Once upon a Spook (The Spooks series Book 1) Read online

  Once Upon A Spook

  BY

  GARY TULLEY

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Once Upon A Spook

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1 A lifetime

  CHAPTER II…An ‘Eastern’ promise.

  CHAPTER III…Two meetings and one mind

  CHAPTER IV…A break through

  CHAPTER V…A lead in the right direction

  CHAPTER VI…A snap decision

  CHAPTER VII…Food for thought

  CHAPTER VIII…An unexpected ‘accident’

  CHAPTER IX…A neighbour from Hell.

  CHAPTER X…Your drink’s on me!

  CHAPTER XI…A close encounter

  CHAPTER XII…An unprecedented date.

  CHAPTER XIV…A level of understanding

  CHAPTER XV…Trial and error

  CHAPTER XVI…Crime by order

  CHAPTER XVII…A ticket to nowhere

  CHAPTER XVIII…The beginning of the end

  EPILOGUE

  The end…maybe?

  FOLLOW THE STORY

  SECOND BOOK in the series

  The Spook Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest

  By Gary Tulley

  Synopsis

  Copyright

  Published by Gary Tulley 2015

  Kindle version

  (paperback version available 2013 )

  Once Upon A Spook

  What his clients expected for their money, is what it clearly stated on his business card. Namely, Mike Eastern PI. All aspects of crime and domestic issues considered, 24/7 service guaranteed. What he didn’t bargain for included a classy ex-socialite and estranged wife of a top ranking Police Officer, and a top secret Government security agency infiltrating his exclusive maverick way of life. If only he’d have stopped to check the small print, his circumstantial existence might have been different. But then, we are talking about Mike Eastern here!

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Sheila my wife, for the support and assistance she has given me in making the book possible.

  Thanks also to Julie Shilliam for her frank and valuable appraisal of my manuscript prior to publishing.

  My deep appreciation also goes to Margaret Austen for her artistic input on the cover design.

  Last but not least, thanks to my publisher Russell Gibson for services rendered.

  And thanks to the rest of my immediate family for keeping the faith.

  My eternal thanks to, Susan Hill for IT skills, without who’s skills would not have made the E Book available.

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book to my brother Brian who always believed in me.

  Not forgetting ex- Chief Superintendent David Tomlinson’s police structuring and forensic scientific know how in the furtherance of the series..

  My dear wife Sheila and her great patience in my trials and tribulation with computers!

  CHAPTER 1 A lifetime

  ‘Old habits die hard’ or so we are led to believe. This leaves the cynics amongst us to run with the flipside and live with the consequences. One martyr in particular could now be found reviewing his lifelong membership to the cause. Purely out of habit of course, as he paused to gain breath and curse the world at large. The origin of his untimely outburst was aimed at the second flight of steep stairs leading on to his decrepit office, and sometimes dwelling refuge, dependent on client availability.

  The unimaginative one bedroom self-contained flat let itself, could be found situated above a 24/7 Italian ‘fast food’ outlet. The deal Mike Eastern negotiated at the time suited his requirements, and a much relieved landlord’s pocket. Suffice to say, that was some eight years ago, and in leg years “A bleedin’ lifetime!” as Eastern would have it said. So, what do we know about this somewhat elusive and self confessed maverick Private Investigator?

  In the past, his allergy to wedding cake had subsequently evolved into three divorce proceedings, all on the grounds of irreconcilable differences. The difference in his case being that he was never around to contest otherwise. “It’s all down to my line of business your Honour” would be his standard plea. He finally got the message and opted out of normality as we know it, by embarking on a career as a full time PI. This included a CV ranging from missing persons, crime and marital issues. The latter being a speciality derived from past experience.

  In his younger days, Mike Eastern as he was known then, (the derivation being an extracted form of Marcus Enstien from birth), could be found ‘trading’ leather as a full time professional boxer. Regrettably, an ongoing eye injury eclipsed a successful career, forcing him into retirement after five years. Sticking with the same theme, he undertook the role employed as a doorman or bouncer, graduating to a security guard in a casino.

  The lure of self rule with added financial gain, came about sometime later while acting as a PI. It resulted in a decision that would inevitably determine his ultimate future, and his current bank account.

  Having just completed a 24/7 surveillance contract with little to show for his pains, his sofa-cum-bed affirmed one aspect he knew he could rely on. Mastering the steep stairs proved to be a grief bonus. Sighing deeply, he inserted the key to the ‘office’ door. Brimming with expectancy he gently turned it while anticipating a reaction. It was no more than he’d expected, as the key refused to respond.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed loudly. “Poxy lock…if I don’t get it sorted soon…” Moments later it relented, enabling him to gain entry. It wasn’t so much the acrid smell of stale tobacco smoke that caused him to take a sharp intake of breath. Moreover it issued from the competing odour that rose above it, given out from a half eaten pizza languishing in a state of prolonged culture. Wincing, Eastern picked his way through a trail of dated mail and discarded newspapers. Only a lone empty bottle of Scotch stood in his way as he lunged at the handle of a nearby window.

  His well meant intentions nosedived as his situation evolved into a battle of two evils as he forcibly opened the window. Peering out, a cloud of chemical infused steam wafted towards him from an adjacent launderette, partially obscuring a railway viaduct which served as an ominous black cloth set in a sea of grey slate roofs an distinctively clay chimney pots. “Could be worse,” he growled. “Thank Christ it’s not pissing down, this wall has got enough damp in it to grow bleedin’ mushrooms!”

  Slowly he peeled off his overcoat and slung it over the solitary chair which doubled up as a tie rack. Rubbing his eyes, he headed for a well beaten filing cabinet. If he’d have been blind he couldn’t have made his actions appear any easier. His outstretched hand yanked open a specific drawer in a habitual fashion, allowing him to retrieve a half full bottle of Scotch. “God I needed that!” He remarked somewhat inappropriately as his ‘poison’ connected with the back of his throat. The remarks only got better with every eager gulp he imbibed, finally finishing with “well that’s breakfast sorted, it’s time I got my head down for a few hours. I’ll check the phone later.”

  The definition of ‘later’ in his case extended to almost three hours and beyond, when the only hiatus present came from the insistent sound of his phone kicking in. The first time that it rang only became a precursor for the second and third by allowing his dysfunctional brain time to absorb the fact that reality really does exist.

  “Damn!” he declared through bleary eyes. “Can’t a man have a day off for Christ’s sake?” In his case it was never going to happen, or indeed in anybody’s language come to that. Once again his face creased as a direct result from the God given daylight that existed, as he vainly attempted to negotiate the phone through blitzed
eyes. Not that he would have been aware or given a damn, as his addled brain could now be found on a sponsored walkabout, and lying a few miles south of the Watford gap and the same amount of distance north of planet Mars.

  At least his reflexes came out in sympathy as he succeeded in grabbing the phone on his third attempt. “I don’t know why I bleedin’ bother, it’s probably some creep looking for money,” he assured himself. Reluctantly he picked up the handset and spoke in a vehement manner. “This is Mike Eastern PI, if you know me then bloody hang up…if you don’t, then leave a message.” Slamming the phone down, he quickly decided that midday was for people who had a problem in telling daylight and night time apart. “Once you’re under the blasted duvet, who gives a shit anyway?” became his defining thought on the matter.

  Trying to convince himself that his logic held water fell into a lower league. Any perceived notion that a deal with sleep was back on the cards disintegrated as the ominous ring tone from his phone once again refused to give up the ghost. Question: how the hell do you tell someone to piss off when they’re on the receiving end, and you don’t want to answer it even under a distress warrant? You could always take it off the hook, but that defeats the object of leaving a message. Still it continued to ring. His negative thinking had now run its course. “Whoever is on the end must have my number confused with the poxy Samaritans” he told himself, with a just a hint of acrimony.

  It was time to throw the towel in and the caller was handed a reprieve. “If you…” verbal desperation cut him short mid sentence.

  “Please! I’m begging you Mr Eastern, don’t hang up on me…just hear me out.” The tone of voice, he quickly deduced, was obviously female by origin. Slowly and trance like he lowered the receiver and cupped it with his free hand. Frowning heavily, he strived to concentrate on his immediate thoughts. Knowing what he knew now, it would have taken more than a translator on hand to sway his perception. Less than five minutes ago he was feeling dead and buried, and even in less time reincarnated on the strength of a voice that reaches out from the back of beyond. The kind that grabs you by the throat and leaves you akin to a punch bag that’s well past its sell by date. Eastern, by now realised that his attachment to the caller clearly belonged to a woman of substance. But not just any woman, this particular one just happened to be a high ranking Police Officer’s wife, and one not unfamiliar to him from his past.

  Once again, it was left to the caller to continue where she had left off, and her previous persistence implied that she wasn’t going to go away that easily. “Hello, Mr Eastern…that is Mr Eastern isn’t it?” Under the circumstances he now felt obliged o go along with the enquiry purely out of curiosity. Strangely enough, in spite of the verbal tension that existed he now felt the situation was in his grasp. Clearing his throat, he responded in a business type manner.

  “Speaking, how can I be of assistance?” At this stage it was paramount that he needed to assure himself that the call was indeed kosher. The idea of being familiar with a woman of standing, known in political circles as being one Mrs Conway, would be nothing short of assisted suicide. It swiftly became clear by her laboured breathing, which Eastern readily picked up on, that the nature of her call was anything but a fund raising scheme for a local charity ball.

  “I have to ask you Mr Eastern…are you alone at present?” She enquired in a tentative manner. An uneasy silence ensued as Eastern digested her reasoning. Finally, his strained patience keeled over as he diplomatically decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

  “Alone!” he exploded, you stupid bitch he thought. Three broken marriages behind me and a possible bankruptcy looming and you want to know if I’m holding a poxy celebration party…

  “Mr Eastern? Are you there?” The tone of her voice now seemingly registered a plaintiff cry for help as opposed to a question - the effect of which brought Eastern back to ground zero.

  “You can talk freely Mrs Conway. I can assure you of that.” In a split second, Eastern had gone from a semi deranged person to a full confidante the next. But then this was the real Mike Eastern in full flight, and doing what he was best at. “Please carry on, whatever you have got to say remains confidential, you just need to trust me…okay?”

  “Oh dear,” she replied, with a hint of anxiety. “It’s just occurred to me that you’ve obviously recognised my voice. I’m not very good at this sort of thing am I?” About as close to being good at this as Brighton is close to China, Eastern thought. Fortunately, her honesty got him out of jail by enabling him to establish a working repartee.

  “Believe me Mrs Conway, if I can be of any assistance I will, providing of course…”

  “I appreciate your concern Mr Eastern” she cut in. “But what we need to discuss in detail is something I’d rather not talk about over the phone. What I can say, is that you come highly recommended, and I propose…” she broke off at this point. “Assuming of course that you consent to a pre arranged meeting.”

  By now the handset was so hot it was burning Eastern’s hand. The present situation had now accelerated from “What the hell?” to “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “Mr Eastern?”

  “Yeah, sorry, that definitely makes sense, where and what have you got in mind?” Not that he was willing to give a damn, but business being business meant that she reflected pound notes, he reminded himself. And God only knows he needed the dough. The case he was presently involved in would only have stood him two months’ rent at best. All he had to do was prove that an 18ct wanker of a husband was screwing his sister in law. Why the hell don’t they do it in daylight? The selfish bastards, then we can all sleep at night, he chided.

  Brushing that thought aside momentarily, he reflected on his latest proposition. Briefly he had reservations of a sort. The initial call itself stank of bad timing. Have I inadvertently subjected my confidence into opening a can of worms? He mused. Almost at once, his doubts evaporated as his would be client then took control of the situation.

  “I suggest that you leave everything to me Mr Eastern, it is imperative that I need to observe a sense of security in this matter, should it prevail. I will be back in touch again shortly. Therefore, any future dealings between us will be in the form of a letter. Once again I thank you for your time and patience.”

  Their apparent conspiratorial conversation then ended on a clinical note as the line suddenly went dead, leaving him to contemplate what might have been. For a short time, Eastern chose to remain pensive as he gathered his addled thoughts, before finally replacing the receiver. “It’s all happened too damn quick, think man…I need to think! Damn the bitch, she’s caught me flat footed,’ he said to himself. It was never going to be the best of epitaphs, for it could have resulted in a lucrative contract in terms of a monetary injection, plus the added bonus, enabling him to resurrect a business that was by now hammering at the door of the local receiver. True to form, he turned to the only recourse that he’d become accustomed to.

  Drawing long and hard on his paternal cigarette, he swirled a copious amount of Scotch around in his glass, and then methodically exhaled small consistent circles of smoke through pursed lips. He seemed almost transfixed, as he watched them rise slowly upwards. By now his brain began working overtime, thus allowing him to juggle his thoughts. Finally, a form of common sense took centre stage, as he spoke with deliberation. “That’s where I intend going, up! No more shit, no more favours. As from now, Mike Eastern is open for business, but this time with a rearranged slant.”

  From that moment on, even his ‘poison’ seemed to taste that much better, his cigarette was something else. Whatever impact Mrs Conway had seemingly made on him, now consumed his body as his head hit the pillow that night. For the first time in months he slept like a dead man…and dead men reputedly, tell no tales.

  To contest that theory would have taken a better man than Eastern, in knowing that his brain had been seduced into serving solitary for the past few months. On awakening
the following morning, his decisive new image immediately kicked in as he consulted his watch. It took a double take just to assure him that it was showing just after 6am. As he dressed, he could hear the distinctive vibrant buzz of the city coming to life, as it drifted through a partially opened window. The knock on effect that it gave out, in his case became a commodity that you could only obtain from a bottle, as it readily consumed his prescription body. “Today is going to be the first day of my life”, he convinced himself, as he exited his flat an hour later.

  At the time, it appeared to be an appropriate statement to make, but on reflection had he known any different, it was one that he would have settled for in triplicate. Unfortunately for him, the adage ‘weary is the head that wears the crown’ would now through unexpected circumstances come to the fore. And in doing so, headline a premeditated situation, now fully intent on blowing his image sideways. As traits come and go, his gut instinct had in the past served him well, and only got better with age. The time had now surfaced for him to call in a favour once again.

  Eastern instantly became alerted to the two dubious looking characters emerging from a parked car, some ten metres or so away as he bided his time with intentions of crossing the road. It became clear to him that their body language resonated grief, as the pair headed toward him, possibly bent on a collision course of some description. Initially his attention had been drawn toward the damaged number plate on the vehicle, which was noticeably devoid of any registration. “Right couple of dummies” he remarked inwardly, “they must be driving the bloody car around for a bet.”

  For a split second, his thoughts were lost in transit owing to the smell of cooking drifting his way, from the ‘OVERDOSE RASHER’ café, opposite to where he was standing.