PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) by JOHN YORVIK
Authors: JOHN YORVIK
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paranoia material to substitute the lack of a real memory of the murder. Looking at Natasha’s terrified face again, I decided I’d seen enough for one day and stashed the photos back in the holdall.
* * *
This time I left the bag in a locker at Euston station. There were no people to deal with, only coins and keys. As I rode the Central line, I thought about the photos. The swastikas and the greasy handprint on the wall could be all the evidence needed to rule me out of the equation. But without forensics work, I wouldn’t know if the handprint matched the prints on Natasha’s body. Leaving a greasy handprint wasn’t the act of an experienced killer. It suggested a crime of passion or even a drunken crime. But the swastikas in the bathroom had my mind racing.
I got off the train at Shoreditch High Street and walked the mile or so back to the hotel. Then I picked up my gear and went up to the gym. After a long work out, I went back to my room and collapsed onto the bed.
* * *
I awoke bathed in sweat. I checked the time. It was only 12.30 am. I went to the bathroom and washed my face. Drinking a glass of tap water I gazed out the window. Drunks and prostitutes walked the pavements. Traffic raced past, headlights distorted like the eyes of cartoon demons.
I sat on the bed, reached for my rucksack and pulled out the Evening Standard. On the second page was a picture of Natasha and the photofit. The article was a repeat of the day before with the added news that Natasha’s parents were being flown over from Poland.
I put the battery in my mobile and turned it on. There was a message sent at 12.15: ‘37 Curtain Rd. ASAP.’
That was all it said. I didn’t recognise the number, but it had to be Marty using a burner because I hadn’t called anyone else with my new phone. I looked in my A–Z. Curtain Road was walking distance. I got ready. I shoved the Swiss Army knife down my sock but it didn’t feel secure so I zipped it into my jacket pocket with the locker key.
* * *
On Curtain Road, I walked past a large graffitied rabbit sprayed onto the side of a metallic lock-up door. It was on its haunches, about to bolt. A red line of energy decorated its black insides. The street was quiet until I heard the lawn-mower buzz of a scooter coming from behind me. It drew level with me and slowed down. When I looked over at it, it sped away into the distance. Its handlebars were decorated with a tree of Mod mirrors. The driver wore a green coat with an RAF target on the back and a vintage white peaked helmet.
I reached number 37. It was a kebab house. No-one was there so I waited around outside. After five minutes I decided to go in and order something. The man behind the counter waved me through to a back room. I walked down a corridor until I came to a badly scuffed yellow door. I wondered if I’d received the text by mistake and behind the door a group of cocaine dealers, armed to the teeth, were waiting to make a connection. It was deathly quiet. I turned the handle and pushed.
I stood in a state of shock.
“Can I get you anything?” said a Lebanese waiter wearing a white shirt and dicky bow, with black trousers, white socks and trainers.
“Get me a beer and a whisky chaser.”
I was in a large hall full of pine breakfast tables where rockers in leather jackets were rolling joints, students played drinking games, beer heads ate falafels with hot sauce and waiters hurried from table to table delivering goods and taking money.
Centre stage stood a man with an acoustic guitar and an exaggerated quiff. He was singing Elvis songs to cheers from the crowd. A small contingent of dancers twisted and jived in the few square yards between the tables. I sat down, lit a cigarette and looked around for Marty.
By the time I’d downed the second beer, there was still no sign of Marty. And I found myself sinking into the music:
We’re caught in a trap
I can’t walk out
Because I love you too much baby
Why can’t
* * *
This time I left the bag in a locker at Euston station. There were no people to deal with, only coins and keys. As I rode the Central line, I thought about the photos. The swastikas and the greasy handprint on the wall could be all the evidence needed to rule me out of the equation. But without forensics work, I wouldn’t know if the handprint matched the prints on Natasha’s body. Leaving a greasy handprint wasn’t the act of an experienced killer. It suggested a crime of passion or even a drunken crime. But the swastikas in the bathroom had my mind racing.
I got off the train at Shoreditch High Street and walked the mile or so back to the hotel. Then I picked up my gear and went up to the gym. After a long work out, I went back to my room and collapsed onto the bed.
* * *
I awoke bathed in sweat. I checked the time. It was only 12.30 am. I went to the bathroom and washed my face. Drinking a glass of tap water I gazed out the window. Drunks and prostitutes walked the pavements. Traffic raced past, headlights distorted like the eyes of cartoon demons.
I sat on the bed, reached for my rucksack and pulled out the Evening Standard. On the second page was a picture of Natasha and the photofit. The article was a repeat of the day before with the added news that Natasha’s parents were being flown over from Poland.
I put the battery in my mobile and turned it on. There was a message sent at 12.15: ‘37 Curtain Rd. ASAP.’
That was all it said. I didn’t recognise the number, but it had to be Marty using a burner because I hadn’t called anyone else with my new phone. I looked in my A–Z. Curtain Road was walking distance. I got ready. I shoved the Swiss Army knife down my sock but it didn’t feel secure so I zipped it into my jacket pocket with the locker key.
* * *
On Curtain Road, I walked past a large graffitied rabbit sprayed onto the side of a metallic lock-up door. It was on its haunches, about to bolt. A red line of energy decorated its black insides. The street was quiet until I heard the lawn-mower buzz of a scooter coming from behind me. It drew level with me and slowed down. When I looked over at it, it sped away into the distance. Its handlebars were decorated with a tree of Mod mirrors. The driver wore a green coat with an RAF target on the back and a vintage white peaked helmet.
I reached number 37. It was a kebab house. No-one was there so I waited around outside. After five minutes I decided to go in and order something. The man behind the counter waved me through to a back room. I walked down a corridor until I came to a badly scuffed yellow door. I wondered if I’d received the text by mistake and behind the door a group of cocaine dealers, armed to the teeth, were waiting to make a connection. It was deathly quiet. I turned the handle and pushed.
I stood in a state of shock.
“Can I get you anything?” said a Lebanese waiter wearing a white shirt and dicky bow, with black trousers, white socks and trainers.
“Get me a beer and a whisky chaser.”
I was in a large hall full of pine breakfast tables where rockers in leather jackets were rolling joints, students played drinking games, beer heads ate falafels with hot sauce and waiters hurried from table to table delivering goods and taking money.
Centre stage stood a man with an acoustic guitar and an exaggerated quiff. He was singing Elvis songs to cheers from the crowd. A small contingent of dancers twisted and jived in the few square yards between the tables. I sat down, lit a cigarette and looked around for Marty.
By the time I’d downed the second beer, there was still no sign of Marty. And I found myself sinking into the music:
We’re caught in a trap
I can’t walk out
Because I love you too much baby
Why can’t
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