Free Mask of the Verdoy by Phil Lecomber

is being carried out. I happen to flip open the file on top of the pile on his desk and scan through the details—suicide of a male prostitute, and so on … foreign national on the balcony, and so on … and then, there it is: owner of property—George Harley, private detective. Quite a coincidence , I think. And then it occurs to me: George Harley —just the man I need on board!’
    Harley immediately stood up and grabbed his hat from the desk.
    ‘Oh no! Uh uh—no way! I’m long done with all that malarkey …’
    ‘Wait, George! Hear me out, at least!
    Harley looked at his watch and then slumped back down in the seat with a sigh.
    ‘Go on then, you’ve got five minutes. But this had better be good.’
    ‘Give me your opinion on that young boy’s death in your house—murder or suicide?’
    ‘Murder.’
    ‘Detective Inspector Quigg thinks otherwise.’
    ‘Detective Inspector Quigg is a wrong-un.’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘And by the way, before you go on, I’m not buying the old I just happened to be flicking through the files routine. What’s got you so excited about this case?’
    Swales released another plume of smoke and smiled broadly.
    ‘Apologies, George—I can’t divulge that.’
    ‘Well then, it was nice seeing you again, FW—’
    ‘Sit down, won’t you! Blast it, man! You’re up and down like a whore’s bloomers! Alright now, listen! The deceased was a one …’ Swales referred to a piece of paper in front of him. ‘… Aubrey Phelps, aged nineteen—born in Bicester, Oxfordshire, to a Cecil and Eileen Phelps. At the time of his death he was actively engaged in male prostitution—’
    ‘And why exactly would the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police need to know so much about little Aubrey Phelps?’
    ‘Because, George, he was the third young male prostitute to be found dead in the past month; all as the result of a fatal wound to the wrist from a bladed instrument—probably a razor—and all investigated by our friend Quigg. And as dire as the present situation may be, murder is still—thankfully—a relatively rare occurrence in this fair city of ours.’
    ‘Christ! How have you managed to keep this out of the papers? The press usually lap this kind of stuff up.’
    ‘Because Quigg has recorded them all as suicides—case closed, no further action.’ Swales referred to his notes again. ‘Three victims: Aubrey Phelps; a John or Jack Brewster, seventeen, of no fixed abode; and a Billy Ray, also-known-as Billy Simmons—although it’s likely that neither was his real name—again of no fixed abode, age unknown.’
    ‘And no one else picked up on it?’
    ‘Not until I had my people review the cases. You see my problem—it’s not just Quigg who’s acting with irregularity, but his superiors as well.’
    ‘Acting with irregularity? It stinks FW! And you know it.’
    ‘God’s trousers man! Keep your voice down! Now, I’ll admit it certainly looks like that from the first glance; but I have a duty to investigate thoroughly and without prejudice. Once I have gathered all of the evidence I will do everything in my power to eradicate the rot in the service. Hopefully you can see now why I’m so keen to get you involved. You see, at the moment I’m not sure exactly who I can trust—and you’re already so close to the case. How did you get to know this boy Phelps?’
    ‘Exactly as I told Quigg—I found him in an alleyway, the victim of a serious assault.’
    ‘And that’s your only connection?’
    ‘Absolutely—I give you my word.’
    ‘Well, it’s an amazing coincidence, Harley, but if you give me your word that’s good enough for me. Very well then—this is what I’m proposing: we re-open the case and investigate it as suspected murder. You are engaged by the Metropolitan Police as a special consultant, reporting directly to me. You investigate the case alongside a detective from this police station—’
    ‘Can’t do that.’
    ‘Good grief! Why ever