The Turnaround (Nick Sharman)

The Turnaround (Nick Sharman)

Mark Timlin

Language: English

Pages: 256

ISBN: 1843442698

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

The fifth Nick Sharman thriller—London's answer to Elmore Leonard

When businessman James Webb asks Sharman to find out who murdered his sister, her husband and two young children, the trail's been cold for over a year; the original police investigators had found nothing—no clues, no witnesses, no motive. There isn't much to go on. Besides, Sharman has other things to occupy him—his relationship with topless model Fiona is rapidly souring, his best friend Wanda is dying, and his ex-wife leaves him to babysit their 11-year-old daughter, Judith. While Sharman's back is turned things start to heat up—he is threatened with a shotgun on a busy road in broad daylight and the murder victims start to multiply. When Judith is kidnapped by a gang of very nasty thugs, Sharman finally loses his temper.

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on my own. Then I went to the bar and had a few beers. It was very crowded that night. So crowded, in fact, that if I sat very still I could pretend I was invisible. 7 The next morning I phoned Jim first thing. I apologised for cutting him off the previous day and tried to explain how I felt: jumpy, as if something bad was going to happen soon. Then he started apologising too. We both accepted each other’s apologies and that was that. Then I asked him for the address and number of Natalie

Down. It’s the kind of tune you’d recognise right away, even if you didn’t know its name and you were tone deaf. Whoever it was, was a real whistler and he’d chosen the right tune. As he went about his business he trilled and changed tempo, and as the afternoon and Wanda slowly died I sat next to her bed and held her hand and listened to that tune. I’ve never heard anything so beautiful or so mournful before or since. And as the tune and her spirit floated out over the river under that fingernail

times. He sipped at his juice and I said, ‘You were going to tell me what happened.’ ‘Yes,’ he said in reply. He looked longingly at my cigarettes and started: ‘My brother-in-law owned a couple of carpet warehouses just outside London. One in Croydon, one near Gatwick. The Intercontinental Carpet Company it was called. You might have heard of it.’ I hadn’t, but I didn’t say. ‘He seemed to be doing well. He had plans to open another two or three on the coast. Then the recession started to bite,

‘Nothing like it,’ she said. ‘I’ve got one of those flash machines that does everything but drink the stuff. My husband bought it for my birthday.’ ‘Nice thought.’ She pulled a face. ‘He uses it more than I do.’ She took her own coffee and sat on a matching couch opposite me. Her skirt was short and she showed me a good length of suntanned thigh sans stockings. I didn’t mind looking at her legs, but I didn’t want to hear about how bad her marriage was, so I got straight down to business. ‘Did

I passed. By ten-thirty we’d finished our meal and were sitting over wicked little cups of espresso coffee and Sambuca. I was too drunk to drive and wondered where I’d end up resting my head. Juanita was smoking her fifteenth Marlboro of the evening and rabbiting away about some author of hers who was trying to get her into bed. Two minds with but a single thought. ‘You’re not listening,’ she said. ‘Am I beginning to bore you already?’ ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I was wondering, if I left my car on the

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