The Fat Detective in Love: Eugene Blake Mysteries, #2

By Christian Hayes

Eugene Blake Is Back

When Eugene fills out an online dating profile he does not expect it to lead to his next case.

But his search for love triggers a mystery involving a glamorous (straight-to-video) movie actress, a shadowy society known as The Brotherhood of Broken Hearts and a fictitious 1940s New York detective. Oh, and he might just fall in love along the way.

This all means that Eugene is forced to put on his raincoat and head out into the rain-soaked city again.

Captivating, inventive and mysterious, The Fat Detective in Love is the second exciting book in the Eugene Blake trilogy by London novelist Christian Hayes.

Read now to find how Eugene's journey as the most under-qualified detective in London continues…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Hayes
• Release date: Dec 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215067062

Book preview

Chapter One

The springs sprang crazily, a screeching violin crunch mixed with grunts and staccato half-breaths. Floyd had been going at a full clip for almost all of sixty seconds when the mattress sagged, firmly locking my head between the springs and the carpet.

‘Why do you have to be so rough? Haven’t you heard of kissing before?’ asked his lover, his young lover.

‘I can’t help it. You turn me into an animal.’

‘And what animal is that? A baboon?’

‘A tiger.’

‘You can take it easy once in a while. It’s not a race. You don’t get a medal at the end of it. There’s no podium.’

‘I can’t help it. I’m on a hair trigger when I’m with you. It’s all your fault.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘What’s what supposed to mean?’

‘When I’m with you.’

There was the briefest of silences. Bare feet hit the carpet by my head and paced the room. All I could see were ten red-painted toes and two creamy calves. ‘I can’t believe you’re still sleeping with her.’

‘I’m not sleeping with her.’

‘I’m not an idiot. You sleep next to her every night. You must be sleeping on top of her too. I know you. You’re an animal.’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘Because you can’t help yourself. You’re a compulsive liar. You always lie to me.’

‘Like when?’

‘Like when you tell me you love me.’

‘You’re being emotional again. You always do this. You work hard to upset yourself and then I get the blame.’

‘If you loved me you’d stop sleeping with her.’

‘I can’t stop sleeping with my own wife.’

‘You’ll make it worse the longer you leave it.’

‘And what about Hannah?’

‘You can’t keep using her as an excuse. Whenever we have a serious conversation you always bring up Hannah. When she’s all grown up she’ll thank you for not forcing her to live through years of misery with you and Julia in absolute silence.’

‘And Julia?’

‘I don’t give a fuck about Julia. She’s a moron.’

‘She has a PhD!’

‘I’m far cleverer than her and I only have six GCSEs. I mean I like her and all but she doesn’t fight for you. If she fought for you you wouldn’t be here. If she loved you, properly loved you, then you would have no need for me.’

‘I have every need for you. Every inch of you.’

‘Is that all I am? Some kind of flesh trampoline?’

‘You’re being melodramatic again. I’m obsessed with you. I can’t stop thinking about you.’

‘Prove it.’

‘Prove what?’

‘That you need me.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I’m serious. I’ll walk out of here right now and never come back.’

‘You haven’t got any clothes on.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You’re being stupid again.’

‘Then stop lying to me.’

‘Fine. Ask me anything. You can ask me anything at all and I’ll tell you the truth.’

She didn’t hesitate. Almost instantly she asked the very thing she wanted to know: ‘Are you still sleeping with Julia?’

‘You want the truth?’

‘Yes.’

‘The actual truth?’

‘Yes, Floyd, the actual truth.’

‘Yes.’ It was so matter-of-fact, the way he said it, that little syllable. And it almost contained a touch of joy, as though it entertained him to say it and to witness her reaction in return.

‘You’re a prick,’ she said, also as a matter of fact. There was no debate about it. He didn’t care.

‘You wanted to know the truth.’

‘Tell me, when was the last time?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘I really want to know.’

‘Oh, about eleven last night.’

‘You’re disgusting. What’s wrong with you?’

‘If I didn’t she’d suspect something.’

‘You’re so full of shit. Have you ever heard of making an excuse? Just tell her you’re tired.’ Those ten painted toes were pacing around the room. ‘So, what, you’re going to just keep on banging us both?’

‘She jumps on me. What can I do if I’m in high demand?’

‘I don’t believe you for a second. Your wife has the sex drive of a sponge. I don’t know why you married her.’

‘Because I hadn’t met you yet.’ She laughed at that. His compliments were so lazy that she had started to find them funny. He started to laugh too, at which point she laughed some more, until they both appeared to be laughing together. Before it had died down she started to speak:

‘You’re such a terrible person. Why do I always keep coming back to you?’

‘Because one day it will be just you and me and we can do whatever we like.’

‘Will that day ever come?’

‘Of course it will. You just have to believe me.’

‘I’m tired. I’m tired of believing. You have to tell her, tell her that you are not in love with her anymore and tell her you’ve met someone else. I cannot share you with anyone else. And you know what?’

‘What?’

‘If you don’t tell her I will.’

The thing that surprised me was just how old Floyd was. He was decades older than both his wife and his new lover. How did he do it? What did they find attractive in him? It was only later when I would find out how he came across The Formula (Turn to Chapter Seventeen if you’re interested in that).

But I must apologise for bringing you in on such a sordid scene so early on but I was stuck under that bed, mid-case, and I had no idea how I was going to escape. I should probably let you know how I ended up under a bed with a mattress springing down upon my head as Floyd screwed his young mistress. If you really don’t want to know, skip to the next chapter (if you want to find out how I stumbled upon a new case, then skip to Chapter Six and if you want to find out how it all ends just skip to Chapter Twenty-Five and be done with it).

I had vowed to give it all up, to hang up the raincoat and leave the life of mystery and intrigue behind me. It had nearly got me killed and it turns out that death can be really bad for my health. I took my near-death experience as a very clear sign, as a raging, screaming notice to cease and desist, to get back to my ‘real’ life, to slot back in amongst all the other commuters, all the other depressives with their hollow lives and endless, repetitive days. But when I did that, when I joined the masses as they funnelled into their offices, as I sat down at my desk, as I moved one order form from the in-tray at one end of my desk to the out-tray at the other, punctuated only by the violence of an inky rubber stamp in between, I started to feel the malaise set in, and that clock on the wall, initially only the size of a dinner plate, would grow to the size of the moon as the day wore on. And as I stamp, stamp, stamped, my mind started to contemplate what kind of mysteries were out there, what kind of intrigues I was missing out on, and by the time the month was over I was sitting at my computer typing out the words ‘The Eugene Blake Internet Detective Agency.’ My design skills were not up to much so it was really just black text on a grey background, and I added a call to action, a plea to those out there who needed help: ‘I am there for those with no one else to turn to, for those who have burning mysteries that need to be solved. There is no problem too big, no case too small, for me to help you.’ And I returned to work with a newfound sense of power and excitement. While the rest of my colleagues were only office workers I was both an office worker and a private detective. I spent that night walking around my flat in little circles wearing my raincoat. It was a little scuffed and somewhat charred since the accident but it felt good to have it back on. I even started wearing it into work. And when the clock ticked six I would run home to check my inbox for any cases that had come in during the working day only to find… nothing. An empty inbox stared back at me.

A private detective without a case is a desperate thing. What was I to do? Wander the streets following strangers in the hope they do something suspicious?

The truth was that although I now had a website there was no actual way for anyone to find it. It was a single page floating out there in the digital ether, like its owner, the private detective floating around London without a case.

The website proved to be a dead end.

No, my cases would come from much closer to home.

After the case of David White, which ended in flames, I thought maybe I should get into something less strenuous, like infidelity cases, and it was my new subject’s wife, Julia - yes, the very same Julia I used to be in love with (and whom I haven’t told you anything about before) - who came up with the plan, who had it ready for me. ‘I’m going to take Hannah with me,’ she said. ‘We’re going to visit my mother this weekend,’ she said. ‘But I’m going to give you a key. Do what you have to do. Set up whatever trap you have to.’ It was my job to lay down the cheese.

‘A trap?’

‘If that’s what it takes.’

I had never set up surveillance before. I hit the yellow pages and the next morning I visited a sleek surveillance shop in Marylebone. They had every conceivable gadget: night vision goggles, vehicle trackers, cameras disguised as clocks and clocks disguised as cameras.

‘Well this here,’ said the shopkeeper, a beady man, somewhere in his fifties, ‘is a shoe,’ he said, holding up an ordinary leather shoe. He rotated the heel to reveal a secret compartment.

‘What’s it for?’ I asked.

‘Secret things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Microfilm?’

‘I don’t have any microfilm.’

‘A small key?’

‘What small key?’

‘Fine,’ he said, throwing it aside. ‘Then how about this?’ He held up a bright yellow flower and pinned it to his lapel. ‘A buttonhole camera.’ It was hugely conspicuous and looked more likely to spray a jet of water than take a photo.

‘I’m more in the market for surveillance equipment.’

‘Bugs, huh?’

‘Yeah.’

He looked me up and down. ‘What are you up to?’ he asked.

‘I’m on a case.’

‘I’ve had guys like you in here before… peephole cameras and all that. It’s the raincoat that gives it away.’

He took a couple of steps up on a footstool and took the clock off the wall, a cheap plastic thing with big, easy-to-read numbers.

‘Here, take a look at this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a clock.’

‘I know it’s a clock but why are you showing it to me?’

‘Because sometimes a clock is not just a clock. Does anything look strange to you?’

I took a closer look.

‘No.’

‘Exactly! It looks just like any old clock. But now take a close look at the 12.’ He had to point before I saw it, an almost imperceptible dot. ‘A camera,’ he said. ‘Enough to watch over a room.’ He flipped it around and opened up a panel to reveal the electronics inside. He removed a little square of plastic. ‘Takes a photo every thirty seconds, can see in the dark. It all records to this,’ he said, holding the plastic between his fingers. ‘It’s called a memory card. It’s the latest technology. No moving parts.’

I took it off him and held it in my hand. It looked cool.

‘I’ll take it.’

When I met Julia again for the first time after all those years it wasn’t long before she had tears streaming down her face and could barely get a word out as she admitted her husband’s infidelity. It was the first time she had said it out loud and hearing her own words seemed to turn it into a reality. She clutched her guts as though the words caused her physical pain. ‘He’s cracking my fucking world in two.’ She was a wreck that afternoon but the following morning, in the cloisters of the Royal Academy of Art, she was well put together, made up and rested. Her long brown hair flowed from a short-brimmed fedora and at the end of one arm she clasped the hand of an eight-year-old girl who had a Timon & Pumba rucksack strapped to her back. Her other hand clutched a suitcase.

‘Here’s the keys,’ she said, pressing a keyring into my palm. ‘Do what you need to do. He won’t be home till seven. I need evidence. I need to know.’ And she launched forward, kissing me firmly on the cheek before heading back where she came from with only the little girl looking back at me, wondering who the hell I was.

I felt the eerie stillness of the house wrap around me. The house, although still and silent, appeared to breathe, seemed to know that an intruder had entered. The fridge hummed, the floorboards creaked beneath the carpet. All objects grew eyes.

I checked my watch: almost one. I still had a few hours before he came home. I made my way along the corridor and past a child’s pinkish bedroom, strewn with toys and clothes but with a neatly-made bed, and into the bedroom of Floyd and Julia. A double bed filled the room and clothes were piled up on a chair close by.

I put my bag down and pulled out the clock and it was only once I was there, once I was in the reality of the situation, that I realised I did not have a nail. Where was I going to hang it? My eyes darted to the clock that was already hanging on the wall. In my hands was a white clock. The one on the wall was red. Would he notice that the clock on the wall had changed colour? Do people look at the clocks on their walls or do they become invisible after passing them thousands of times?

I pulled a chair over to where the clock was, removed one shoe and stepped up. I grabbed the red clock and pulled it off the wall. At that very moment I heard the front door unlock.

‘Julia?’ called a man’s voice. ‘Julia?’ he called again. ‘She’s out.’

I jumped off the chair and swung it back into place.

‘Do you think anyone saw us?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘You’re so paranoid.’

I threw my bag and discarded shoe under the bed.

‘I thought we were going out for lunch?’

‘I’ve got a much better idea.’ The old man kissed her neck and tugged at her slim burgundy cardigan.

‘Stop that. You’ve got to unbutton it first otherwise you’ll rip it. It’s my favourite top.’

‘I’ll buy you another.’

‘My Dad gave me this top.’

‘Just tell him that it was torn off in a moment of passion.’

‘With my old lover?’

‘Old?’

‘Could you make me a sandwich at least?’

‘No bread.’

‘Crisps, then?’

‘Julia doesn’t let any crisps into the house.’

‘Can’t you make me anything?’

‘I can’t cook. I think there’s something in the bedroom you can have.’ They were fast approaching.

I was hiding behind the door but quickly realised that was a terrible place to hide. I dived onto the carpet and rolled, squeezing myself under the bed. A tight fit.

Shoes kicked off, trousers trampled on, underwear strewn. Any talk gave way to the noises of bodies going at it. I stayed very still, removed the recorder out of my pocket and clicked. And only then did I realise I had forgotten to replace the clock.

In the silences between conversation