Assassin of London (Justin Martello Book 2) by Gomery Kimber

Author:Gomery Kimber [Kimber, Gomery]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Procursus Press
Published: 2024-02-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Thursday morning found me suffering the side-effects of my indulgence. Now that I avoided alcohol, its effect on me was all the greater, particularly the morning after.

I’d been woken by the alarm at the usual time, my mouth tasting foul and my head aching horribly. But I was feeling determined and lay there for a while, imagining how I’d feel when Nizar agreed to meet me later that day.

I decided to take things easy, made coffee, swallowed an aspirin, and enjoyed a leisurely bath. The office would look after itself. Around eight o’clock, I sent Nizar a text, suggesting we meet for coffee. He responded almost immediately, which pleased me.

‘Quick call,’ said Nizar. ‘I was wondering, are you free this morning? You’ve caught me on my day off. We could grab a coffee, yeah.’

Another coffee was exactly what I needed.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Where?’

‘Finsbury Park?’ He named the street I’d visited with Buchan.

‘I know it.’

‘There’s a row of lock-ups. Eleven-thirty okay?’

‘Fine.’

I rang Buchan.

‘Sorted,’ he said, sounding excited. ‘Well, half of it. Found a supplier in Camden.’

‘Camden?’ My mind was a blank.

‘Your shopping list,’ he said circumspectly, ‘the first part of it anyway. The special tool might take another twenty-four hours.’

‘I need it by this evening at the latest. Pick me up from home. We’ll give it a run out, all right?’

‘Yes, boss. I’ll try, but. . .’

‘No buts, Tom. Get it sorted.’

‘All right, do my best.’

The ritual of shaving and dressing restored my spirits further, and after orange juice and a bacon sandwich, I was feeling energetic and refreshed, and anticipating future events.

My thoughts turned to the meeting with Nizar, and to a possible ‘battle of the knights.’ I was reminded of his demeanour in the ring, of my fellow feeling for him. It made me think of Count Riviera. I got to my feet.

In the library, I pulled a familiar volume off the shelf, and turned to the chapter about holy war. I’d read most of it by the time Buchan arrived to take me to Finsbury Park.

In a reflective mood, I got in beside him. Seated at the wheel of the Skoda, Buchan waved his new toy about. He had a thing for technology, Buchan did. Now that I examined him, he was looking smarter, and sharper than normal as well. There was no tell-tale cough, and he didn’t need to inform me that he’d been as good as his word and sworn off the weed. He was more confident too. When he spoke, he looked me directly in the eye.

Pleased, I sat back and enjoyed the ride, thinking as I did so how our emotional states and energy levels impacted on our perceptions.

I’d woken feeling hungover and tense, but food and Riviera’s erudite essay had helped raise me to a higher level of consciousness. Yesterday, riding through the East End with the former IRA bomber, I’d seen only the worst of London, now it was though I could see only the best. Reality hadn’t changed, only my relation to it.

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