Dead Broke: A Private Detective Crime Novel Read online

  DEAD BROKE

  A Jefferson Cole Investigation

  by DM James

  © DJ Metcalf

  Released by Scribe Books

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Before We Begin...

  Thanks for jumping into the world of Jefferson Cole.

  For more information on stories by DM James, click this link to sign up to his mailing list where you’ll get updates on the latest releases, behind-the-scenes action and DEAD BEAT, a free Jefferson Cole short story.

  About the Author

  DM James is the crime-writing pen name of Dan Metcalf, a writer residing in the South West of England and living in his own mind.

  Find him at danmetcalf.co.uk/dmjames

  Chapter One

  I was asleep at my desk when the phone rang. I pulled my head up from the small puddle of drool that had appeared on my newspaper and answered the phone. I tried to sound professional, confident and most importantly, awake.

  “Cole Investigations?” I said, only slightly slurring my words. I had to be alert. In my line of business, you had to be ready for anything. Your next call could be a missing persons case, a distraught divorcee, or even a call from a member of an obscure royal family in need of protection. That last one’s a long shot, but in theory, it could happen. My point is, at any time, the phone could ring and it could be destiny on the other end of the line.

  “Mr Cole? You said to give you a ring when I needed a hand?” said an old, tired voice.

  This was not a call from destiny. It was a call from Mrs Croker, the old lady from down the hall.

  I got up and met her at the front door to our building. She had some bags of shopping and I lifted them into her apartment for her, putting them down on the worktop of her tiny kitchenette. Mrs Croker was eighty years old if she was a day, and had lived in the same area of London since she was born. She had a tiny apartment on the ground floor of our building, a converted townhouse, while I had the first floor. A student lived in the attic while a part-time DJ and full-time junkie lived in the basement. We made for a strange little group, but we managed to get on and look after each other. I unpacked the bags for Mrs Croker while she collapsed into an armchair. She insisted on doing her own grocery shopping even though it exhausted her. She was a tough old broad, the kind they don’t make anymore. I emptied the bags onto the yellowing worktop. Classic old people groceries: tinned ham, teabags and steak and kidney pie.

  “Here,” she said, waving a tenner about. I shook my head.

  “No need,” I said. I turned the kettle on. “You should stop giving your money away like that.”

  “Can’t take it with me, can I? How’s business?” she asked.

  “Not great,” I admitted. “Who needs a private detective to snoop around for them these days? You can do it yourself on the internet, or be snooped on by big corporations for free.”

  “Take the tenner, then,” she insisted.

  “Never,” I grinned.

  I switched the TV on to her game shows. Mrs Croker was a big fan of daytime television. I could while away many an afternoon answering the trivia questions that came blasting through the floor at full volume. It was really improving my general knowledge. I made a cup of tea and placed it down on a table for her, along with a plate of biscuits.

  “You know, for a yank, you make a decent cuppa,” she said. This was high praise.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “How’s your love life?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. She thrust a custard cream in my direction.

  “I think you know the answer, Mrs Croker,” I said, taking a bite.

  “Want my advice?” she wheezed. I didn’t answer. She was going to give it anyway. “Knock this stuff on the head. All this PI business. Get a job. Get a girl. Get laid. Trust me, you get to my age and you haven’t had enough love in your life, you’ll regret it.”

  I must have hesitated for a millisecond, causing Mrs Croker to think she’d caused offence.

  “Oops,” she said. “Sorry love. Forgot about… Well, you know.”

  I took another biscuit and smiled.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mrs Croker,” I said, rising to leave. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  I traipsed upstairs. My apartment (flat, if we’re going to be British about it) was also my office. I had turned the living room into a workspace with two desks, one for me and one for my assistant – when I could afford one. The bedroom was just a short walk through a flimsy internal door, while the kitchenette provided me with all the sustenance I needed. If I was being honest I rarely used it, except for pouring cereal. Who needed cooking facilities with the great eateries of London on your doorstep?

  I brewed myself the finest cup of Joe I could from a jar of economy-brand instant coffee. I loved the UK, but they were still years behind the US in terms of beverages, even with the increase of coffee shops on every street corner. It didn’t matter too much; I just needed the caffeine hit. Supping on the bitter, acrid brown liquid (the milk had gone off – no lattés for me today) I sat down and logged on to my email. The connection was slow, which was not surprising considering I was secretly stealing wifi from one of my neighbours. I wasn’t sure who it was, but their network name was mrmuscles98 so I had probably better stop.

  Messages: 2

  The two subject lines were: ‘Banking Online: Agreed Overdraft Exceeded’ and ‘Remember me?’. I clicked on the second. Probably spam, but at least it put off dealing with the first email for a few minutes.

  Cole? Just googled you and your website came up. PI? Very Humphrey Bogart. In the big smoke for a few days if you fancy catching up. Flying back to NY on the 21st but good for a pint or two in the old local if you’re up for it. Nothing like reminiscing over school days with an old friend, eh? - Dane.

  Followed by a phone number. Dane was an old friend and I’d known him since we both rocked up at the same British boarding school at the age of seven. A fellow yank, we gelled instantly and stuck together through the school, even transferring to the same prep school when we were older. That’s when the wild years began, and we found that most pubs in London didn’t require ID or even care if their patrons were obviously under age. We’d dress to look slightly older and go out to some of the most disgusting, run-down bars in town, staggering home to our dorms early in the morning, and turning up for glasses stinking of cigarette smoke and beer. We remained in touch after we left school. He was headed to the bright lights of Harvard, while I went to California. He disappeared into the finance world of the Big Apple in his twenties and emerged a millionaire. Needless to say, we were no longer living similar lifestyles.

  I fired off a text:

  Got your email – you buying?

  He replied almost instantly with a time and the name of our old haunt in London, the Old Mother Hubbard in Camden. I opened my desk drawer and reached past the bottle of whisky (medicinal) and the bottle of mouthwash (essential) to the petty cash tin. It contained just enough to top up my travel card, but not enough to convince Dane I was living in the lap of luxury. No matter. Dane took me how he found me, which was good, because he currently found me broke and unshaven.

  I decided to walk. It would save the tube fare and it would be good for my ever-expanding waistline. Ever since I hit my mid-thirties, the microwave meals and junk food have taken their toll. It’s almost as if what my doctor had been telling me for years was true – exercise and eating well are not just fads.

  I pulled on my coat and a hat. It wasn’t cold outside and for once not r
aining, but my father’s baldness was proving to be hereditary. The top of my scalp was thinning at an alarming rate, so I had started to acquire a selection of different hats. The trilby was my favourite, although the deerstalker Mrs Croker gave me as a joke present – a reference to my love of Sherlock Holmes – was a close second.

  Leaving the flat and walking out into the summer evening, I inhaled. The smell of London was unmistakable. Unsavoury too, but I had come to love it. I passed by neighbours with their windows wide open, the sound of music coming from inside. A few dealers hung out on the corner. They had been suspicious of me at first, but I finally managed to convince them that I wasn’t a cop.

  “Hey bruv, you buyin?” yelled one. I had never partaken of their particular product so I admired his tenacity and salesmanship.

  “Another time, Anton,” I said. “Funds are low.”

  I strolled merrily onwards, unaware that before the week was over, funds would no longer be so low, and my life would be a hell of a lot more complicated.

  Chapter Two.

  The Old Mother Hubbard was the kind of pub that hasn’t changed much since the sixties. It still had a nicotine yellow ceiling, despite there being a smoking ban indoors for over a decade in England. It was easy to imagine old London gangsters hanging around the place, especially since I was pretty sure some of their blood was still soaked into the carpet.

  It was easy to find Dane in the pub. He was the loud, brash American with a Gucci suit and bright white teeth. He was also six foot six tall and singing Hang the DJ by The Smiths at the top of his lungs.

  “Cole!” he yelled, waving. As if I could miss him. I had heard him from the street outside.

  We hugged and I smelled the beer on him. He must have started without me.

  “Been here long?” I asked.

  “Meeting ended early so I came straight here. Remember the times we had in this place? The girls? The beer? The laughs?”

  “The beer and the laughs, sure. The girls? Um… not so much,” I admitted. “It all seems like a long time ago.”

  We got a few drinks (okay, Dane got the drinks. Millionaire, remember?) and sat at a table.

  “What brings you to jolly old England?” I asked.

  “A deal. I’m turning our old school into apartments.”

  “What?” I nearly spat out my beer. “That old dump? Who’d want to live there?”

  “Hipsters! Ones with money. The best kind!” he laughed, then, looking into his drink, he suddenly became serious. It was an unusual look on him, like a clown that suddenly stopped his juggling act to read the obituaries. “Cole, I’m sorry I didn’t make it back when Becky… you know.”

  I didn’t like where the conversation was headed so I cut him off.

  “Forget about it,” I said. “It’s in the past. Nothing to be done.”

  Dane nodded and downed his drink, slamming it down on the table so that the nearby drinkers jumped at the noise.

  “Gah! Another round?” he said. I nodded. “How come you stuck around in London? How long have you been playing Sherlock?”

  “Please, I’m more of a Sam Spade,” I corrected. “Started my own business about five years ago. Before that I worked for Patterson. Remember him from school?”

  “Skidmarks? Sure. He was an investigator?” he asked. I nodded.

  “Yep. I started off doing the donkey work. Snooping, taking photos of cheating husbands. The dull stuff. Then I helped out some more. Patterson drank the profits and went bankrupt so I set out on my own. It’s a good business.”

  Dane looked over the rim of his glass.

  “So… you’re busy?”

  He knew something was wrong. He could always tell when I was holding something back. Maybe that was why he was such a good businessman.

  “Not super busy, no, but-”

  “And you’re solvent?”

  “Well...”

  Dane drank his beer and sucked his teeth, thinking.

  “I know a guy-”

  “Dane, no!”

  “You don’t know what I’m gonna say!”

  Of course I did. This was what he did. He knew people and would try to link them together. Another reason he was so successful. He always honed in on a problem and found a way to fix things. He couldn’t help himself.

  “I know a guy who may need your help. You’d need to be discreet.”

  “Discreet is my middle name,” I smiled. I was lying of course. My middle name is Oswald.

  “And exclusive.”

  “Who’s your guy?” I asked.

  “I shouldn’t say. Not without speaking to him first.”

  I leaned in over the table.

  “Dane, I don’t work for crooks.”

  He laughed.

  “What is this, the thirties? Who do you think I hang out with, Al Capone?” he said. “He’s very well known, and if the press got a hold of the fact that he’s using a PI, they’ll want to know why.”

  I sipped my beer.

  “Exclusive? I don’t know. I like being my own boss. I get to pick the cases, not have them put on me.”

  “I might be wrong but it’s probably a deal breaker,” said Dane, before pausing to let out a loud belch. “Anyway, let me check it out and I’ll get back to you.”

  He tapped a reminder into his phone and downed the rest of the warm beer (see previous comment regarding UK and beverages – although I’d kind of come to love a pint of British ale). He then slapped his credit card on the bar and yelled that the drinks would be on him, which caused a near stampede of old men thrusting their empty glasses at the poor barmaid.

  The rest of the night was a blur, but included several other pubs that we used to frequent in our youth, a stop at a bookies where Dane would go on to waste a cool grand on horses and of course, a kebab from the New World Kebab Shop at the end of my street. No London pub crawl would be complete without one.

  Eventually we ended up back at my office, which was not my idea. Dane was staying at Claridges, which would have been my choice but he insisted on seeing ‘where the magic happens’. Also, all the bars had closed for the night and I had already mentioned the ‘medicinal’ bottle of whisky in my desk drawer.

  We sat on the leather sofa in my office, slumped and slurring, whispering to keep from waking the neighbours (although I’m not sure why – Mrs Croker is around 80% deaf in both ears).

  “Nice place,” nodded Dane, leaning back and taking in the atmosphere. He looked up at the damp-stained ceiling and the single-paned windows that rattled every time a night bus rolled past.

  “No Dane,” I corrected him. “It is not a nice place. It is a crappy hole in the ground in which I am financially drowning.” I took a deep breath, surprised at my own honesty. I was usually more reserved when it came to money, but when you’ve known someone for nearly thirty years the truth just pours out of you. That, and my medicinal whisky was almost empty. “But, it’s my own little patch of paradise. It’s mine and I love it. The business, that is. The apartment sucks.”

  “I knew it. So why the hesitation about my guy?” asked Dane.

  “Freedom, my good man,” I said. My British side tended to come out when I was drunk. “I like being my own boss.”

  “You can be your own boss with my guy. Just exclusively. And he’d make sure you wouldn’t starve.”

  I looked at Dane. I didn’t know why I was resisting. I’m not sure where the sense of pride came from. I didn’t like charity. I liked sourcing my own cases.

  But… I liked having a roof over my head more.

  “I’ll take a meeting,” I submitted. “Can’t hurt, right?”

  Dane gave me a badly-aimed, drunken high five.

  “Cole, I am so glad you said that,” he smiled. “’Cos I already called him about six hours ago. You’ve got a meeting at noon tomorrow.”

  Chapter Three

  I woke up the next morning after just a few hours of sleep. My head felt like a dog had mistaken it for a chew toy and my tongue was so dry
I could have used it to sandpaper the door frame. I stumbled out of bed and through to the lounge, which, as my home is also my place of work, was actually my office. I gave the place a quick tidy up, which meant shoving old magazines and chocolate bar wrappers into a waste paper bin. Then I pulled on a long coat and fedora and set out into the daylight to take the short walk to the corner shop. I grabbed my hangover cure of choice (lucozade and a Ginsters pasty – you’re welcome) and shouted to Mohammed behind the counter to put it on my tab, which is an arrangement I am increasingly afraid he will call on me to settle.

  I shuffled back to the office/apartment and fumbled with my keys. I stared at the keyhole like it was a conundrum I was trying to solve (my head was a little woolly) and leant on the door, which swung open with ease.

  Did I forget to lock the door? That’s careless, especially for someone whose business card reads ‘Your Security is Our Priority’.

  I peered in the room and found an old man sitting at my desk, leaning on a cane. He was maybe seventy and wore a sharp suit that probably cost more than my yearly income. His skin was tanned, obviously more used to the scorching sun of the Bahamas than the damp drizzle of London. He turned and faced me, a smile revealing blinding white teeth.

  “Mr Cole. So glad you could join us.”

  His accent was from New York, but not Fifth Avenue as his clothes and complexion indicated. His voice came from Queens.

  “You must be my twelve o’clock,” I said. “Did my assistant let you in?” I joked.

  “If by assistant you mean that lovely lady from downstairs, then yes,” he said. “Mrs Croker, was it? She’s quite the character.”

  “She’s a peach alright,” I said. I put out my hand. “Jefferson Cole. But you knew that.”

  “I did,” he said, and shook my hand anyway. He had a strong grip for someone of such advanced years. “You know who I am?”