Play With Fire by William Shaw (Breen and Tozer #5)
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 1.9 Mb
Play With Fire : In hedonistic 1960s London, a police detective investigates the unexpected connections between two suspicious deaths: a call girl and a rock star.
It’s the summer of ’69, and the hard-living rock stars of the British Invasion still rule London. When former Rolling Stone Brian Jones turns up dead, floating in the pool of his palatial home while the party continues around him, Detective Sargeant Cathal Breen is called away from his former partner, now girlfriend–who quit the force when she became pregnant with his child–to take the case.
Breen’s investigation soon uncovers another body spat out by the hedonistic ’60s party scene: a young woman, a call-girl for the rich and famous, a girl they called Julie Teenager. Her client list is thick and full of suspects–all rich, powerful, and protected. When Breen gets too close to fingering a financier with ties to Russia–and gets a phone call from MI6 warning him to watch his back–the investigation seems almost insurmountable.
But Breen has the keenly intuitive, deeply moral Helen Tozer at his side, who, despite her pregnancy, can’t help but be drawn into the case of a girl used and cast aside by London’s elite. Tense, dramatic, and with a blistering pace, Sympathy for the Devil is a gripping police thriller set in the darkly technicolor world of the 1960s.
“In younger days, when she had been slimmer and the cigarettes had not coated her lungs, two flights would have been easy, but she found on this summer evening, she was sweating by the time she reached the second floor.
She knocked on the door, as she always did, but opened it with her key.
‘Hello? Only me,’ she sing-songed, as she always did, but today there was no answer.
The rest of the house was ordinary. The stairwell was drab. It was only when you went through the front door to Lena’s flat that everything changed.
She didn’t like her employer much, but she had to admit it; she had a kind of genius.
Pink. Everywhere. The walls, the curtains, even the lampshades, were a rich girlish colour. The carpet, at least, was white. The beanbag, a shocking lime green. There was a framed picture of The Beatles on the wall, not as they were now, bearded, dissolute and immersed in Eastern philosophies, but when they were still neat, uncomplicated and joyful, and when every teenager loved them.
Everything had been picked with care. The pop group grinned, wearing pink shirts and ties and holding red roses. Other less famous stars surrounded them, some cut out from Rave and Jackie and stuck up with Sellotape, others framed and signed in black pen. Across the world, teenage walls looked like this now. Lena had invested in the place.
It was perfect, down to the collection of dolls and gollywogs, lined up on a bookshelf, which Florence hated. It wasn’t just their unclosing stare that was creepy.”