up two sets of stairs to a landing on the second floor; he guessed the landlord and his family lived on the first floor. Bone followed Perkins through the door of number three into a large, airy bedroom. A window looked out over the roofs of the other houses toward the mill on the right and the mansion house directly ahead.

This’ll be your room for the time you’re with us; bathroom’s at the end of the landing. There’s no one staying here but you, so you’ll have the run of the place, Perkins said as he left the room. Bone heard him clomping down the stairs.

Bone surveyed his surroundings. The bed looked comfortable. There was a small table under the window, an armchair in one corner of the room, and a chest of drawers on which were a radio and television. He looked out of the window. Being higher than the surrounding houses, he was afforded a good view over the rooftops and could see the main gates to the mill.

Bone dropped his bags on the bed and returned to the bar. As he emerged, Mrs. Perkins, who was polishing the bar counter, said, Mr. Bone, we’ve some ham sandwiches left over from lunch. Would you like one? Otherwise they’ll just go to waste.

Thanks. Can I have a pint of bitter as well, please, love?

Bone settled down to eat. The bread was soft, with firm, crisp crusts; the ham was tender and extremely tasty. Bone mumbled his appreciation between mouthfuls.

Mrs. Perkins, now drying glasses with a dishcloth, said, Thanks, Mr. Bone. Not really my doing. The bread’s from the Askins bakery and the ham from Bumby’s, the butcher.

As she spoke, a wizened old man at a corner table lifted his head from his paper and said in a quavering, reedy voice, Aaahhh, old lady Bumby loves her blood, so she does.

Mrs. Perkins glanced at the old man and looked back at Bone. Raising her eyebrows, she said, Pay no attention, Mr. Bone. This old fellow has had one too many drinks, and his mind is away with the fairies.

The pint of beer made Bone feel drowsy, and he decided to walk it off by taking a circuit around the town. He went out the front door and down the pub steps to an almost empty street. The only sign of life was a car that drove past him, the driver taking a more than casual interest in Bone. He turned left down the street toward the town’s edge. Looking to his left down one of the branching streets, he noticed what looked like a school.

He inspected a couple of the shops, including a clothes store that was closed and appeared to offer a collection of dated men’s and women’s outfits. The last shop, also closed, was an electrician’s, although it was more like a museum for Bakelite. Bone looked for opening times for both shops but couldn’t see any. With most of the population working in the mill, he supposed it might not be worth opening, but it seemed a little odd.

He passed a general store that was open, containing the newsagents and a sub-post office, but decided not to bother going inside. Bone walked up the street past the remaining shops, noting the wonderful smell from the bakery and the tang of fresh blood from the butcher. Bone crossed the deserted road to the butcher. He read the ornate lettering on the store window: Bumby’s Family Butcher. Purveyors of Fine Meats, Pies, and Prize-Winning Black Puddings & Sausages.

There was no one manning the shop counter, but he heard a stir of activity behind the store. As Bone walked past the open gates of an adjacent yard, men and women in white aprons were wheeling flat-bed trucks carrying plastic containers into a large building at the back of the property. As he passed, Bone felt the stares from the butchers in the yard. Walking on, Bone sensed he was under scrutiny from every window of the houses looking out on to High Street.

He arrived at the Wolfston Public Library, next to the police station. He entered the front door, which had a sign saying Open. On the glass door above the sign were stenciled the library hours: 2 pm to 8 pm. Bone pushed through an interior door into the library hall. To one side was a counter occupied by a woman with very pale skin and ornate, dark glasses. Her high-necked blouse looked rather old-fashioned and was fastened with an ivory cameo broach.

It looked like a typical small-town library. When Bone’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he noticed no one else was there. Bone was about to say something, but the librarian spoke first. Good afternoon. Can I help you? Are you the new guest at the Moorcock?

Her voice was melodious, accented with West Yorkshire overtones but more refined than those of Perkins and his wife.

Bone answered. Yes, good afternoon. My name’s Bone.

The librarian smiled encouragingly. What brings you to Wolfston, Mr. Bone?

I’m writing a piece for Yorkshire Life magazine about the literary associations of the Pennines. I thought I’d give this place a look. I’ve not been here before, and it’s off the beaten track. There’s hardly anything about the town in the guidebooks. The library is the natural place to start looking for any literary strands I might have missed.

The librarian actually chuckled. I’m sorry to say you’re on a bit of a wild goose chase. We’re not a very literary folk, I’m afraid. No miracle of Haworth repeated here. As you can see, I don’t have many customers.

Bone answered, This whole place seems like a ghost town!

Yes, I’m afraid so. Most people are at work in the mill or at home. It’s why we only open the library in the afternoons and evenings. With everyone at work, there’d be little point in opening earlier. A few folks will come by on their way home this evening to exchange books and read the newspapers. She gestured to the reading table, with its selection of Britain’s nationals and the local daily papers.

Bone walked to the far end of the library. As he walked back, he could see the librarian a little better through the swing gate that separated the counter area from the rest of the library. It occurred to him that there was no daylight in the library; all the windows were covered with venetian blinds, with their jalousies turned to block out the light.

Several paintings and photographs showing a pictorial history of Wolfston were arranged in a row on the wall, from the earliest daguerreotype photographs to the present. A face among a group shot caught his eye. The photograph was labeled Wolfston & District Book Club, Christmas Dinner, December 25, 1901. The face looked exactly like the librarian’s; the figure wore slightly different clothing but the same hair style and ivory broach, and dark glasses. Bone was no expert on women’s clothes, but he had the strange suspicion the librarian would not look out of place in some of the Edwardian photographs. He looked around for a few minutes but saw nothing to be gained from remaining much longer.

On his way to the front door, he asked the librarian, What’s the deal with the blinds?

I have a sensitivity to sunlight, I’m afraid; it’s why I’m wearing these, she tapped her dark glasses with the nail of her index finger. Bone noticed that her fingernail was long, thick, and pointed, as were the nails on all her fingers.

Actually, my condition is advantageous. Several of the photographs and daguerreotypes you were examining are irreplaceable and would bleach if exposed to sunlight. The library is also the town archive. We have fragile documents dating back three centuries, and we’ve a number of rare books that we don’t want exposed to sunlight, since the paper would become brittle.

The librarian paused and then said, Well, good luck with your article. Please feel free to make use of our humble library.

Bone wandered out of the library and back into the street. The librarian was pleasant enough, but Bone suspected she was not fooled by his story about being a reporter conducting research. He looked around him again and wondered about going into the police station, but he was certain he’d encounter the same impenetrable attitude.

It was nearly half past three in the afternoon, and the wintery daylight was beginning to fade. Bone felt the skin-crawling sensation of being observed everywhere he went. In resignation, he returned to the Moorcock Inn.

There was no one behind the counter when Bone arrived, but Perkins emerged a few moments later from the corridor. Hello, Mr. Bone. I was just changing barrels in the cellar. Any road, I’ve got something for you.

He handed him an envelope from behind the bar. Bone ordered a pint of bitter and sat down to look at the letter. Inside the envelope was a finely penned note on exquisite linen paper inviting Mr. Bone, Esq., to Wolfston Manor at 7 pm for drinks the following evening. Bone folded the note and placed it back inside the envelope. Holding in his right hand, he absentmindedly tapped it against the fingertips of his left hand. For a place where nothing seemed to happen, thought Bone, things could move here very quickly indeed.

Chapter 3

Perkins interrupted Bone’s thoughts. Will a ham steak do you for your dinner?

Aye, thanks. What time?

"Seven o’clock suit you?’

Bone nodded and considered heading upstairs to his room. As he rose, a tall swarthy man entered the bar, carrying a sack with a dark stain that looked suspiciously like congealing blood. The man was dressed in a battered tweed jacket and a collarless shirt, between which he wore a double-breasted leather waistcoat fastened down one side. His trousers were mud-stained corduroys, and on his feet were hobnail boots. The man sported a large flat cap over a tangled mass of curly hair. A thick gold ring pierced the lobe of his left ear. Bone noted it was a substantial piece of gold, not the slender ring worn by students and rock stars. An elaborately tooled leather belt held up the man’s trousers, from which hung a large knife in a leather scabbard.

Perkins moved toward the man, who was leaning on the bar, giving Bone a penetrating examination.

Perkins said Thanks, Shandor. What have you got for me?

The man turned slowly back to Perkins. A couple of hares, a couple of pheasant, and half a dozen rabbits. His voice sounded vaguely Welsh, with a slight West Country burr.

Perkins looked around the man he called Shandor and said, This is Mr. Bone, Shandor; he’s visiting us for a couple of days.

Bone felt he was obliged to say something, so he strolled over to the bar and put out his hand. Shandor just looked at it.

Don’t mind Shandor Lee, Mr. Bone. It’s just his way. All gypsies are suspicious of outsiders, said Perkins apologetically.

Presumably that doesn’t include the people of Wolfston, said Bone.

Eh? No, I suppose not, said Perkins. Any road, you might see Shandor and his folk out on the moor, where they’ve got a camp. Now, Shandor, what do you want for these?

Two bottles of rum. No, make it three.

Eeee, Shandor, you do take liberties. Go on, then.

Perkins reached into a cupboard under the bar and extracted three bottles of Captain Morgan rum and handed them to Lee.

Shandor moved to relieve Perkins of the bottles but caught his boot under the bar rail. He stumbled against Bone and then righted himself, looking slightly abashed, but he quickly recovered with a scowl and a sullen, Sorry, mister.

Bone’s policeman’s instincts felt there was something wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. Perkins took the bag of game and put the three bottles of rum into a clean sack, handing it to Lee.

Bone opened the bar hatch to go upstairs to his room.

Perkins shouted after him, Mr. Bone, Mr. Bone! I think you’ve dropped your wallet.

Bone returned to the saloon and saw his wallet lying on the floor where he’d been standing. Shandor Lee was walking out of the saloon through the rear entrance as Bone retrieved his wallet. Everything seemed to be intact; his money was all still there as far as he could tell, as were his credit cards. A few business cards in the front pocket of the wallet looked as if they had been disturbed, but that could have happened when the wallet fell from his pocket. He looked up as the gypsy strode out into the night and wondered if he’d been the victim of an expert pickpocket. Nothing was apparently taken, so there were no real grounds for suspicion, except the whole town made him suspicious.

Bone turned to Perkins, who was polishing glasses in anticipation of evening drinkers, and said, Do you think I could have my dinner in my room? I’m feeling a bit tired. I think I’ll have some food and turn in for the night.

Perkins kept polishing the glasses but looked up with a smile and said, Aye, lad, me or missus will bring it up on a tray. Would you like a drink with it?

Yes please, a pint of bitter to wash it down. And thanks again. I don’t mean to put you to any trouble.

Nay lad, no trouble.

Bone mounted the two flights of stairs to his room. It was about half past five and dark outside. Through the window of his room he could see up the valley over the rooftops to the mill. Just visible was the looming mass of Wolfston Moor and in the sky above a faint glow that Bone supposed was from Manchester and its satellite towns. Looking obliquely out of the window to his left, he could see a brighter aurora cast by the conurbations of West Yorkshire to the southwest.

He felt a desperate need to reconnect with the world and was pleased when the television sprang to life when he pressed the remote control. He sat back and watched the national and then regional news, letting his mind mull over the day. Tomorrow he would walk up above the town and get the bird’s eye view of the place and see if he could see the gypsy camp.

He thought back to his days as a policeman and the run-ins he’d experienced with gypsies. Gypsies were called Roma these days, and policemen were sent on training courses in how to relate to Roma and Irish Tinkers. As far as Bone was concerned, the correct term for all traveling people was big fucking problem.

Years earlier, a junior detective called Freddie Beaumont had specifically asked for an attachment with Bone. Bone understood Beaumont was on a fast promotion track and came from a notable Yorkshire family with a manor house near Knaresborough. He went with him on an investigation of gypsies who were blighting a Leeds suburb.

Bone had asked Beaumont why a bright lad like him wanted to pair up with a soon-to-be-retired hack. The junior detective responded that he knew he was destined for senior command, but he should at least experience what real policing was like. Bone liked his directness, especially when Beaumont later knocked out a knife-wielding gypsy who slashed the right side of Bone’s face, when stolen goods were revealed beneath a caravan.

Beaumont had soon ascended to senior ranks in the police force, but he’d never entirely lost touch with Bone and had put in an appearance at Bone’s retirement party. Beaumont knew his seniority would put a damper on the festivities, so he didn’t linger beyond downing a drink. However, he pulled Bone aside before he left and said he knew that Bone was going into partnership in a detective agency; if Bone needed help with anything from the force, he need only ask.

Bone was certain Shandor Lee had picked his