A Long Cool Glass of Murder

By Colin Garrow

When taxi driver and amateur sleuth Terry takes on a new client, he doesn’t expect her to turn up dead. With echoes of his recent past coming back to haunt him, can he work out what’s going on before someone else gets killed?

‘Charis Brown's elfin-like smile was, like the footsteps on the stairs, noticeably absent. She looked at me, looked at the dead woman and let out the sort of sigh I knew from experience meant it was going to be a long night.’

‘A Long Cool Glass of Murder’ is book #2 in the Terry Bell Mystery series.

If you love mysteries and amateur sleuthing, ski-mask-wearing villains and the occasional bent copper, this'll be right up your everyday seaside-town street. Download your copy of ‘A Long Cool Glass of Murder’ now. Just scroll to the top of the page and select BUY to start your adventure today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colin Garrow
• Release date: Aug 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463666753

Colin Garrow

Colin Garrow grew up in a former mining town in Northumberland. He has worked in a plethora of professions including: taxi driver, antiques dealer, drama facilitator, theatre director and fish processor, and has occasionally masqueraded as a pirate. All Colin's books are available as eBooks and most are also out in paperback, too. His short stories have appeared in several literary mags, including: SN Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Word Bohemia, Every Day Fiction, The Grind, A3 Review, 1,000 Words, Inkapture and Scribble Magazine. He currently lives in a humble cottage in North East Scotland where he writes novels, stories, poems and the occasional song.

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A Long Cool Glass of Murder

By Colin Garrow

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright 2019 Colin Garrow

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Excerpt from The Jansson Tapes

Author’s Note

Other Books by This Author

Connect with Me

About the Author

Chapter One

I knew something was wrong as soon as I reached the top of the stairs. Tina Overton wasn't the sort of woman to go around leaving her front door open, nor the sort whose tastes included screechy violin music. The final bars of something discordant and unappealing in a fingernails-scraping-down-a-blackboard sort of way, floated out from somewhere beyond the open doorway, heading for an equally unappealing climax.

But that wasn't the problem. The problem was the bad feeling in my gut. The one that had been foisting itself on me at regular intervals ever since the last time I'd discovered a dead body. I consoled myself with the observation that at least on this occasion it would be occupying someone else's living room floor, rather than mine.

But the thought that it might be happening again gave me the jitters.

And it was stupid. Such calamities happen once in a lifetime, like crashing your car into a petrol tanker and bursting into flames, falling out of a fourteenth-storey window and landing on the pavement like a lump of strawberry jam, or getting struck by lightning. And as everyone knows, strawberry jam doesn't strike twice.

I stared at the door. Listened to the screechy music.

In a horror movie starring yours truly as the poor fool who gets decapitated in the first scene, I'd naturally push the door open and incline my head at an appropriate angle for the benefit of the knife-wielding madman waiting on the other side. The camera would switch to the suitably sharpened machete slicing through the air towards the victim's neck two seconds after he's opened his mouth to scream. But this wasn't a movie, and if it had been, I'm not the sort of bloke who'd stand around waiting for the first cut, deep or otherwise. No, I'd be off down the stairs like a bat in a shitstorm.

I told myself to get a grip and stop being a wimp. There was no psycho-killer on the loose, just a part-time taxi driver keeping an appointment with a woman who thinks her husband's trying to kill her.

Yes. All perfectly normal.

I knocked on the door. ‘Tina?’

No answer.

The door had moved a smidgen inward at my knock. I leaned forward but all I could see was the passageway that led to her living room and kitchen. A line from a novel popped into my head—something about blood on the carpet and murder in the hall. It wasn't an image I wanted to cultivate.

Pushing the thought away, I tried to concentrate on realistic possibilities. Tina had probably nipped to the lavvy or gone out on the fire escape to have a quiet smoke. Except, if she was having a smoke, then the fire door would be open, creating a through-draught that'd cause the currently half-open front door to slam shut.

Okay, scrap that one and go with the more likely toilet scenario. Any minute now she'd appear in the hallway apologising for not hearing the door and asking if I'd like a coffee. Then we'd settle down to discuss the reason she'd asked me over here.

Then the music stopped.

I listened, moved a tad nearer the door, but there was nothing else to hear—none of the familiar sounds of everyday life, normality, human existence.

Giving the door a push, I called out a feeble, ‘Tina? Ye there, pet?’

Still no answer.

A door slammed downstairs, and I remembered the communal entrance had also been open. Course, that's nothing unusual in flats like these. Stepping across the landing, I peered into the darkness below. The stairwell was empty, unless whoever made the noise had crept into the shadows. I started to wish I'd come over earlier during daylight hours.

Looking back at the still-open door, I decided to quit conjuring up nightmare scenarios and go inside. At worst, Tina might be a bit miffed at my having strolled in unannounced, but at least I'd find out if she was actually there.

I could smell it before I got half-way along the passage. I'd been in the flat only once before and on that occasion, had made it as far as the kitchen. We shared a love of freshly ground coffee, and I reckoned Tina had put a pot on especially for me.

‘Tina?’

Of the seven doors that opened off the passage, I knew which one led to the kitchen, but otherwise I was lost.

Standing there contemplating my next move, something changed. At first, I wasn't sure, then realised the music had started up again—one of those annoying compositions that begin so quietly you don’t know if it's actually started yet, before rising to an ear-splitting crescendo after about half an hour. Not being over acquainted with classical music, and only having one such piece in my collection, I didn't think it was Rachmaninov

The screechy music came from the door nearest me. So, grasping the brass knob, I gave it a twist. Immediately, the orchestra's efforts increased in volume. Pushing the door open, I peeked inside.

The first thing I saw was the metal tea tray leaning against the side of the sofa, then as my eyes slid across the floor, I took in the reel-to-reel tape player on the coffee table, its yellowing spools turning slowly. I kept my eyes fixed on the machine for a few long seconds, like a rabbit in the headlights, aware that my peripheral vision told me Tina Overton was close at hand, waiting for my consideration.

I'd have been happy not to look, to simply keep my head down and retreat from the scene, content in the knowledge that sooner or later someone else would discover whatever mischief had been done here. But the lure of the grotesque proved irresistible.

I raised my head and gradually swivelled my eyes towards the woman on the sofa. And there she sat, slouched down, a mug of coffee on the small table at her side.

If her mouth hadn't been open, maybe I'd have been spared the whitish foam that had dribbled down the side of her face. But it was her eyes that gave the game away—they were wide and staring, gazing at the far wall, as if some unseen object had caught her attention in the moment of death.

I was glad that at least she didn't have her face bashed in like Big Ronnie, but in a monstrous sort of way, that might have been less offensive than the pale, rather surprised look on her features.

Standing there wondering what the hell to do next, I heard the unmistakable creak of floorboards. I remembered the slamming of the main door, the absence of a neighbour's footsteps clomping up the stairs, the lack of anything remotely normal since I'd stepped into the communal entrance hall.

Another creak. I started to turn around and in doing so, my foot kicked the tea tray, knocking it over with a clatter that would've woken Tina Overton, if she hadn't been dead.

I looked down at the tray and as soon as I did, I knew whoever I’d heard in the hallway had stepped into the room.

‘Oh Christ, you've got to be fuckin jokin?’

Charis Brown's elfin-like smile was, like the footsteps on the stairs, noticeably absent. She looked at me, looked at the dead woman and let out the sort of sigh I knew from experience meant it was going to be a long night.

Chapter Two

‘Coffee. No sugar.’ She slid the mug across the table.

‘You remembered?’ I tried to sound chirpy, but it came out like sarcasm. Charis inclined her head and gave me one of her looks. I coughed and turned to her subordinate. ‘Not havin one?’

Detective Sergeant Ramshaw leaned against the wall, arms folded. He stretched his mouth into a Charis-like grimace. I wondered if he’d caught it off her, or if it was just a by-product of his promotion.

‘I'm not under arrest then?’

Ramshaw raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I turned back to his boss and mimicked the DS's expression.

‘Doesn't mean we won't arrest you later on,’ she said. ‘Now...’ She opened the A4 pad in front of her. ‘How about we start at the beginnin?’

‘I've already told ye, I got to the place—’

‘Look, Terry, it's after nine o'clock and I should be halfway through a bottle of Pinot Grigio by now, so just answer the bloody question. Start at the beginnin. Where did you meet her? How? Why? You know the drill.’

I rubbed a hand across my face. ‘Right...’

My first impression of the Priory Café summed it up as not being the sort of place for a discussion about attempted murder. The hand-painted monk-themed mugs and matching tablecloths were nice, but they were a little too cartoonish for my taste.

Don't get me wrong, it was a pleasant enough location—great coffee, amazing selection of cakes and if you had the presence of mind to sit with your face against the windowpane and squint upwards, you'd get a half-decent view of the Priory ruins on the hill. But something about the place made me feel uncomfortable, and it wasn't until the waitress opened her mouth that I remembered what.

‘Coffee for one? Sure, hon. Have a nice day.’ She smiled in that unnaturally happy way that would usually prompt me to take a step backwards. I wondered if she'd signed up to one of those mindless religious cults, or if being one of the happy/smiley/people just came with the territory.

Watching her walk back to the counter, I noticed her colleague grinning madly. Standing side by side preparing my drink, they put me in mind of a set of halogen headlights, beaming away, a suggestion of unfettered and slightly worrying enthusiasm thrumming quietly in the background like an off-key soundtrack. I'd have put money on the American accent being in their contracts.

Miss Smiley slid my coffee across the table. I mumbled a thank you and shoogled my chair so I could still see the door but keep the simpering pair safely out of my eye line. Now I could drink my coffee in peace, though it was tempting to turn around just to see if they were still watching, staring at me like those spooky kids from Village of the Damned. But I persevered with my disregard, checked my mobile, took in the view, and all the while sensing those smiles boring into the back of my head, like blissful laser beams.

Thankfully, a trio of pensioners broke the tension, relieving me from the stress of being customer of the day. As they trundled in through the door, a young woman followed behind. She looked around, glanced at the happiness brigade, then turned her gaze on me.

‘Mister Bell?’

I nodded. ‘Terry. You must be Tina.’

She plonked her shoulder bag on the other chair and delved into its depths for her purse. I studied the top of her head, noting the dark roots clawing their way back into her faux strawberry-blonde hair.

‘Get you anythin?’ She clutched her purse tightly, the knuckles almost white.

‘No, I'm fine, thanks.’

When I'd spoken to her on the phone, I guessed from her voice she'd be mid-twenties, but the dyed hair and lines around her mouth suggested she must be nearer forty.

She stood waiting at the counter while one of the Smiley People took longer than necessary to prepare a cappuccino. I sipped my coffee and pretended to look at something outside, in case she thought I was sizing her up.

‘Ye'll think I'm bein silly,’ she said, sliding into the chair opposite.

‘I might,’ I said. ‘But if you don't tell me, I won't know.’

She nodded, smiled, shook her head, then took a long breath in. ‘I work up at Rake's Lane, an do a bit of agency work on the side to help with payin the bills. Just the odd night shift, Fridays and Saturdays.’ She hesitated, glanced at my interlaced fingers. ‘You're not takin notes.’

‘No. Should I?’

She shrugged. ‘Dunno. I don't know what private investigators do.’

I stifled a sigh. ‘I'm not a private investigator. I'm a taxi driver.’

She laughed. ‘That's what Ralph said ye'd say.’

‘Only cos it's true.’ She was one of several potential clients to approach me in the space of a few weeks, spouting mad tales of suspicious goings-on, or missing heirlooms. I'd already turned down the opportunity to investigate an apparently haunted house, an absent husband, and a missing moggie, but only because in each case the clients involved were clearly off their heads. I knew Ralph thought he was doing me a favour, but I’d quickly grown tired of being the go-to boy.

‘So why are you here?’

She sucked in her lower lip and chewed it, making her look a bit like Plug from The Bash Street Kids. Leaning forwards and dropping her voice, she said, ‘I think me husband's tryin to kill me.’

This is what she'd told me on the phone, but now it sounded serious. I coughed. ‘An why d'you think that?’

She reached into her bag and pulled out a notepad. ‘Last Thursday he cooked me dinner. He never cooks dinner. Hates being in the kitchen. But he cooked that night an I got sick. Throwin up from arsehole to breakfast time.’ She paused. ‘Sorry, that’s what we say at work when one of the patients gets a dose of the gallopin trots. But I thought I was goin to die. Peter—that's me husband—he said it must've been some dodgy prawns.’

‘Sounds reasonable.’

‘Aye, I know, an I'd probably think the same if it wasn't for all the other stuff.’

‘Go on...’

‘We were in Koh Samui last month. On holiday. He booked a day out on a boat, you know, snorkellin.’ She licked her lips. ‘There were about ten of us in the water an I was just sort of paddling around, ye know? Someone came up behind me and pushed me under. I panicked. I'm not a strong swimmer an Pete knows I'm not.’

She looked out the window and I could see the memory of the incident etched across her face like a dose of clap. Even so, the way she trotted out the details made me think she’d been practising.

‘He had his hand on my head, pushin me under. I couldn't do anythin...thrashin around.’ She paused and looked at her coffee. ‘I grabbed hold of his hand an dug my nails in. That's when he let go. I managed to swim away, just a few feet, like, an when I looked back, he was bobbing around in the water, laughin.’

‘Anyone else see what happened?’

She nodded. ‘Three or four of the others were close by, but