The Thomas Blume Series: Books 8-10: Thomas Blume

By Phil Reade

Three gripping stories. One breakneck ride...

 

This special collection includes books 8-10 in the acclaimed Thomas Blume series.

If you enjoy thrilling action, captivating characters, and mysteries that keep you guessing then you'll love this three-book collection from breakout author Phil Reade

 

WHISKEY BLONDE

The past has a way of catching up to you...

Following the explosive events of End Game, American private investigator Thomas Blume is battling to come to terms with a changed British city he helped to create. But when a young woman is brutally murdered, he finds himself dragged into a dangerous game of cat and mouse with a serial killer targeting victims that are all too familiar.

Taken across the dark, treacherous streets of modern London, Blume searches through a decades-old conspiracy, digging up secrets that make him question if even the police can be trusted.

But with time running out and the stakes increasing by the minute, Blume must find the killer, uncover their terrible plan, and figure out how it all connects to him before it's too late ...

CUTTING EDGE
Some people will do anything for family … even kill.

After a frantic missing persons case goes wrong, private investigator Thomas Blume is facing a wrecked car and a disastrous winter when a mysterious invitation arrives, promising a big payday with only one catch … he must solve the case of a murdered billionaire.

But when Blume realizes something far more valuable than money has been taken from the victim, he finds himself battling across country mansions, dark alleyways, and through layers of intrigue, family feuds, and corporate conspiracy, to enter a dangerous world of technological marvels, bleeding-edge science, and those that will do anything to protect their secrets.

With the clock counting down and the suspects rising, can Blume uncover the truth before his future is lost?

SMOKE SCREEN
Smoke hides many truths … and many sins …

After a case of industrial espionage leads to a manic pursuit gone fatally wrong, private investigator Thomas Blume is forced to face the agonizing pain of his role in a seemingly innocent bystander's death.

But when the victim's wife shows up the next day suggesting a mysterious deeper conspiracy with much more going on beneath the surface, Blume is drawn into a case involving dangerous organized criminals, a seedy London underworld, and gangsters with nothing to lose.

Now, with police closing in and a mob boss hunting him, can Blume overcome his guilt and unearth the real motivations behind the man's death, or will the demons of his own past drag him down before the truth can be brought to light?

Get your copy of this gripping series now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: PT Reade
• Release date: Jul 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201926946

Book preview

The Thomas Blume Series

The Thomas Blume Series

Books 8-10

Phil Reade

Whiskey Blonde

A Thomas Blume book

Chapter One

Everything had changed.

The world was different. People were thinking in new ways. Some were angry, others relieved. Most confused and uncertain.

Things had shifted, and the balance of power moved.

But it wasn’t easy to see. For the casual onlooker, the city of London for all her majesty and history, for all her dirt and grime seemed the same.

The same damp, misty streets with wan streetlights casting long shadows at 1 am. In the distance, the steady hiss of vehicles on tarmac carried from the dual carriageway, just like it would any other day. A rustle of leaves stirred by the wind and the tossing of an errant plastic bag against a brick wall.

Nothing to see here.

Another night in the corner of a forgotten industrial estate at the fringes of the city. I couldn't remember when I had last seen the sun. My life was one long graveyard shift lately.

A glance left and right. Not a soul in sight. Same as always.

You had to look a little closer to see the differences.

A newspaper, nearly ground into mush against the curb, featuring words like investigation and outcry. A billboard defaced with political graffiti and the fact that every TV station, radio host, and news outlet in the country kept circling back to the same stories. Stories I tried hard to ignore.

People were hunkering down, waiting for the storm to pass. Those in power hunkered hardest. Praying the witch-hunt didn’t come to their doorstep.

As I scanned the concrete yards and shuttered doors, I zipped my black bomber jacket tighter, covering my chest against the chill night air, and cinched the backpack over my shoulders. The weight of the items inside tugged against my back. Heavy. Maybe too heavy for what was to come. But necessary.

I had changed too.

Thomas Blume: Respected NYPD detective.

Sure, a long time ago. Or it felt like that in my bones. Another lifetime. A world away.

The fence to my right was barely visible through the damp fog clinging to everything. A dull chain-link number. Ancient enough that much of it was crumbling away. Trash littered the ground here and there. Even during the day, this place was close to collapse. Clinging to the edge, like a lot of the city.

A familiar pang of guilt rose inside.

Me.

It was all because of me.

Thomas Blume: Private investigator.

Once. Not anymore.

No time to dwell on past mistakes. I took a breath and pushed those thoughts away, observing the fence once more. It wouldn’t provide too much of a challenge.

The vegetation beyond, consisting of thorny bushes and thick damp nettles, would offer more resistance though. Not that any of it mattered.

The target was all that mattered.

Stepping down the abandoned street my senses were heightened, alert. Ready for any sign of being watched, or police. But there was no one, just the soft noise of cars from the main road half a mile beyond the blocky brick buildings and metal railings

Nothing had changed since I scoped the site the previous day.

I was all alone. The way it had to be.

The moon was full in the night sky, providing some illumination. A quick scan left and right, before locking onto my target. A gap in the fence to my right, leading away from the road and up an embankment. I had spotted the weak point the day before, on a reconnaissance run - deciding it would be my point of entry.

I paused, took a breath, and moved. One foot onto the thigh-high wall lining the sidewalk, then another. My gloves, dark like the rest of my clothing, helped grip the brickwork as I heaved myself up and dashed across the weed-strewn ground to the fence.

Crouching at the point of entry, I frowned.

Damn.

The gap in the fence was narrower than I had anticipated. Big enough for a kid maybe, but certainly not enough for me with my six-foot frame and a backpack to boot. I wasn’t getting any younger. Or smaller.

The days of NYPD fitness were long behind me. While I was lucky to carry the solid build of my father, the years and the booze never made it easier.

Setting my boots against the muddy ground, I reached for the edge of the chain-link and heaved against the hole. It gave, but only barely. A few inches. Meanwhile, the rest of the fence rattled.

With the whole estate sitting in dark silence, the noise carried across the streets, bouncing off brickwork and asphalt and back to me like a warning siren.

I had to be quiet.

Thomas Blume: Burglar.

Another heave, slower this time. Finally, the gap in the fence eased upward inch by inch. Buoyed by success, I gave it one last tug and flinched as the entire corner of the chain-link pinged free of the fence post. The metallic cry ricocheted through the streets once more and I instinctively hunkered down.

I froze.

Out of the corner of my eye, movement.

Breath stalling, I spotted the source.

Thirty yards away, further down the road, a fox stood staring at me, a half-eaten burger hanging from its mouth. Its fur was damp and patches of black marked the otherwise thick red coat. We paused for a moment, united in our late-night endeavors. Bandits operating in the shadows.

A few seconds passed and, in an unspoken agreement, we decided to keep each other’s secret. The fox scurried off, as I lifted the corner of the fence and crawled through, onto the embankment beyond.

It took another five minutes to climb the small distance to the top. As expected, the thorny bushes and thick weeds, heavy with the day’s rain, made progress slow. But after five long minutes, scratched and breathing heavily, I crawled to the top of the embankment and clung low to the ground, peering across.

Ahead lay three railway lines, one of which was occupied by an abandoned service carriage of some kind.

Beyond the lines, the ground dropped away, and beyond that, my target. The whole reason for my misadventure. I tugged my backpack free and fished out the flashlight inside. Running the light across the tracks in front, I checked the status of my obstacles. The heavy metal lines were normal train lines and overhead no cables. That meant diesel locomotives.

No electrified tracks.

I breathed a sigh of relief and re-secured the flashlight, and backpack, before pushing to standing and slowly, cautiously heading forward. Distance to the other side: thirty yards.

As I crossed, the soft glow of green signal lights filtered through the trees on either side of the tracks but otherwise, only the mist and my breath filled the air.

I crossed to the far side quickly and stopped.

Shit.

The other side of the embankment was secured by a second chain-link fence. Much better condition than the first. Almost new. This fence was also unnervingly close to one of the lines, putting my back to any approaching trains or security guards.

Unexpected. But I wouldn’t turn back now. Couldn’t.

Once again, I slipped my pack to the floor and pulled free a pair of wire cutters from inside.

Slowly—too slowly—I set about clipping a hole big enough to climb through. Progress was laborious, with the metal links offering resistance and my cold hands reducing dexterity.

I made it only halfway through cutting a circle when a venomous hiss filled the air. I peered at the track just a few yards behind me. The source of the noise.

Oh no.

I worked faster. My fingers hurt and my palms ached as I gripped hard, clipping more and more of the links.

The hissing noise grew louder. A threat growing in the night. Now accompanied by a deeper noise. A heavy engine.

A glance along the track.

The train roared into sight, bearing around the corner. A brilliant light at the front cut through the fog. A cyclops charging toward me.

Sixty, maybe seventy miles per hour.

No chance they would slow down. Even if they clocked a figure hunched here, which would be hard in my dark clothes, the beast was a huge cargo train. Thousands of tonnes. Impossible to stop in time.

I clipped more, hands trembling.

Go, Tom, go.

The air filled with noise. The ground started shaking.

The train was less than seventy feet away now. Moving fast.

I slammed the fence with my palm. Teeth gritted.

Come on you son of a—

Forty feet.

One last link holding firm. I brought the clippers up and attacked it.

Thirty feet.

The noise was unbearable. Thunderous engine, screeching metal.

Fifteen feet.

I threw my shoulder into the fence.

The beast of smoke and steel arrived.

I fell into oblivion as everything turned to white noise.

Chapter Two

When the world stopped spinning and the thunder faded, I opened my eyes.

Soaking wet, bruised, and aching. Everything hurt, but I was alive. As I clambered to my feet with a groan it became clear I had managed to avoid becoming a bloody smear along the rail lines, only to tumble down the hardscrabble embankment on the other side. But, as I turned to my new surroundings and looked ahead, any discomfort washed away in a brief moment of elation.

Across the empty parking lot, the building sat silent. My target.

The South London Archives building.

Inside would be the answers I needed.

Inside I would find the clues to finding my son.

Running the mini binoculars from my pack across the empty lot and building, a plan slowly formed. Dark parking lot bathed in moonlight, a wide swathe of concrete, and a small access road; all of which were secured by an imposing gate at the main entrance. The only lighting came from a pair of security lamps, permanently beaming from the two corners of the building.

The structure itself was low and wide. A squat two-story build of red brick and narrow barred windows, none of which were illuminated. The main entrance wasn’t much more inviting. From my vantage point, I caught sight of the heavy main doors and the decidedly unwelcoming Welcome sign, in thick uniform letters bolted near the handle.

Not that I would be strolling in the main entrance anyway.

I scanned to the side and across the rear fire exit doorway; my entry point. Waiting in place for a few minutes, I watched for any signs of life, but none presented themselves.

The place was deserted.

Perfect.

I plotted my course mentally and clocked the two static CCTV poles at the edge of the parking lot. Were they active? Impossible to know, but best to stay clear.

Bringing myself into a squatting position, I lowered the binoculars and stuffed them back into the backpack at my feet.

Before I zipped the pack closed, I spotted another item with a dull sheen, secured in place by a Velcro pocket.

For good luck, I decided. It was as good a reason as any. Not that I ever needed one.

I reached inside, hoisted the hip flask free, and took a quick drag. The smoky warmth of the booze warmed my insides.

I secured the flask and the binoculars, to prevent any rattles, and retrieved two more items: an elasticated bandana scarf, which I tugged over my face so it covered my nose, mouth, and lower face; and a dark baseball cap that fitted snugly on my head. It wasn’t a perfect disguise. Hell, it wasn’t very good at all, but it was better than nothing.

Once more I cinched the bag closed and hoisted it over my shoulders, tightly against my back.

With a final check, I dropped from the edge of the embankment and into the parking lot, squatting low. This side of the lot had little security, and why would it? Who would be dumb enough to cross two fences and active rail lines to get into an old place like this?

I started across the concrete lot, a half jog toward the nearest fire exit.

Distance to door: fifty yards.

I had done many things in my life. Many questionable things, but was this crossing a new line?

The wide-open view and lack of cover left me hideously exposed, but I pushed on, trying to keep my racing pulse under control.

I reached the side of the building and was about to round the corner to face the dark green service entrance I had chosen as my entry point when a faint whirring noise stirred at the edge of my senses.

I flattened against the wall and cautiously peered around.

Ensconced in the fittings of the overhanging roof was a small dome-like CCTV unit. The camera was rotating slowly, and taking in the expanse of the side of the building, including the door I needed to access.

Shit.

Did that mean someone was watching the camera? Or was it automated?

I stayed still, out of view just around the corner of the camera, and listened to its soft whining. When the whining changed pitch, I knew—I prayed—the camera was changing direction.

I counted the seconds in my head, imagining its rotation. When it reached where I visualized to be the furthest point, I peered around.

The camera was turned away, facing the other side of the lot.

Go!

I dashed around the corner and covered the distance to the door in seconds. I set my bag at the foot of the door. Seeing it in person, the fire exit seemed impenetrable. Thick wood, no visible sign of hinges, and no handle at all. But years of experience in the NYPD told me no door was impenetrable.

With a small power drill from my bag, I set to work, attacking the edge of the door nearest where I calculated the latch would be. It was slow progress, the wood unyielding, but inch by inch the frame splintered and with sweat gathering on my head and damp lining the inside of my face covering, the door started coming loose.

The whirring began again.

I paused.

The camera was returning.

Damn.

My hands moved faster now. Drilling all the weak points around the latch. From the corner of my eye, the reflection of the camera crept ever closer, threatening. In another twenty seconds, it would be on me.

The drill squealed. Metal on metal. I grabbed a long screwdriver from my bag and jammed it into the gap between the door and frame, twisting left and right.

The camera turned further. Ten seconds now.

The door creaked. Then with a groan and a metallic thunk, something came loose inside the frame.

The camera started to pan across my shadow.

I jammed the screwdriver in the frame once more and with an almighty heave, thrust the edge of the door with a crack. Wood splintered; my breath came harder.

A few seconds left.

Scooping up my tools in a panicked rush, I thrust the door open and scrambled through into the darkness beyond, yanking the door closed behind me.

Chapter Three

The blackness swallowed me. Nothingness.

A thick blanket of oblivion.

I sucked a deep calming breath and reached out for my surroundings. Cool hard floor. A painted wall of some kind and at my feet, my bag. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I slowly became aware that it wasn’t completely black. Further away, a soft glowing light, flickering with unusual shapes. And a noise.

Voices?

Hard to say. Muted and muffled.

Gathering up the small drill and screwdriver, I swapped them for the flashlight and clicked the beam into life.

The blinding light caught me off guard, and spots danced across my vision before I managed to adjust the color setting. The beam flickered from brilliant white to a deep red.

Red lets you see where you are going but it’s much harder to be seen by anyone passing by. Mostly it’s used by the military ... and robbers.

My old man told me those words a long time ago. Smart thinking from a man who made a lot of stupid choices. Now I was making plenty of my own.

I just hoped he was right about the color.

When the spots vanished and vision returned, I cast the beam ahead, painting the way in an eerie shade of crimson.

I found myself in a long corridor with a hard tiled floor. The air carried a faint tang of cleaning products but also something else. A musty kind of scent; leather and paper, reminding me of libraries and bookshops.

Sweeping the flashlight up and across the ceiling, I searched for any sign of cameras or further security but found none. To either side, small offices, a dozen of them at least. Standard cubicles with plastic chairs and nondescript desks. Beyond these, doorways to other areas of the archives.

The place was different from the last time I visited. Back then, it was under an official capacity. Researching and tracking down records for another case. Back when I considered myself a P.I. Now I was here for a different reason.

Everything had changed.

Staying low, I scurried forward into a second corridor and found the source of the dim light from before. A doorway, yellow illumination spilling from a crack where it was slightly open.

I softly teased the door open a few inches and peered through the gap.

Inside was a small break room with a pair of hard-backed plastic chairs. Overhead a harsh strip light. On the counter sat a kettle, a microwave, and the source of the disturbance, a small TV with the volume down low.

A blonde woman occupied the screen. Slim, with a tan too deep to be real, she was talking to the host and playing with her hair. Words like revealing, secrets, and autobiography flowed across the graphics displayed on the lower third of the screen. Some kind of Z-lister trying to make a quick buck.

The room was well lit but otherwise unoccupied. That created a wrinkle in my plan.

Someone was here.

A worker?

Unlikely. Not at this hour. Not with the building effectively closed.

That left one option.

Security.

After the looting and protests of the last few months, many institutions had taken to projecting their assets with private guards.

This wasn’t part of the plan. The building was supposed to be empty. A part of me—the logical part that offered occasional common sense—knew what to do. Abort the task. Leave now and rethink my approach.

But logic and reasoning had vacated a long time ago. I was here because it was all my fault. I had to fix it.

The crushing guilt whispered in my ear, reminding me of the job I came to do, and before I knew it, I was moving quietly beyond the break room and further into the darkened building.

It took almost seven minutes of careful searching before I found the area I needed. A large room on the second floor with a simple sign:

Births and Deaths.

With the world of electronic records, I found it funny that an entire building needed to be created to manage a city’s documents.

Still, with the local councils still trying to sort out their own messes, and many non-essential buildings like this one on temporary lock-down, it had become near impossible to track down the records I needed. Even if they were open, it was unlikely they would give me the report surrounding the death of my family. A report I now knew to be filled with lies.

The question was who falsified the file? And why?

Moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting long pale shadows across the room. Only two desks sat in the room. Neither had been used in a while, judging by the layer of dust. The closest had a collection of small fluffy toys sitting on top of a computer tower and next to that a gaudy faux-crystal globe featuring a tower and the inscription: Blackpool.

Whichever hoarder used the workstation, there were no signs they had been here in weeks.

The rest of the office seemed to be filled with chest-height filing cabinets lining the outer walls.

I stood upright and surveyed the room, trying to figure out my plan of attack. The file I needed could be labeled by name. Or by date. Or maybe by the area.

Damn.

I started by firing up the computer, all too aware of the glare it cast from the screen. When that turned out to be a password-secured bust, I began checking the filing cabinets. The documents numbered in the hundreds, thousands, but none of them seemed to be anything more recent that the late nineties.

The file could be anywhere. Or nowhere.

After ten minutes of searching, despair began to set in.

What am I doing here?

In desperation to find a lead, any lead on the location of my son, I had taken another stupid risk. There wasn’t even any guarantee that the file I needed would be here. It could be in a dozen places.

I closed the filing cabinet and moved back to the computer. Maybe if I could bypass the—

I froze. A noise yanked my attention to the door. Whistling. Human.

Shit.

A beam of white light cut through the gloom, tracing the glass of the offices across the corridor. I fumbled for the computer screen, reaching to turn it off, but in my panicked state, I moved too fast. Too careless.

It happened before I knew what was going on.

My forearm brushed the crystal globe and it toppled from its perch. Everything moved in slow motion. As the globe rolled from the edge of the desk, my world plummeted with it.

The noise was deafening in the silence. It shattered into a million pieces.

Chapter Four

I hit the deck.

The flashlight beam instantly flicked overhead.

Crap.

I scrambled to behind the other desk, fumbling to turn off my own beam.

I tensed as seconds later, the guard burst in. Portly, with a goatee beard and a flashlight big enough to double as a medieval weapon, I peered between the slats of the desk as he scanned the room with his beam.

As the light splayed over my desk, I held my breath, but it moved back toward the door.

What the bloody hell— The guard grumbled. He stepped toward the shattered crystal ornament now covering the floor, crunching over the remnants on his way. He paused at the desk, crouched down, and inspected the shards, gingerly picking up the pieces.

I eyed the open door ten feet behind him. My exit. As softly as I dared move, I clambered from all fours out from my hiding place and into a standing position, directly behind the guard.

One turn and he would spot me, but I had to go.

The mission was a bust. I needed to regroup. Rethink. I couldn’t give up. Wouldn’t. But there was a time and a place for it, and this wasn’t it.

The guard spotted the soft glow from the monitor LED. A tiny red light that stuck out like an evil eye in the otherwise inky midnight of the office. He leaned closer and touched the screen, more glass crunching under his feet. With a nudge of the mouse from his elbow, the computer awoke from its slumber, humming back into life.

I took another two steps. Closer to the door now. Each step was a crawl. Heel and toe. Heel and toe. Treading as lightly as a 6ft guy carrying a backpack could.

The pulse in my ears thundered. I was certain the guard would hear, but the computer occupied his attention as he examined the power cable.

I sidestepped around his back.

The guard splayed his light over the desk, the screen, and the computer resting on top. I could almost hear the gears in his head turning.

I inched forward agonizingly slow, mirroring each movement of the guard to cover my tracks. The door was less than two yards away now. Closer by the second.

The guard straightened.

I reached out an arm, my gloved fingers touched the tip of the open door.

At the same time, my backpack clipped the edge of the filing cabinet. A soft thunk rang out as the contents collided with the metal.

No!

The guard wheeled around; the beam of the flashlight hit me straight in the face.

If the guard was shocked, the surprise quickly faded. Replaced by adrenaline.

Oi! his anger-filled voice cried out. Don’t you bloody move!

His metal flashlight was swinging for my head even before he’d finished speaking.

Reacting on instinct and almost blind, I brought a hand up to block the strike and pivoted. My fist found the guard’s belly earning a grunt of pain.

Any thoughts of fighting my way out quickly dissipated.

Keys jangled; a radio crackled. The guard groaned and fumbled for something I couldn’t see.

Stars momentarily filled my vision. I groped for the door frame once more and when my fingers found it, no hesitation. I ran, half-blind into the corridor.

At the same time, I heard the heavy footsteps of the guard, charging.

Freeze arsehole! He coughed into the black, voice trembling with adrenaline. Oscar Papa three, I need … I need backup! The guard gasped as his radio crackled in return.

No time to guess where backup would come from. Disorientated and staggering, I raced forward running on instinct and memory.

Was this the corridor I came down before?

No time. I just needed an exit. Any exit.

The guard yelled out from behind, a string of expletives, as I bounced off a piece of drywall and stumbled around a water cooler, he doggedly pursued.

My eyesight slowly returned, but my breath was slowly leaving. Another corridor and a second flashed by. Running blind, chased into the dark, the panic was building.

I crashed into something hard and plastic at my waist and cried out in momentary pain. A copier, or some kind of printer. Using the momentum, I half rolled over the obstacle, landing awkwardly, and dashed onward.

Another crash and a curse as the guard hit the same item.

No looking back. Only forward.

Legs pumping, lungs burning, a soft glow appeared ahead. Yellow light.

The break room.

My breath came hard as I flew past the adjacent door and took a hard right to where I had entered. Where the whole disaster began.

Ahead, the faintest glow of moonlight leaked through splinters of the door frame from where I had damaged it on entry.

Splintered and jagged, it looked like heaven.

My salvation.

Distance: ten yards.

I pushed myself harder. Faster.

Almost there…

With my heart racing my shoulder slammed into the fire exit and the promise of freedom beyond. I burst out into the cool night air and skidded to a full stop.

What the—

Sucking in gulps of air, I searched for a way out. But there was nothing but blinding white.

Instinctively, I raised my right hand against the glare. A half-second later, that hand was grabbed by something strong and twisted behind me. A flash of a high-vis vest and shouted commands greeted me, moments before the cold wet ground did.

Another pair of heavy hands followed, helping the first pair, and I became aware of more voices. Pinned down, face to the concrete and overwhelmed, the situation became all too clear.

There was nothing I could do to fight back.

I cursed my foolishness, cursed my luck, and cursed myself for letting this happen. Maybe once, a lifetime ago, I had been smarter. But lately, I had been taking too many risks.

Throw the rules out the window, odds are eventually you'll go that way too.

As my senses recovered from the initial shock, I managed to crane my neck sideways. I listened to the man holding me down as he read out the rights I had heard so many times before. The country and the words were different, but the meaning was all too clear.

Behind him, two white vehicles with flashing blue lights and engines running. Next to one, a female officer was talking into a radio, but her words were drowned out by other shouts and people rushing around.

More commotion from the side.

When the guard finally burst from the building, the police jumped to intercept him, but one exchange of heated voices later and he moved from my line of sight, to join the rest of the cops in my public shaming.

My backpack was tugged from my shoulders and taken away. The bandanna and cap roughly yanked free of my head. Pockets were searched. Statements were read. Then came the cuffs.

The rest of the arrest was a blur of hard ground, twisted limbs, and a barrage of questions from stern faces.

I had fooled myself into thinking I could get away. Once again, I'd confused remorse with purpose.

They had been waiting for me the whole time.

I didn’t resist.

My mind filled with the numbing fog of failure. And as I was dragged to my feet and shoved forcefully into the back of the police car, I slumped in defeat.

Chapter Five

The events of the next few hours blurred into one long fiasco of defeat and procedure.

One minute, I was in the back of the police car, hands cuffed and bound in front of me, while the officers in front talked softly. Muted. They showed little energy, or enthusiasm. But who could blame them?

I offered no trouble. No shouting or seething. They were only doing their job and I had already failed at doing mine. After the commotion at the archives building, it was almost a relief to let go of all my responsibilities for a moment. Even if I knew what was to come would only add to them.

With my head against the cool glass of the police cruiser window, the darkened city slid by outside. First smaller, residential houses and low-rise apartment blocks, then as we approached closer to the city proper, black silhouettes against the mottled gray and navy-blue sky; skyscrapers and office blocks clawing at the horizon.

No lights, except the ever-burning street lamps illuminating damp roads and misty sidewalks.

A faint smell of pine hung in the air, drawing my eyes to the tree-shaped air freshener hanging and bobbing rhythmically from the rear-view mirror.

Which station are we going to? I asked.

One of the cops glanced back but both ignored me. Was that normal? No idea. The rules in this country were different, strange.

We turned from a small A-road into something larger, a dual carriageway and to the left. I clocked a pair of billboards illuminated by a weak yellow lamp. One advertised a revolutionary mobile phone contract with an attractive woman on the beach. The other, like so many these days, was a political billboard. A stern-looking woman in a suit promising an end to the corruption and fraud that had been plaguing the country.

Both were filled with lies.

I would have laughed if I remembered how. I was the reason behind all the investigations. I was the one who, just a few months prior, had inadvertently hauled so much of society into petitions, protests, and chaos.

In chasing my family’s killer I had stumbled into a global conspiracy at the highest levels of government and business, partnered with a man I once considered my mortal enemy, and managed to finish my late wife’s work, dragging the whole corrupt, sordid mess into the spotlight.

And no one could ever know of my involvement.

After a couple of minutes, the car slowed, pulling me from my thoughts.

I turned once again to the front, peering through the hardened mesh separating the officers from the back. The vehicle turned again and trundled over a small bridge before crawling at a snail’s pace through a narrow driveway, leading to a three-story gray construction, I knew would be the station.

Drab, functional, and imposing. The building was lit by a row of overhead floodlights that did nothing to lighten the mood, while rows of narrow recessed windows carried rain marks staining the gray concrete with black streaks. Weeping windows, slick with mascara. A dark reflection of the tragedy of ending up here.

Did architects the world over choose the same monolithic design for police stations? Or was it pure coincidence?

The exterior vanished from view as we pulled into a parking area underneath the back of the building. Moments later, I was hauled from the car and pulled through a thick security door into a brightly lit corridor.

Squinting against the light, I shuffled along behind the cops who showed no desire to rush as they formed up, one in front and one behind.

The processing area was even more exhausted than the rest of the place. Peeling paint, dog-eared posters, and a vague smell of bleach and cleaning products hung in the air. A shabby platformed desk, with cracked glass partitions, sat on the hard vinyl floor separating the perp—aka me—from the processing officer, who wore the same hangdog expression as his two colleagues. Round-faced with a week’s worth of stubble, he barely looked at me as his fingers clacked across a keyboard out of sight.

One of the arresting officers stepped forward, giving my details and my charges to the desk jockey, Officer Whiskers.

Name? He asked flatly.

Thomas Blume.

Do you know why you’ve been arrested this evening?

My dashing good looks and debonair personality?

Whiskers glanced up from the computer screen, offering no response.

I sighed. I was caught on B and E. Section Nine of the Theft Act, I believe.

This did get a response. A squint from the Officer and a pause. You a lawyer or something?

Or something, I replied.

Years of working as a PI in London gave me some understanding of UK law, but I was far from an expert. Still, they didn’t know that. If I could keep the cops on edge, maybe they wouldn’t try any bullshit with me.

Over the next twenty minutes, more questions followed. More of my attempts to answer.

Look, I know it was a dumb move. But I was simply trying to access a file on my son. The archives have been closed for months. My son, he’s … he’s out there. I’m just trying to find him.

I probably should have stayed silent, but I was trying to buy some understanding.

Unfortunately, the cops had none to sell.

The desk officer typed away on the keyboard. I had to read a document about my rights and confirm I understood.

More questions. More statements and rules. No way I could remember them all. It didn’t matter. Police stations ran on procedure. They knew what they were doing, even if I didn’t.

They detailed the contents of my backpack and finally, the desk cop looked through my wallet; taken from me at the scene.

I stood there, feeling exhaustion in my bones, wondering when I could finally get some sleep, but deeper down a part of me wanted a cold glass of Scotch more.

The cop carefully removed every item from my wallet and placed them on the desk, inspecting each. A credit card; expired, an old ID card; also expired; a handful of small change, some ancient receipts, and then something else.

A tattered piece of card.

No idea what that is.

For the briefest moment, the desk cop came alive. He inspected the card again. Then looked at me. Then back to the card.

He beckoned one of the arresting officers over and they whispered conspiratorially at the side of the desk for a minute.

Hello? I spoke. I’ve answered your questions. Can we just go to holding now or what?

Officer Whiskers frowned at me, as one might frown at an annoying fly, then whispered a few more words to his colleague before nodding.

Number four, he simply said. As if that explained everything.

And that was it.

I was searched again and then taken to a cell. A blocky, 6x8 with a thick chunk of frosted glass in the back wall I assumed passed for a window, and a painfully bright LED bulb recessed into the high ceiling. Otherwise, the only object resembling furniture was a hard plastic bench seat molded into the back wall.

My shoes were taken, my jacket too. My last human interaction for God knows how long.

The door closed with a heavy thump and I was all alone.

The demons of my past often kept me awake, but that night weariness and mental fatigue enveloped me like a black hole.

I slumped onto the thin padding of the bench and lay on my back. Within minutes, exhaustion slid over me and a restless sleep beckoned, but my thoughts churned.

I didn’t know what was to come in the morning, but the way the desk officer regarded me after searching my wallet wouldn’t leave my mind. He was suspicious, sure, but there was something else.

Something approaching recognition.

Chapter Six

What the—

I awoke with a start at a noise behind me. How long I had been out?

Minutes? Hours?

Cold hard metal lay under my arm. A painful lower back. Everything ached. As the memories flooded in, my eyes slowly adjusted to the bright lights of the cell and the flimsy padded bench I found myself lying on.

With considerable effort and a pounding in my head, I rolled over to face the door and looked toward the figure standing there. One of the officers from the desk—the one with the stubble—stood with his hand on the door and squinted at me with no attempt to hide his disdain.

Trust me, I croaked. How ever bad I look, I feel worse.

I needed a hot shower, a good night’s sleep, a shave, and a whiskey.

What I had was the clothes on my back and a vague sense of unease as the scowling cop gestured to me.

On your feet, he grumbled. Interview room two.

What? Why? I already told you everything. No need for that. Part of me wanted nothing more than to roll over, curl up into a ball and go back to sleep, pretending none of this was happening.

Interview room two, Officer Whiskers repeated robotically.

Dealing with drunks and lowlifes gave any cop a sense of detachment and I couldn’t blame the guy for not getting into a deep conversation. But as I swung my feet, minus shoes, to the floor and attempted standing up for the first time in what felt like days, I couldn’t help but feel pissed.

Why couldn’t they just let me sleep? What was so damned important? They already had me bang-to-rights. Just wake me up when the paperwork is done and bail is needed.

Whiskers tossed my shoes to the floor and waited silently as I inhaled a deep breath, summoned energy from somewhere, and pulled them on. The muscle in my shoulder spasmed and my joints clicked through the simple motion of bending down. Age was a friend to no one, but I had punished my body more than most. The scars across my arm and shoulder were a testament to that.

The cop waited patiently until finally, shoes on and body mostly willing, I climbed to my feet and moved forward, holding out my hands.

The officer showed no sign of appreciation for my assistance as he threw the cuffs around my wrists once more and led me from holding. We moved slowly and as we crossed one bland, beige-painted corridor and entered another—this time gray—I caught sight of a window at the other end and a glimpse of the outside.

Still dark.

Things started falling into place as my brain sorted through events and times.

I couldn't have been asleep for long, that much was clear, but the building made it hard to figure out the time, or which way was which. Intentional no doubt. Designed by some sadistic asshole to keep the crooks off guard and easier to break.

At a T-junction I was ushered right and passed several offices with the blinds drawn, more dog-eared safety posters dotted the walls before we entered a stubby passageway ending in three nearly identical wooden doors. Identical but for tiny plastic number cards next to the frame of each.

And behind door number two… I mumbled as the officer—his hand on my shoulder—swiped a security pass. Earning a green light on the lock, he ushered me inside the second door.

The room was even more sparse than the rest of the building. Bare painted walls in a cream color that varied from surface to surface—showing the repairs and repaints over the years. The ceiling wore a thin whitewash, attempting and failing to cover up a hairline fracture running most of the length of the room.

There were no filing cabinets, no posters, no screens, no signs of activity other than my bearded companion and he wasn’t exactly the life of the party.

Sit, he said tersely, gesturing to one of a pair of hard-backed plastic chairs on the far side of a thick table; the only other furniture occupying the space. I followed along, taking a seat.

Wait here, the cop said, retreating toward the exit.

Right, because I was just going to go for a coffee and bagel.

Officer Whiskers ignored my quip. I’m assuming we can count on you behaving, so we won’t have to cuff you to the table? He looked at me with his trademark squint and I shrugged.

What else can I do? It’s not like I have anywhere else to be.

The cop motioned to a camera fixed in the ceiling at the corner. We’ll be watching ... just in case. So don’t do anything stupid.

It’s a bit late for that.

A ghost of a smile crossed the cop's face but vanished almost as soon as it appeared. The officer turned and left the room closing the heavy door. A click from the lock told me the location may have changed but my status hadn’t. I was still stuck here.

But why the interview room?

It didn’t matter.

I rested my head on my cuffed hands and tried to reclaim the sleep that I had been so rudely interrupted from, but it wouldn’t come and I found myself restless, anxious.

After five minutes, I gave up on sleep and leaned back in my chair to take in my surroundings. The plaster walls had seen better days. Scuffs and scratches scarred the areas near the door and at least a dozen cracks could be spotted in the decaying paintwork. No mirrored window in the room. Many precincts were phasing these out. They simply weren’t needed these days. Not with the quality of surveillance.

I looked at the camera. Housed in a dark-tinted protective bubble with only a small red LED visible, it sat like an evil all-seeing eye, mounted in the top corner of the room. It was probably the most advanced thing in the room.

Was someone actively watching me?

Did it matter? Not like I could go anywhere.

After fifteen minutes my legs developed a cramp, so I started to pace. The shallow gray carpet underfoot was the industrial type found in offices and high traffic areas. It was also marked with several dubious stains, possibly decades old. I pushed those thoughts from my mind and tried to focus on why I was being held, and more importantly how I could get out of here and get back to finding my son.

That was all that mattered. The thoughts of what he might be going through tormented me every day. Far from locked doors or surveillance cameras, it was my own demons that tortured me more than any police attempts.

Is my boy ok? Does he even know I am looking for him?

I ran my fingers through my unkempt hair, steering a few stray strands from my forehead, and paced, thinking, wondering.

The room was my mental and physical prison. Forcing me to reflect on failures and losses.

I tried to push them away. To keep the demons quiet, but with only the four walls and my thoughts for company, it became a losing battle.

It was almost thirty minutes of self-torture later when the relief of faint footsteps sounded from outside in the corridor. I recovered my seat and prepared for another cheery interaction with Officer Whiskers.

The door opened with a click.

Thomas Blume, Detective Craig Welsh said as he stepped into the room and shook his head at my shambolic appearance. You look like shite.

Chapter Seven

You might have been a good cop at some point Blume, but I have to say, you make a bloody lousy thief, Welsh said as he stepped fully into the room, placing a computer tablet on the table.

Stocky but not tall, Welsh wore middle age like his crumpled gray suit; tired and past its prime. Close-shaven head, bordering on bald, and a round, pock-marked face, he still reminded me of some kind of dog. Albeit one weathering the weight of the world. Under mousy brown brows, the circles under his eyes seemed darker than ever.

He looked like he needed a good night’s sleep and a vacation.

That made two of us.

I hadn’t seen the man in over a year but our past run-ins would be etched on my brain for a long time. Welsh had proven to be an ally of sorts in the past. Memories of kidnappings, gunfire, and murder bubbled up through the fog of fatigue. Thoughts of long-forgotten cases and lost hope. Memories I had tried to keep buried.

When Welsh turned back to the door, I noticed the unshaven officer standing there behind him, looking unamused as he handed the fellow cop something before leaving.

Wedging the door with his foot, Welsh returned to the table carrying two mugs. One of which he placed in front of me.

I looked with suspicion at the steaming brown liquid inside.

What—?

Coffee, Welsh continued. I understand you yanks prefer it. I’m more of a tea man myself, but I guess there is no accounting for taste.

I looked at the mug once more. Chipped and bearing the logo of some oil supply company, it seemed to belong more in a mechanics garage than a police station but given I hadn’t had a decent drink of any kind in hours, I scooped it up and sipped greedily.

The coffee tasted cheap and over-sweet, but given the events of the night, it was close to nectar from the gods.

Thank you, I finally said as my throat warmed.

So, Welsh continued. Breaking and entering is a new one for you. And then getting banged up here. From law-abiding citizen to criminal in one night. Impressive.

I’m an over-achiever, I shrugged.

So that’s it? A smart-arse comment? No explanation?

I already told the other cops a hundred times.

Tell me, Welsh said, as he sipped from his own mug.

I needed access to the archives. The building has been closed for months with no opening in sight. I tried the official methods. Nothing worked, so I moved to the next idea.

Welsh arched an eyebrow. And you needed into the archives because?

I was trying to find a file regarding the whereabouts of my son.

Welsh’s brows creased. He leaned back; arms crossed. I thought your son was—

Dead. Yeah, me too. Until recently. A lot has changed.

Welsh made a soft huh noise and reached for the tablet, which he turned on. I admit, that’s not exactly what I was expecting, but I was actually asking about why, in the middle of the bloody night, I get a call from an officer on the other side of town, about some American thief with my business card in his wallet.

So that’s what it was.

I had almost completely forgotten about the card, but I didn’t let it show. I have a card from Starbucks too, but they didn’t call a barista in.

Funny guy. But what’s not so funny is the charges leveled against you. I thought you were a private dick these days. Not some wannabe cat burglar?

I said nothing. Shrugged again.

And the private investigating? Not working out for you anymore?

I’ve stopped that. Made some mistakes, and don’t want to make more. I’m just focused on finding my son. Like I said, things have changed.

Welsh exhaled. Tell me about it. A few months back the force was stretched thin enough and now this pissing Blacklist file gets released and suddenly everyone is a suspect. Politicians are getting investigated, businessmen are being dragged through the courts and they are looking for crooked coppers everywhere. Last I heard, we have nearly ten percent of the force on suspension, awaiting investigation. There can’t be that many bad-uns, there just can’t. But still, if it helps weed out the crooks, I guess it’s worth it.

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Decided to change tack.

So how did they find me? The cops at the archives.

The police are everywhere. All-seeing and all-knowing. You know that better than anyone. Welsh offered a wry smile.

Sure, but I was there. The guard didn’t have time to make the call and they were waiting when I got out. It doesn’t make sense.

Welsh glanced down at the tablet in front of him and swiped across a few pages. From my position on the other side of the table, it was hard to make out.

Motion sensors, Welsh announced after a few seconds. When you entered one of the offices, you tripped a silent alarm which automatically sends a signal to us.

Motion sensors? I didn’t even see any.

Well, by the time you started running, your goose was already very much cooked, mate. As I said, you don’t make much of a criminal, which leads me to wonder what went wrong?

I had been wondering the same myself for the last six months. You try to do something right. Try to make the world a better place, but in doing so rain chaos all around. Did I do the right thing? Was I acting for the good of the people, or was I acting on vengeance, simply trying to avenge the memory of my wife? There was no way to know, and besides, it was already too late.

That’s the question, I said.

I think the real question is what are we going to do about this? I’m a busy man, Blume, and I don’t have time to babysit any time you decide to go exploring in places you shouldn’t. The courts will probably end up—

Welsh was cut off as the door opened and Officer Whiskers walked in. The stern expression on his face was etched harder than ever and as he moved over to Welsh’s side of the table, I knew something was up. The officer bent down and whispered to his colleague, his words soft enough that I didn’t hear a thing.

Welsh’s brows knitted at whatever the news was and he looked to the officer who simply nodded. The two men looked at me for a moment, before Welsh simply said, Wait here, I’ll be back.

I held up my hands in mock surrender. I’ll try not to run away.

Welsh didn’t even roll his eyes or acknowledge my comment. He hustled outside, led by the other officer. The two vanished through the door, which locked with a click.

Alone.

Again.

I was ready to settle in for another long wait. My head found a place on my crossed arms on the table, but just as my eyes closed, the door clicked once more and Welsh re-entered. He paused near the doorway and tapped a few buttons on his phone before settling into his chair once more. The permanent frown he wore was etched stronger than ever and his other hand was clenched in a loose fist.

What’s happened? I asked.

For a moment, I received no reply. Finally, Welsh placed his phone on the desk next to the tablet and slid it away, as if the action alone would make his problems vanish.

Bollocks, he mumbled under his breath. Shit. Shit.

Welsh, what the hell is going on?

He held up a hand as if to silence me, then paused. The hand dropped and he glanced from the phone to me with a strange expression. A mix of thoughtfulness and hope. The look turned into a squint and Welsh placed both hands on the table, palms up. Look, Blume, what you did was serious. The police are already stretched thin at the moment and your situation is making things very hard for me.

I was just trying to—

Get the file for your son, I know. Since you didn’t hurt anyone or take anything and this is technically your first offense … that we know of, you would normally get off with a court date, a fine, and probably a suspended sentence of a few weeks.

But?

But since the whole Blacklist malarkey, prosecutors have had a hard-on for zero tolerance, cracking down on corruption and criminals across the country. It’s a bad time to be a crook.

I’m lucky like that.

With that in mind, there’s a chance you might be looking at real prison time. And almost certainly, losing your PI license.

I’m not working right now anyway.

You would kiss goodbye to your UK visa too.

Shit.

Yeah. So, I have an offer. That call you just saw me take. It’s … something serious. I know you’ve helped in the past, and right now we need all the help we can get, so here’s the deal. Agree to help with this case and I will see what I can do about getting the charges dropped against you.

They caught me in the act of breaking in. It’s not like I can deny it happened.

Welsh leaned back in his chair. I thought about that, but there’s a couple of loopholes I can use.

Loopholes?

We claim you are assisting the police with a special investigation. And that your actions at the archive were part of that investigation. I will pull together a report, with your name on it, and with a bit of luck, it gets written off as an operation gone wrong. We are so understaffed at the moment, that it’s unlikely anyone will check too deeply into the details. Not with more important cases going on. Cases like this, Welsh tapped his phone.

And what is that case?

Welsh shook his head. "Confidential ... Unless you agree to

Reviews for The Thomas Blume Series

[Paula Reyes · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Action packed as always. I binge read the whole series and was pleased and amazed at all the mayhem Thomas
survived. Great plots, comfortable, predictable but not too predictable characters.