Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2) by Max Hardy Read Free Book Online Page A

Nothing.  I reach a crossroads at the top of the road and pirouette around, looking everywhere for the redhead, the red stilettos.  She is nowhere to be seen amongst the constantly moving throng who are giving me a wide berth.
    Was she really there?  Or is my mind just playing tricks.  Every time I think of Sarah, every time I think of Jacob, Jess’s image just sears into my mind, opening a chasm in the fissures of grief and spawning a maelstrom of uncontrollable guilt.  I should hate her.  I should detest her for what happened, if it was her that instigated it.  But I can’t.  What kind of a bastard does that make me?
    I look around again, one last forlorn sweep of the static faces, and then slowly trudge off towards Dacre Street, scanning the ground for red stilettoed feet. 
    There is a very small, but finely filigreed bronze nameplate on the solid oak door, proclaiming ‘H. Massah.  Private Detective.’, as I arrive in front of it.  Not something I would expect.  Private Detectives tend to be very practical and generally not keen on spending too much on aesthetics.  I buzz the intercom and a male voice answers.
    ‘Harry Massah, Private Detective, how can I help?’
    ‘Afternoon Mr Massah.  It’s DI John Saul here.  I understand you worked on an assignment for my wife, Sarah Saul a little while back.  I would like to talk to you about that if it’s convenient?’
    Pause.  A long pause. 
    ‘I was wondering when you would turn up.  Come on in, straight down the corridor and second door on the left.’  The door clicks open into a tongue and groove panelled hallway painted a rustic lichen, with a deep walnut stain on the oak flooring.  Definitely not your normal Dick.  A bit more upmarket.  There are some original watercolours decorating the walls as I approach the door on the left, which is slightly ajar.  Some modern, with some beautiful sunset vistas over the Tyne, and some more traditional. 
    Massah stands as I enter the office and approaches with an eager outstretched hand and an understated compassion evident in his soft, slightly paunchy features.  He is tall, probably about six two, broadly built with a shock of floppy brown hair, overlong and ruffled.  Mid forties.  He is wearing a tailored green Harris Tweed jacket, a pink Ralph Lauren shirt and beige chinos bottomed off with scuffed brown brogues on his feet.  Definitely an upper class Dick.
    ‘Detective Inspector Saul.  Please accept my condolences, I am so sorry for your loss.’ he relays and he shakes my hand, cupping his second hand over the top of the shake.  There is nothing but genuine warmth and compassion in his eyes.  Why?  He doesn’t know me from Adam.  But he knows I cheated on my wife.  It shocks me and I look away from his gaze, mumbling a muted thanks.
    ‘Please, take a seat.  Can I get you anything to drink?  Tea, coffee, water or something stronger?  A whisky perhaps? I have a very exclusive 64’ Black Bowmore?’
    My mind screamed single malt.  My body needs it.  It is aching from the earlier exertion.  But I need to stay focused.  ‘Water will be fine, but thanks for the offer.  So you were expecting me?’ 
    ‘At some point, yes.  I have been following the news.  I see many unknowns in the reporting of the case.  I know a Detective of your reputation won’t let them stay unknown indefinitely.’
    I scan the room while gingerly sitting as he makes drinks at a small cabinet off to the left.  It has a very intimate homely charm, more like a snug or study than an office.  His desk is a behemoth walnut affair topped with pictures of kids and horses and pets, with an organised chaos of papers and files off to one side.  There’s a pair of Hunter wellies, a brolly and a Barbour jacket in a hat stand next to the drinks cabinet.  The walls, painted in country cream, are also covered in pictures of happy children.  Three kids, probably fifteen, thirteen and ten.  Ten year old on a horse