The Pick

By Edward Turbeville

A young girl lies dead, stabbed with a silver ice pick at a travelling fair.

With Rose a key witness, Perry is once again embroiled in a murder case.

As Perry seeks to find out more about his own past, he’s forced to make a bargain with his shadowy associates to help solve the crime.

The Pick is the sequel to The Lock, the second volume in Edward Turbeville's Unlocking series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Noël Cades
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645903805

Edward Turbeville

Edward Turbeville is a mystery writer from England’s ancient Forest of Dean.His favourite authors include Agatha Christie, Evelyn Waugh, P G Wodehouse and Nevil Shute.Edward is also a fan of the Classics, notably Cicero and Vergil. You can download his alliterative verse translation of Book III of the Aeneid from iBooks.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Oxford, 1985

A travelling fair was rolling onto Port Meadow as Perry steered the Emerald along the river. Trucks and vans towed machinery, girders, boards and ride cars. By night-time it would be assembled into a fairyland of flashing lights and music, the darkness masking rust and peeling paint and softening the garish colours.

Perry had worked on a fairground some years before. He knew the ropes. This evening they would put the rides through a test run. Then in the morning the council inspectors would come before the fair opened later that day.

Been a while since you were here, lad. An old angler was perched near the mooring, baiting his hook. His battered green hat, as weathered as his face, was stuck with several artificial flies. A cloud of midges hovered around. It was a warm and humid afternoon.

Perry greeted him as he secured the narrowboat. Good fishing?

Not a carp.

Three years had passed since Perry had left Oxfordshire. The familiar scenery swirled around him, embracing him. Yet he felt tentative and was unsure why. The river was unchanged, the trees heavy once more with summer foliage, the banks bright with cow parsley and the pink spires of rosebay willowherb.

The old crowd weren't there anymore, of course. Three summers ago. Three murders and a web of secrets and lies. Things don't stay the same after that. People moved on, and so had Perry.

He'd had half a mind to try and get a fish for his supper, but the old angler's words put that plan to rest. If that fellow couldn't get the waterway to give up a fish, Perry had no chance. He didn't fancy beans on toast. So after he had sorted out various tasks on the Emerald, he made his way along the towpath to the White Stag.

His previous haunt, the Boatswain, was currently closed. He'd seen it all boarded up as he'd sailed past. It seemed less a sign of change than of stagnation and decay. No fish, no pub, no friends.

Why had he come back?

He had no real reason to. And he had every reason to stay away. There were other, older acquaintances in the area that he preferred to avoid. Doubtless they'd come sniffing around once they got wind that he was back in town.

Entering the Stag, Perry hoped that he'd get a few days peace before they cornered him. It was crowded. No wonder on a summer evening, with the other pub being closed. There was a mix of people. Oxford locals, river folk, holidaymakers, and the usual shifty lot tucked away in the quieter nooks, attending to their shifty business. Perry cast an eye around to check there were no familiar faces.

He was headed to the bar when a red-haired man caught his notice. Not one of that troublesome lot thankfully but someone from quite a different time in his life. It took Perry a few seconds to recall his name.

It's Roger, isn't it?

The young man squinted, then his face relaxed in recognition when Perry neared his table. Perry Beck?

Perry nodded.

They had worked together about a decade ago, labouring on a farm. Roger had been a sandy-haired, freckled lad, around sixteen, the same as Perry. His hair was darker now but still red, a few freckles lingering. He wore a faded green t-shirt and jeans. What are you up to in this part of the world? You live here?

Perry, putting some coins on the bar for his pint, joined Roger at his table. Not recently. How about you?

Roger grinned, showing a chipped front tooth. I'm with a fair these days. Just got into town.

I saw. The one in the Meadow?

That's the one. I've got myself a sweet stall. Candy floss, toffee apples, nut brittle. Turns quite a coin when there's a crowd. He took a swig of his drink. I got the idea from you as it happens. I remember you telling me you'd worked on a fair and it always seemed like a good idea. Free food and rides. Back when I was a kid, anyway. Novelty wears off a bit, but it's a good business.

Perry agreed. He could barely stomach sugary stuff these days after living on candy floss and coconut ice for months on end. You been doing it long?

Couple of years. I had a great gig before that. Working at a huge place near Birmingham as a gardener. Like a castle, it was. So big there were three of us full-time. Easy work, good blokes, and good pay.

So what happened? It was clear that Roger had a story to tell. He had always been talkative, Perry recalled. Perry himself was not, so was usually content to listen. As Roger rambled on, Perry cast an eye over the chalk menu on the wall, wondering what to order. He still felt the luxury of being able to pick and pay for any meal he wanted. After so many lean years, scraping from pillar to post, having a bit of ready cash was hard to get used to.

Anyway, the old fellow who owned it got moved into a home. In his eighties, he was. Nice old bloke. No family, they were all dead. Roger shook his head. Sad, an old geezer like that, all by himself. They kept Jenkins on as caretaker, he was the head gardener. Couldn't let it go to rack and ruin in case it had to be sold. Me and Parker got our marching orders. I worked here and there for a couple of years. I'd saved a bit, and I met a bloke in a pub as you do. And to a cut long story short, I ended up working at the fair.

From old habit Perry was accustomed to keep an eye on the rest of the room when in conversation with anyone. He had been raised to always be on the alert. To always be aware of his surroundings. It had become so second nature and so subtle that he could do this without a speaker ever realising his attention was divided.

Sure enough, in a dingy corner, there was a little rat-faced man whom Perry recognised. Worse, he briefly caught Perry's gaze. He narrowed his eyes, giving an almost imperceptible nod. Nothing showed on Perry's face but inwardly he was irritated. That was it, then. The news would soon get back to the Company that Perry was in town, and he wouldn't have a moment's peace.

So where are you staying now? Roger was asking him. Perry put his focus back on his old workmate.

I've got a boat, Perry told him.

Roger brightened. A boat? What, like a yacht?

It was the assumption people typically made if they didn't guess Perry was talking about a river craft. They'd think he meant a sailing boat, and a luxury yacht at that. Perry had discovered this when asking a girl back, and seeing her confusion and disillusionment when he led her towards the canal and the narrowboats. I didn't realise you meant that kind of boat. The evening had been cut short at that point. Where she thought he'd be keeping a yacht in the centre of Birmingham, Perry had no idea.

But Roger was all enthusiasm when Perry explained: Not that kind of boat. A narrowboat.

That's not bad. How did you manage that?

Perry gave a brief account of finding the derelict vessel, buying her, and fixing her up.

Roger was even more impressed. So you own the boat? Like your own place, all yours? There was admiration and envy in his voice.

Perry asked him about his own situation. It turned out that Roger was hoping to get his own caravan some time, but at the moment he kipped down in someone else's van.

It's not so bad. He stops out a lot of the time. Monkey Mick, we call him. Has other business, you know the thing.

Perry did know. Travelling fairs were rife with other kinds of trade.

So this boat then, you can move it about? Roger asked.

Anywhere on the waterways, Perry told him.

That's the life. Like with the fair, always seeing new places. One of the benefits, getting to travel all over. Where've you been?

Perry mentioned a few of the stops along the waterways. Roger had passed through many of the same towns with the fair, though at different times. You'll have to come and see the boat, Perry said.

Roger agreed to drop by. Perry ordered his food, chicken and chips, and they reminisced for a bit about past times. The good old days. Except they hadn't been that good, they'd been rough, hard work in all weathers for meagre pay. Yet there was camaraderie borne of tough conditions that cast a rosy glow over that era now.

Screwing up his brow, Roger was trying to remember something. It was you who had that thing with the locks, wasn't it?

Perry said nothing. He tried to recall how and why Roger might know this. He'd kept his lockpicking skills mostly to himself in those days. Otherwise, combined with his criminal record, he'd be in the firing line for anything that went missing.

Roger supplied the answer for him. Farmer needed that shed open and someone had dropped the key. You got it open in a trice. Clever, that. Can you still do it?

It was wiser to evade the question. I remember that shed. Some sort of blade for the combine harvester, wasn't it? Perry said. At that moment he could remember it vividly. His fingers could even recall the pressure of that half-rusty padlock, nudging each barrel, and the spring of the shackle as it fell open. Then the smell of old hay, earth and engine oil that wafted out once the door swung wide.

His companion wasn't to be put off the subject. Great trick though. Very useful. You could make a bit of money with that.

Perry stabbed a couple of chips and ate them before answering. It's all a while ago now. More trouble than it's worth. Something disappears, everyone thinks you nicked it.

Roger understood. Still, it would come in handy. Parker would have liked it. Always snooping about, he was. He had a thing he said was a skeleton key but me and Jenkins never saw him open anything with it. They're the blokes from the big house I was telling you about. So what work are you doing now?

Perry gave his usual answer to this, which was odd jobs. There's always something needing doing up and down the river.

Roger had finished his pint and put it back down on the beermat. I'd better be getting back. Still got a few things to sort out. You planning on stopping by the fair?

Perry hadn't been planning to but said he might.

That's great, then. Stop by the stand and it's on the house. Whatever you like.

It was dark by the time Perry made his way back along the river to the Emerald's mooring. Perry had never feared darkness. It was a cloak and a sanctuary.

But tonight, the past and its shadows seemed close. He felt an unseen clock ticking.

Chapter 2

Sure enough, the next day there were visitors.

Perry had risen early. Part habit, part convenience. The Emerald still wasn't wired for electricity so making the most of daylight made sense. Perry wasn't really sure why he hadn't got around to installing an electric system. Somehow he'd got so used to the battery lamp that he didn't notice the absence of wired power. He had gas for the water and stove. It made him more independent, he supposed, as he didn't have to go and plug into a powered mooring to get by.

As if his body were stepping back into old patterns he found himself making his way to a tree near the riverbank. He'd used it for exercise the previous time he was moored here. There was a bough that was ideal for chin-ups. Manual work kept him reasonably fit, but Perry still felt safer knowing he could haul himself over a wall if he ever needed to make a quick exit.

Over the past three years he'd taken on a range of different work. Since he'd done a couple of jobs for Jeff Harcourt, a local solicitor, word had got around that Perry was a useful private inquiry agent. Even as far as Birmingham he had had people approach him. Initially they were referred by Jeff but then later on by subsequent clients. Perry hadn't even heard of the term private inquiry when he started doing the work. Let alone that it existed as a line of trade. It paid well, sometimes astonishingly so.

Some of it though, Perry knew, was dirty business. He had his own code for what business he took on and what he rejected. The private inquiry line was often an ask-no-questions type deal. On the surface this suited Perry. He had learnt from an early age to ask no questions where no questions needed asking. This precept came from King John Lochinvar, the head of the Company that had been Perry's first family and first employer.

Inside though, his new line of work gnawed at him. There was one thing playing Robin Hood, retrieving something stolen and returning it to its previous owner. But very few jobs were that black and white. If Perry had ever been told the full story and had been forced to pick a side, he suspected that more often than not he would have picked the side that hadn't hired him.

So he now had money in the bank. He didn't have to scratch around and worry about something clapping out on the Emerald. There was a nice little pot for a month or more's worth of rainy days, and it was growing. As such he was no longer beholden to anyone, including the Company.

Nonetheless, here were King John and his merry men, paying their expected visit to the Emerald. There was a touch more grizzle in the old thief's beard, Perry fancied. But he looked otherwise hale.

Well met, King John said with a nod. He was clad in his usual dark overcoat, a worn-looking plum waistcoat giving a touch of imperial colour. He was of broad build, not quite stout but large enough to make a contrast with his thin and lanky second-in-command. This was Old Owen, a greyer-than-grey shadow in equally grey costume. He loomed behind King John. Over the years Perry had come to realise there was more to Owen than met the eye.

The two of them turning up at his mooring was déjà vu. All they needed was that idiot boy they'd dragged along with them last time, and it would be an identical snapshot of three years ago.

Business good? Perry asked.

It ticks along, King John said. This might mean anything, Perry reasoned. He knew the other man kept his cards close to his chest. But the fact he was already here, and so soon, indicated that something was up.

The two visitors boarded the boat and sat on the edge of the deck. King John rested a hand on his broad thigh, settling himself as if he were enjoying a rare treat. He let out his breath in a satisfied sigh. The life, eh, Uncle? Time we were thinking of our own retirement, you reckon? He gave a roar of laughter at the notion.

You back in Oxford, then? Perry asked. The Company's headquarters had moved around the counties over the years. Sometimes due to new business opportunities. More often than not the need to scarper.

Might well ask you the same.

Perry didn't know himself, that was the problem. He wondered again why he had come back here? Perhaps because it was the only place he could technically come back to. It was where he had started, pretty much. Passing through, he said. After all he still had a thought of heading east towards Reading and maybe even onto London. His plans, at the moment, were undetermined. They weren't something he intended to discuss with his current visitors.

King John narrowed his glance. You still doing jobs for that brief? he asked, referring to Jeff Harcourt.

Perry felt put on the spot. Although he had left the Company years ago there were still codes of behaviour that he kept to, and that they expected him to keep to. They'd never grass him up and he'd never grass them up. Assuming they didn't attack his own. It was open season if that happened. But he had grown up with them and there was a familial and conspiratorial bond there. A bond that would always be as thick as blood, if not thicker.

Not for some time, he told the other man.

King John guessed Perry's qualms and laughed. I've no bone to pick with you over that, Beck lad. I was thinking that we might have some use for your professional services, so to speak.

I'm not in that game anymore, Perry said.

King John held up a hand. Nothing of that kind, Beck lad. All kosher, all legit. You're in a respectable line of trade these days. And we wouldn't want to rock your boat, would we, Uncle? He looked at Old Owen for corroboration, chuckling at his little nautical joke. It wasn't the first time he had made it.

Perry wasn't going to waste time meandering around the subject, which King John was wont to do. You'd better tell me what's up then.

The tale began. The chapter of the Company that King John ran was doing well enough, but there were problems on its borders. Territorial boundaries weren't being as respected as they used to be. There'd been trouble in Banbury, north of Oxford, some years ago. Now the Midlands chapter had taken it over entirely. They were encroaching elsewhere.

It’s not like the old times. You got jukrum then, or you steered well clear, King John said.

The word was only vaguely familiar to Perry. Jukrum was something to do with territory but he couldn’t recall exactly what.

King John had had enough of the encroachment. I've been more than patient. He put it as a matter of honour, but it was basically a matter of profit and loss. Perry wasn't greatly surprised by any of this, since the fringes of their territory had always been a grey area. But letting Banbury go altogether was news. He was surprised King John had let things go that far, though he didn't express this.

Now we get to the interesting part, King John said. You'll remember Davy Prout?

Perry did remember him. Not fondly. Years back Davy Prout, a professional burglar, had held a high rank in the Company. He'd served as an unofficial deputy for King John on occasion. But he'd got above himself and there had been a row. Prout had always been over-ambitious and self-seeking. King John might want a successor someday but he didn't want a usurper.

They had fallen out and Davy Prout had gone to ground for a while. When he returned he had never regained his status. According to King John, he'd eventually vanished altogether. Then he'd re-emerged, heading the Midlands chapter.

This was bad news for King John and his lot. Losing Banbury was a blow. It did at least mean Prout's lot had stopped pushing their luck further south for now. They were