Solitary Man

By Simon Pert

“We all pay for the sins of our past” the note had said, and that was just the beginning.

A rising political star with a dangerous ally who will stop at nothing to keep those sins from seeing the light of day.

Angela Bennett is a woman with a past she wants to forget, but who wants to atone for her sins before it is too late.

Drawn into this game of truth and lies is Harry Stone, friend of Angela’s and a Private Investigator. A man who has had his fair share of bad luck in recent times, Harry is once more thrown into a world of shadowy characters and danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Jan 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789554113

Book preview

SOLITARY MAN

BY

SIMON PERT

A Harry Stone Novel

Published by New Generation Publishing in 2018

Copyright © Simon Pert 2018

First Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

www.newgeneration-publishing.com

About the Author

Simon Pert is the author of two previous novels and is an avid reader. Simon lives in Wiltshire and is currently working on his next novel.

Find out more about Simon Pert or contact him at

www.simonpert.co.uk

To my best ever creations – Ella and Taylor always xx

For Sam xx

Other Books Available from the same author:

Harry Stone Series:

Vendetta

Playing God

Acknowledgements

There are always many people to thank in the process of writing a book, especially family and friends who accept the fact that you will be burying your head in the proverbial sand of creativity. That said, a big thank you goes out to Emma Young who proofed a version of this book and suggested some changes which I am eternally grateful for. Any errors both grammatical or factual are mine alone. Also, huge thanks go to Gemini Brookes who designed and created the art work for this book, as ever I can’t thank you enough for all your ideas and work and of course the final cover design which I absolutely love.

Thanks also go to those of you who have given me support and encouragement during the course of writing this book which I have to admit has not been easy. But here it is, finally Harry is back, so pull up a chair and grab a glass.

I hope you enjoy.

S

Prologue

Jamie Ronstadt hurried down the road, his arms hugged across his chest trying to generate some warmth. He was already regretting his decision not to grab his jacket on his way out of the house he shared with his mum and stepdad and two step brothers. His pale skinny features were cloaked in a look of intense annoyance and anger. Lank dark hair hung unwashed for several days and framed a fifteen-year olds’ face that looked younger than it was and was flecked with acne.

For a moment he paused at the bottom of the road wondering if he should pop into the newsagents and buy a pack of cigarettes. If the owner was working he’d let him buy them but if it was his wife then there was no chance.

Deciding against it, he crossed the road and headed towards what was supposed to be a recreation ground on this side of the city. In fact it was a patch of grass that was showing more dirt than green and was littered with the varying remnants of last night’s teenagers’ meeting; cider cans, fast food wrappers and the like. There was a small asphalt area that was within a low metal fence where the younger kids could play whilst their parents smoked and drank and cursed about how shit life was.

But the best part of the recreation ground was the old cricket pavilion, long since discarded and pretty much in a state of disrepair. It offered shelter from prying eyes and a small degree of protection from the cold weather. It was the place where Jamie came when he needed to get away, when he needed time to think, when he needed to get a plan together. Truth was his stepdad and his damn kids were becoming more and more infuriating. Why his mother had chosen the good for nothing layabout was beyond him. All he did was sit around all day watching the television, smoking and drinking and then when his mother came in from working all day he demanded dinner and sex, and not always in that order.

Slipping down the small path that led away from a B&B and towards the cricket pavilion, Jamie dug his hand into his pocket and, to his happiness, found a scrunched up packet of B&H. Quickly searching his other pocket he found his crappy lighter that worked occasionally.

Pausing momentarily he took a cigarette from the packet, the last one in there, throwing the packet to the ground he popped it in between trembling lips and held the lighter up. It caught first time. A smile creased Jamie’s lips. Perhaps life wasn’t all bad, he thought. Standing still for a moment he took another couple of drags, savouring the feeling and relaxing into the early Sunday morning. He checked his mobile; it was just after seven thirty am.

Heading across to the pavilion, he wondered what the day would have in store for him. He wondered if perhaps Dave and Roger were about, perhaps even Stevie. Maybe they could lounge around at Stevie’s place, play some PS4, smoke, drink and talk about which girls they fancied and which ones would go the furthest.

Taking another deep lungful of nicotine infused smoke, Jamie entered the dilapidated building. He did actually wonder if perhaps one day it would just fall in on itself, such was the leaning nature and creakiness of its wooden structure. He just hoped that it wouldn’t happen today, that would really add insult to injury.

Years ago, a couple of older kids had dragged in a couple of old and weary benches, God knew from where. But they were the only kind of seating the place had and it was better than sitting on the cold concrete floor that was for sure. As he entered the pavilion he noticed an older man sitting on one of the benches, his bench. Oh great, he thought, company!

‘Hey!’ Jamie said, going to the other bench and sitting down, hoping that maybe the other guy would up and leave at his arrival. No response. Ignorant fucker, he thought to himself, sucking on the cigarette, finishing it and flicking the stub out of the building and onto the damp grass.

Jamie looked over at the man, annoyed that he hadn’t even replied to him. What the hell was it with the older generation these days? It was as he looked closely at the man that he noticed how he didn’t move. No gentle rise and fall of the body. No movement in the eyes, eyes that were open and staring out across the recreational ground as though surveying his kingdom.

‘Hey man you okay?’ Jamie asked. Although he felt sure he already knew the answer. He got up from his seat and moved across to where the man was sitting. He bent down in front of him, stared into the ash-grey features of a man who he knew was dead. He leant forward, his hand touching the man’s arm.

The man fell forward and hit the ground, rolling onto his back and staring with unseeing eyes directly up into Jamie’s face. It was then that Jamie saw the jagged horizontal line across his throat and beneath it a sea of dark red. He then noticed the smell of stale urine and faeces and blood.

Seconds later the young man with the already pale features and acne ridden face turned to his right, bent over double and vomited all over the floor.

Chapter One

Angela Bennett lay silent and still shrouded in the covers of her double bed. A bed where she still slept on the left-hand side without ever venturing to the right hand side, the right hand side had been her husband's side. And despite the years since his death she had never felt the inclination to intrude on what she still regarded as his side of the bed. Too many nights to mention she still looked across at the emptiness and felt a tinge of loss and sadness.

Sunday evening was in its last stages before Monday arrived and another week began. The room was cool as was the night outside. Winter, though only recent in arriving, looked to be giving a taste of what was in store for the coming months. It was a thought that she wasn't looking forward to. Her bones ached already from the cold and from old age. She was seventy-six after all so didn't expect to be feeling 100 percent all the time. Her bladder was complaining and inwardly she groaned, not really wanting to get up but knowing that she had to, and also knowing the performance she was about to go through. The nightly annoyance and disruption of the slow trips back and forth to the bathroom were as tedious as they were necessary, and she knew that when she finally got back beneath the sheets the rest of the night would be disturbed. She'd be lucky if she managed to get more than an hour or so of shut eye.

Pushing back the covers, a fresh wave of cold swept over her thick nightdress. Angela was part way through sliding her legs over the edge of the bed when she heard a noise. It sounded as though it had come from inside of her apartment, from the other side of the bedroom door. But that was impossible. She lived alone. She had lived alone since the death of her husband, Ray, some twenty years previous without so much as a desire to share her life with anyone else. Besides the fact she recalled bolting the front door, two sliding locks top and bottom and a Yale lock. Her mind began racing, a new chill rushing through her body. No one could have got in. Then her mind began to relax, her heart, slowing from the frenetic to the above average beating of having had a slight scare. She was worrying over nothing. Perhaps it was merely the sound from the building, settling itself as the day was drawing towards the next one. Or perhaps it was the sound of the man who was living upstairs returning home after a night drinking in the local pub.

He hadn't been living here that long, but long enough for Angela to get to know him of a fashion and to understand some of his habits, one of which was visiting the local pub not far up the road. He seemed like a nice guy from the few occasions they had spoken. He had helped her with some shopping and had even shared the occasional glass of wine. He was, however, a damaged soul, of that she knew for certain. Behind his eyes there was a hurt that was causing him pain.

She waited for a few moments more, her nerves settling, her ears straining for any alien sound.

She heard nothing, at first.

Then she heard a definite sound, perhaps a slight movement. But she simply couldn't tell if the noise had been inside or outside of the apartment. Her breath held, she waited, legs swung over the edge of the bed. Her eyes looked around the semi-darkness of the bedroom. Where had she left her walking stick? She queried herself. She didn't need it all the time, just on those occasions when her legs were shaky. It's in the lounge next to your chair where you left it! A voice said, a little sarcastically, inside of her mind. And then she recalled. Yes she had left it there. She had been reading some leaflets that her doctor had given her before setting them aside and reading her book earlier that evening, a book and a little glass of wine. Her eyes had been tired so she had headed for bed, only when wrapped up within the sheets did she realise that she had not brought her stick and she couldn't be bothered to go and fetch it. So she hadn't.

Regretting that decision now, Angela listened again but heard nothing. From upstairs she heard the sound of faint movement. If her neighbour was true to form the movement would stop shortly and he would not move again until the morning.

Pushing herself up from the bed on unsteady feet, she made her way across the bedroom, stopping to grab her dressing gown and pulling it on, tying it tightly around her slender middle. Tentatively she paused at her bedroom door, hand over the handle. She couldn't hear anything. Suddenly she felt a jolt of resolve burst through her. She wouldn't be frightened in her own apartment. She would not be fearful in a building she had once owned and had lived in for more years than she cared to remember.

With a sudden impulse she pulled down the door handle, swept open the door and walked through, trying her best to ignore the burning ache in her legs. The light switch for the lounge was just inside the door, to her right. Carefully, slowly, she manoeuvred towards the doorway, her hand reaching around, blindly in search of the light switch.

She found it.

Took a deep breath.

Pressed the button. Light engulfed the room, momentarily blinding her. When her eyes had regained normality she found the lounge empty. No intruders. Was she really beginning to turn into a senile old woman, someone who jumped at any sound or shadow?

Angela walked into the room, still with the sense of foreboding hanging over her. She was adamant that she had heard someone in her apartment but could that really be true. After a quick look around, doing her best to satisfy her inner unrest, she was just about to switch out the light and return to bed when she heard what she thought was a noise from the hallway that led to the front door.

Grabbing her walking stick from beside her chair, she crossed the short distance across the lounge, pausing only long enough to switch on the hall light. Entering the narrow hallway she looked towards the front door. The door was shut and showed no signs of a break-in. But as her eyes lowered she noticed the beige coloured envelope lying on the door mat. Angela pondered for a moment. Her post, like all other items delivered for the apartment block, arrived downstairs in the communal hall, it was then popped into the respective tenants’ mailboxes.

She began walking carefully towards the front door, her heart racing again, trying to determine if someone was on the other side of the door.

On groaning joints she bent down and clasped the envelope between ageing fingers. She flipped it over. Her name had been written neatly in the centre of the envelope. Taking it back through to the lounge she eased herself down into her favoured chair, walking stick resting against the arm once more, the envelope lying in her lap. Tentatively she looked at it again before turning it over and prising open the A4 envelope, curiosity overriding concern.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

As she pulled it out she saw that it was a black and white photograph. Grasping the photo in her hands she held it up to her face, staring disbelievingly. The photo showed two young women standing either side of a handsome young man. All three were dressed smartly and were standing in front of a dinner table.

Flipping the photo over, Angela looked at the back of the photo and saw more words neatly written by the same hand that had written her name on the front of the envelope. In the centre was written:

WE ALL PAY FOR THE SINS OF OUR PAST

Below that, the writing almost hurried in contrast to the neatness of earlier, was a mobile number and four words "we need to talk". Angela felt a spasm of fear rush through her entire body. The cold rush of fear and trepidation coursing through her. Clutching the photo in