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64 pages

English

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London, 1971. Tony Pinner, a cabbie stumbles upon the existence of a secret society within the ranks of the black cabs. The Knowledge could kill him. Tony comes from a long tradition of Black Cab drivers, with both his father and grandfather being cabbies before him. Tony's life has stalled. His marriage stale and strained. When one of his regular fares is kidnapped and, later, fished out of the Thames, he decides to track down the killers. His search brings him to the attention of an ancient order, that is determined to silence him.Soon he is being hunted through the very streets he calls home.Pinner knows London like the back of his hand, but if he is to discover who his enemies really are, he will need all his knowledge. It might just keep him alive long enough to find out the truth and who he can truly trust.

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Thriller

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 mars 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781838595630
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Copyright © 2020 Mark Jackson

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781838595630

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Nigel and Katie

Cover design: Lauren MacAskill and Alexandra Bartholemew.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the author
Prologue
London, 1688
The Thames split London like a black scar.
It formed a seeping wound between north and south; wealth and neglect. The boatman hunched his shoulders and pulled. Rutter’s only concern about the rich, whose palaces and town houses lined the north bank, was the coin he could squeeze from them.
The wooden blades disappeared into the filth of the river. In the moonlight it was a sheet of shifting tar. The Thames stank. To the unaccustomed, it could make your eyes weep, but Rutter was used to it.
He’d grown up on the boats, working them since he was a small boy. His hands and forearms were rigid with slabs of muscle. Although a short man, Rutter seemed bigger as he pulled the boat, his shoulders out of proportion after years of hauling heavier cargo. His left hand was missing two fingers; digits lost in a knife fight when he had been younger and let his temper get the better of him.
The boat carried three men. His passengers were sitting away from him, both muffled garb and voices. But sound carried over water. Periodically, a glint of fine silk at their throats caught the light from the torches that lined the banks of the river. Even in dark cloaks, the two men were marked as rich and powerful.
Torches lined each side of the Thames. On the north bank, were drawn the sharp outlines of the Palace of Westminster and the merchants’ palaces. Rutter had his back to the south bank: a wall of warehouses, which stretched for miles down to the naval yards at Greenwich.
They were almost halfway across now. Rutter checked their position and adjusted his angled stroke. Rutter had no hair. His pate was made luminous by the moon each time the clouds passed over it. His charges’ hair was long, curled, fashionable. He resisted the urge to spit over the side. Some passengers didn’t like that sort of behaviour; it might cost him a tip.
His passengers were arguing.
Rutter could sense the desperation, straining to hear the words as he hauled on the oar:
“Please, Your Majesty. Reconsider, Sire.”
There was no point whispering, the river heard everything, thought Rutter grimly. Then it came to him: who he was ferrying tonight. Christ! This time he spat as he felt bile rising.
The King was sitting as though unmoved, his long gloved fingers clutching a small object in his hands. The Great Seal. A symbol of power, but more than that, it was the King’s office. With it he could command armies, levy taxes, humble his enemies. Although his posture was erect, the King fiddled with a small gold ring set with a ruby on one of the smaller fingers of his right hand. It was worn over the glove. To a more observant eye than Rutter’s, this was a nervous tick that betrayed the King’s anxiety regarding the mission in crossing the Thames that night.
Rutter snorted. What was royal fashion to him? A small muscular figure, he just pulled the oars. He owned the boat and could already taste the silver from this trip. He had been hired through a servant from the Palace. Did they think he was simple? Even disguised, Rutter knew his passengers now. The King’s profile or his late brother’s stared back from every coin he’d every collected. But although royals sometimes took the night boat over the pitch-black water, they were usually the young ones. Them in search of some earthy pleasure, thought Rutter. This was different, something was afoot.
The King stood. Rutter eased his stroke to compensate as the boat pitched. The last thing Rutter needed was royalty falling into the Thames. He watched as James II held his balance. The King turned his attention from the object in his hand. It shone in the moonlight.
Rutter wrenched his eyes from it and met the King’s stare. He should have looked away, but the King’s grim expression held him. The King nodded slowly to him. Rutter, not one for royalty generally, nodded back, before averting his eyes, cursing himself. He was for it now.
The Great Seal dropped into the dark water. Rutter wasn’t sure afterwards if he had heard or saw it fall. But it was gone. Forever.

london 1971
Chapter 1
The couple had been arguing since they’d climbed into the cab; an anniversary dinner turned sour. They were sitting apart. The woman stared out of the window. The man glanced across, not really wanting to make eye contact.
Eyes watched in the driver’s mirror. Listening eyes.
The eyes belonged to Tony Pinner; tired, watchful eyes out of place with the well-built frame. As he turned the wheel, Pinner studied the unhappy pair in the mirror. It was a scene he was familiar with. The woman, touching 40, still trim, but tired around the mouth. For too long, it had been set in a thin contemptuous line. The object of her distain was slumped away from her. He was a similar age, but going to seed; hair thinning, waist expanding, slowly becoming an established armchair athlete.
They both work, thought Pinner. Crossing like the tide at breakfast and for the evening meal; a 12-hour cycle. Both busy building careers on sand. Was there room for kids? Pinner cleared his head. It didn’t do to dwell on that.
The West End to Muswell Hill was a good hire. So don’t knock it, thought Pinner. He settled back into the cold silence of the warring couple and drove. It was what he did.
*
Approaching City Road, Pinner spotted a fare, a businessman, and turned the wheel to cut across the traffic. The City, the Square Mile, was always full of fares, by day, at least. Mainly short hops; meeting to lunch, lunch to meeting. Pinner pushed aside his half-eaten Caramac bar and drew up at the flagging fare.
“Where to, sir?”
“Clerkenwell Close. OK?”
It was OK with Pinner. A short hop. The fare was either unfamiliar with London’s streets and ways, or running late.
Pinner’s cab was older than most of those now working the streets – a distinct relic; but well maintained, with an air of romance. It was a rarity; comfortably worn brown leather seats and a sparse functional dashboard in the driver’s cockpit. A distinctive and distinguished Austin FX3.
It had been his father’s cab. Harold claimed it was the last FX3 in service in London, but Pinner knew better. There were two others in action to his knowledge; some bloke near Acton, and another one down in Barnes. Two years ago, he had passed one of them on Kensington High Street and the other driver had tooted at him incessantly.
The speedometer almost ticked like a clock; it read miles per hour for minutes.
It had been his dad’s second cab. It had rolled off the Carbodies’ production line in 1952.
Pinner tended it like a first-born. A regular weekly wax. He took better care of it than he did himself. Or his family – the accusation still stung. One of Olympia’s more imaginative barbs. One that had stuck and burrowed deeper.
The FX3 moved among a sea of the newer, more fashionable FX4 models. Pinner had nothing against the new design, he just loved his cab, despite the work it took to keep it on the road. It made him think of his grandfather and that, as always, was a good thing.
Pinner leaned across to get a better look at the fare: in finance, down in the City for a meeting. Perspiring already.
Pinner switched off the FOR HIRE sign and gently turned the wheel. Like most seasoned cabbies, Pinner had that uncanny knack of watching the road and his charge. The man looked slightly creased. It was a big meeting, then.
“Down for the day, sir?”
The man jolted, then brushed at hair he didn’t have. His voice was deep, substantial, at odds with the worn slightly pampered look, although his shoes were newly polished. Pinner always noticed people’s shoes. You could tell a lot about a man by his shoes. It was something his mum always reckoned.
“Yes, yes. For a meeting.”
“She’s a big place. People call her the Big Smoke, but a mate of mine calls her the Big Joke.”
The man nodded, but failed to hold Pinner’s gaze in the mirror. Pinner spotted a gap and glided his cab through, signalling his thanks to another driver.
“It’s quite an important meeting,” explained the ride, ”senior management, budgets and all that.”
Pinner nodded sagely. And you’re the bacon, summoned to head office to hear the news. There’d been a lot of it recently. Cost cutting. That and industrial disputes. Pinner didn’t pay much heed to it while his fare plainly did. The man kept looking at his watch, as though he didn’t have much time left.

Pinner pulled the