WHISKEY BLONDE (Thomas Blume Book 8) by Phil Reade

Author:Phil Reade [Reade, Phil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-05-16T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Mill Street. Jamaica Wharf. Concordia Wharf.

The names I passed were familiar but at the same time alien. I had seen them before in passing, during my many travels through London but now, moving on foot and doing my best to follow the patchy satellite guidance of my cell phone, I struggled to find a sense of where I was.

Not far from the waters of the River Thames, that much was sure. Overhead, the raucous cry of gulls told me that the water was nearby and somewhere out of sight. I could hear the steady chug of diesel engines from some kind of boat, but where exactly?

I walked slowly along the street, senses heightened, clutching my camera close to my chest. The device hung from a strap around my neck and was wrapped in a case, protecting it from most of the elements.

Dawn was breaking, casting a pale gray pall across the city but streetlights were still illuminated, and visibility was minimal thanks to a thick mist clinging to the ground. The slowly climbing sun was pushing away the darkness but the eerie silence did nothing to take away the sense of dread as I scanned my surroundings.

Any normal person would be in bed at 5.30 am on a cold London morning, but not me. I was wandering between the tall warehouses and narrow roads of the old London ports in Bermondsey.

And who could I thank for my early morning excursion? My old friend Detective Welsh, or more specifically his cryptic text message which had arrived only forty-five minutes earlier, waking me from a restless sleep in my apartment. I knew Welsh wasn’t one to mince words, but when a text from the man only includes a street address I had to get there fast. Lucky for me, the traffic at this ungodly hour was minimal. Less lucky was the weather. The gloom made it near impossible to spot street signs and directions. Even my footsteps seemed muffled in the blanket of fog.

According to my phone, the famous Tower bridge was not far away. Not that I could see it, even if the thick haze had abated.

The brick structures on either side of me towered four or five stories high. Heavy, imposing buildings constructed during a different age, when large warehouses and loading docks allowed for ships to enter and drop off their cargo while teams of hardened men worked around the water.

History was etched into the brickwork around me, but now most of the old structures had been converted into offices or trendy apartments fetching eye-watering prices. Still, the feeling of being in a Victorian murder mystery was hard to shake and as I finally turned a corner and found a narrow access road ahead, the morose atmosphere solidified.

“Well, hello,” I muttered to no one in particular at the sight before me. A scene so familiar lately.

The short road ahead ran to a dead end. It was an old access road to the docks at the end, but far before that point was parked a police car at an angle, blocking access.

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