PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) by JOHN YORVIK Page B
Authors: JOHN YORVIK
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melee that followed beanie-hat’s accomplice kneed me in the balls and left me in a heap on the ground. A male officer got out of the car and ran off in pursuit. Then a female officer got out of the car and asked me if I was okay. I managed to sit up and nod, reeling momentarily from the sharp, incapacitating pain.
When the pain began to dull a little I answered the officer, “A little shaken, but they didn’t get anything.”
I had to tread carefully here. Even if they didn’t recognise me, police could be tricky customers, always trying to trip people up. As I got my breath back, I heard the scooter pass by the top of the alleyway. The gorilla man was nowhere to be seen.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” said the officer, taking out her radio and asking her colleague for his location.
I could hear the crackle of police radio coming towards us from the darkness. The male officer walked back and stood next to us out of breath. He shook his head at his colleague. Then he studied me carefully. Finally he asked if I’d got a good look at them.
“I saw nothing. It was a blur.”
“Well, nothing we can do then. Can we give you a lift anywhere?”
I thought about the muggers waiting round the corner. But getting into the police car would give them a good chance to see my face. Chances are they had CCTV hooked up in the back. Still it was best not to act like a fugitive, I reminded myself, thinking of my Hampstead Underground mistake.
“Anywhere on Whitechapel would be great,” I said.
“No problem. Hop in,” said the officer, so I got into the back seat. The car started and we drove away up the street.
“I think I recognise you from somewhere,” said the male officer.
“Everyone says that.”
“No, I mean it. I know you from somewhere.”
My mind went blank. Saying as little as possible would be best. Less to incriminate myself with. Although, police knew that liars tend to either talk too much or say too little.
“I think he’s in shock,” said the WPC.
“Really I’m okay.” I tried to look sheepish, holding my hand over the plaster as if through nerves.
“There’s no shame in it,” she said, passing me a card. “Here’s a number. Call if you need to talk to someone.”
When we got to Whitechapel, the police officer parked the car and turned round in his seat. He looked puzzled, as if he was still trying to place me. I thanked them both and got out. They turned the car around and pulled up in front of me. The male officer lent out of the window and said: “I think I know where I know you from. Do you ever get in the King’s Head in Clerkenwell? It’s my brother-in-law’s pub.”
Maybe it was a line he was throwing me. See if I would bite. Was there even a King’s Head in Clerkenwell?
“Not as far as I can remember,” I answered.
He seemed satisfied with that and with a quick “Mind how you go” they drove off. When I saw the police car had turned a corner, I sprinted back towards the hotel. I crept past the night clerk who was asleep with his head resting on a book and took the lift up to my room.
‘I turned up. Where were you?’ I texted to whoever it was who had texted me the address.
Later, I dreamt of the scooter coming towards me across the salt lakes of Utah. A mirage getting closer and closer, the noise growing louder until it finally reached me, but I couldn’t see anything, only hear the noise of the engine, rasping in a cloud of light and dust. I woke up thrashing around. It was only five o’clock.
Chapter Seven
My father was a Norwegian sailor, but sometimes I remembered him as Finnish or Danish. Anyway, nationality aside, he went missing at sea when I was only four years old. That day, we’d gone down to Craster to wave him off. My mother always stressed that it had been sunny, not a cloud in the sky. No way of knowing that a storm was brewing.
“Do you remember?” she would say. “We walked down that street where all the buildings were painted white.
When the pain began to dull a little I answered the officer, “A little shaken, but they didn’t get anything.”
I had to tread carefully here. Even if they didn’t recognise me, police could be tricky customers, always trying to trip people up. As I got my breath back, I heard the scooter pass by the top of the alleyway. The gorilla man was nowhere to be seen.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” said the officer, taking out her radio and asking her colleague for his location.
I could hear the crackle of police radio coming towards us from the darkness. The male officer walked back and stood next to us out of breath. He shook his head at his colleague. Then he studied me carefully. Finally he asked if I’d got a good look at them.
“I saw nothing. It was a blur.”
“Well, nothing we can do then. Can we give you a lift anywhere?”
I thought about the muggers waiting round the corner. But getting into the police car would give them a good chance to see my face. Chances are they had CCTV hooked up in the back. Still it was best not to act like a fugitive, I reminded myself, thinking of my Hampstead Underground mistake.
“Anywhere on Whitechapel would be great,” I said.
“No problem. Hop in,” said the officer, so I got into the back seat. The car started and we drove away up the street.
“I think I recognise you from somewhere,” said the male officer.
“Everyone says that.”
“No, I mean it. I know you from somewhere.”
My mind went blank. Saying as little as possible would be best. Less to incriminate myself with. Although, police knew that liars tend to either talk too much or say too little.
“I think he’s in shock,” said the WPC.
“Really I’m okay.” I tried to look sheepish, holding my hand over the plaster as if through nerves.
“There’s no shame in it,” she said, passing me a card. “Here’s a number. Call if you need to talk to someone.”
When we got to Whitechapel, the police officer parked the car and turned round in his seat. He looked puzzled, as if he was still trying to place me. I thanked them both and got out. They turned the car around and pulled up in front of me. The male officer lent out of the window and said: “I think I know where I know you from. Do you ever get in the King’s Head in Clerkenwell? It’s my brother-in-law’s pub.”
Maybe it was a line he was throwing me. See if I would bite. Was there even a King’s Head in Clerkenwell?
“Not as far as I can remember,” I answered.
He seemed satisfied with that and with a quick “Mind how you go” they drove off. When I saw the police car had turned a corner, I sprinted back towards the hotel. I crept past the night clerk who was asleep with his head resting on a book and took the lift up to my room.
‘I turned up. Where were you?’ I texted to whoever it was who had texted me the address.
Later, I dreamt of the scooter coming towards me across the salt lakes of Utah. A mirage getting closer and closer, the noise growing louder until it finally reached me, but I couldn’t see anything, only hear the noise of the engine, rasping in a cloud of light and dust. I woke up thrashing around. It was only five o’clock.
Chapter Seven
My father was a Norwegian sailor, but sometimes I remembered him as Finnish or Danish. Anyway, nationality aside, he went missing at sea when I was only four years old. That day, we’d gone down to Craster to wave him off. My mother always stressed that it had been sunny, not a cloud in the sky. No way of knowing that a storm was brewing.
“Do you remember?” she would say. “We walked down that street where all the buildings were painted white.
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