Teleios Ring , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Adam Loxley

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

239 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

In a quiet corner in rural Kent, a 75 year old spinster is found dead at the bottom of her stairs, apparently killed while disturbing a burglary. Within days, two more people have been brutally murdered, triggering a race against time to catch a serial-killer before it is too late.Local Police Officer, John Garrick is on the case, closely followed by Journalist Neil Ashton, both of them out of their depth but both trying to unravel the mystery of something called Teleios, the word sprayed in bright, red letters at each of the murder scenes. And unknown to both of them, sinister, ex-government security agent, Craven, also wants to find out what Teleios means - but for very different reasons. What none of them realise is the magnitude of what they are dealing with; a chain of events that threatens the very heart of the establishment and which will change the fabric of society forever. An outcome so unimaginable that people are prepared to kill for it. Will any of them get there in time? And when they discover the true meaning of Teleios, will their lives ever be the same again? The plot combines the classic English murder mystery with the murky world of politics and international espionage. In an old fashion sense, the story is a mixture of Agatha Christie and John le Carr In contemporary terms, the story is told from the perspective of three different protagonists, in a style reminiscent of Robert Goddard and Susan Hill.

Sujets

Kent

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	19 mars 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781848766259
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Teleios Ring
Adam Loxley
Copyright © 2018 Adam Loxley

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.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador®
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 978 1848766 259

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
To Elaine For her unwavering belief
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
ONE
The Grapevine Wine Bar in Powder Lane, off Lombard Street was a typical City watering hole, a dark and gloomy old-fashioned wine cellar full of suits and packed to the gills. Craven selected a bottle of Pinot Noir, found himself a table in the corner and watched the boisterous crowd at the bar with some disdain. Essex boys made good. A dozen or so alpha males; all spiky hair and loud pinstripes, pink shirts with double-cuffs, large footballer’s ties, expensive loafers, signet rings, money clips and latest mobiles, all circling in macho groups and talking about deals and contracts and bigger bonuses.
Craven didn’t understand much of the jargon - bankers or underwriters probably but the estuary accents were unmistakeable. Oscar Wilde was right , he thought, these days people know the price of everything and the value of nothing . Thatcher’s legacy. History would record her as the right-wing hardliner who broke the miners and stood for traditional conservative values but as far as he was concerned she would always be the great, unsung socialist; the conservative traitor. Most of this lot would still be working in factories and living on council estates in Romford if it hadn’t been for her enterprise culture, closing down the industrial heartland and worse of all, letting semi-illiterate yobs buy their own council houses and get on the property ladder. Still, if you’re stupid enough to let a woman run the country what do you expect…
Craven poured the wine into one of the glasses, checked his watch and took out a packet of cigarettes. He’d never had much time for the City but he had to admit that the wine was good, in fact it was very good, and it was one of the few remaining places where smoking wasn’t regarded as a behavioural disorder. There was something very satisfying about unpeeling the cellophane wrapper off a brand new packet of cigarettes, pulling out the silver foil and looking at the rows of clean, pristine filters all neatly lined up, waiting to be selected one by one to share in that most personal and illicit pleasure. He checked his watch again. Five more minutes. Buchanan was never late. The suits had grown in number, a token female now the centre of attention, the language and laughter becoming more and more raucous. Craven lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and returned to his newspaper, comfortable in the knowledge that whatever it was that Buchanan wanted, it wouldn’t be long before he found out.
Charles Buchanan turned into Powder Lane more than satisfied with his choice of venue and with the anonymity that the City provided. He much preferred the clubs and wine bars of St. James’s of course but there were always too many familiar faces, too many drones straying over from Whitehall to make absolutely sure. The City was perfect. Far enough away from prying eyes, plus the place was always full of businessmen doing their squalid little deals over lunch. He descended the stairs into The Grapevine, pushed the door apologetically into the back of a young pinstripe and spotted Craven sitting in the corner with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
‘Craven.’ Even in a single word the cut-glass accent was unequivocally British.
‘Charles.’ Craven looked up and nodded as Buchanan pulled up a chair, inspected the label and then poured himself a decent measure of red wine into the vacant glass.
‘This is rather agreeable,’ said Buchanan approvingly, holding the wine glass up to the light and gently turning the contents to see the colour. ‘Sorry about the venue. Serves it purpose though. The City boys look lively.’ He nodded towards the suits, the jackets now off and the ties loosened, any semblance of refined behaviour now stripped bare by too much alcohol. ‘So, how are you Craven? How’s life in the real world?’
Craven shrugged. ‘Strange really, everything in the real world seems largely superficial.’ He turned and nodded towards the crowd at the bar. ‘Look at that lot. Half of them look as though they’ve never read a book in their lives. Coloured a few in probably. How do people like that, barely educated, manage to be so successful? What is it that they actually do?’
Buchanan smiled. ‘They make money and they’re probably very good at it. A poor education is probably an advantage. It makes them hungry.’
Craven pulled a face, unimpressed. ‘Well, they don’t look very hungry to me. They look under-worked and over-paid from where I’m sitting.’
Buchanan took another mouthful of wine and looked over at the suits again, another round of drinks being ordered and no indication of anyone getting back to work. ‘You’re probably right, but that’s not what they get measured by. The only thing that matters is how much profit they make. The City has a different value-set. The higher the buildings, the lower the morals.’
Craven grimaced. ‘My point exactly. So much for the real world. I think I preferred your world Charles. It may be an artificially created nonsense full of people playing games all of the time, but at least you know the rules and feel that they make some sort of sense.’
‘Well, it’s an interesting perspective. I have to say the rules have never made any sense to me. You’re not having any regrets are you?’ Buchanan picked up the wine bottle, letting the question linger and settle into the silence as he refilled the glasses, pouring the last drop and the larger measure into his own.
Craven studied him carefully. Buchanan had spent the last twenty-five years navigating his way through the quagmire of politics that contested back and forth across Parliament Square, observing the most brutal and retaliatory changes in governance with a detached relish. Normality was a constant maelstrom of shifting alliances, emerging power-bases and new paymasters, and Buchanan was the acknowledged expert at knowing how to leverage and manage them to his own advantage. “ All rising to a great place is by a winding stair.” To witness Buchanan choreograph a meeting, outnumbered on either side by opposing parties was like watching a master-class in negotiation. Buchanan’s way to high office was by a winding stair indeed, his ability to align conflicting viewpoints or to drive them further apart in order to finesse his own third-way solution was breath-taking. And in Craven’s experience, Buchanan had never acted spontaneously in his life. Every action, every sentence, every word was purposely selected for a reason. A meeting with Buchanan was like playing 3D chess. In the dark.
‘No Charles, no regrets. Do you fancy another bottle? I assume you’re not driving?’ Craven stood up, holding the bottle aloft as if the affirmative response was already assured.
‘Excellent idea. I came by cab. Another bottle would be splendid.’
Craven nodded and threaded his way back through the crowd, indicating to a ring of six or seven suits that he wanted to get through to get some space at the bar. ‘Excuse me.’ he asked for the second time, leaning gently on the nearest pinstripe, trying to squeeze his way past.
‘Why, what have you done?’ A gelled-haired, pocked-faced Neanderthal stared blurry-eyed across the circle of pinstripes, his beer fuelled colleagues sniggering obsequiously, waiting for the fun to start.
Craven smiled benignly. ‘Nothing mate, just trying to get to the bar.’
‘Yeah, well you want to watch out who you’re pushing. Your clapped-out friend over there already shoved me in the back when he came in. If you want to start a fight why don’t you just fucking well say so?’
The menace in the voice suddenly found its way across the bar, the silence descending in seconds. Heads turned. The room held its breath and darkened.
Craven paused. Options. Always options. Trying to argue with half a dozen drunken bankers was not goi