The Turnaround (Nick Sharman)

The Turnaround (Nick Sharman)

Mark Timlin

Language: English

Pages: 256

ISBN: 1843442698

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The fifth Nick Sharman thriller—London's answer to Elmore Leonard

When businessman James Webb asks Sharman to find out who murdered his sister, her husband and two young children, the trail's been cold for over a year; the original police investigators had found nothing—no clues, no witnesses, no motive. There isn't much to go on. Besides, Sharman has other things to occupy him—his relationship with topless model Fiona is rapidly souring, his best friend Wanda is dying, and his ex-wife leaves him to babysit their 11-year-old daughter, Judith. While Sharman's back is turned things start to heat up—he is threatened with a shotgun on a busy road in broad daylight and the murder victims start to multiply. When Judith is kidnapped by a gang of very nasty thugs, Sharman finally loses his temper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

not for anything snide.’ ‘As if!’ ‘Stan, don’t mug me off again.’ ‘No, straight, Nick. I’ll ask around. But it has to be worth a monkey.’ ‘For you to ask around? Do me a favour. I don’t get paid that sort of money.’ ‘For hard information?’ ‘Now that is possible.’ ‘Something out front?’ ‘A tenner?’ ‘A tenner doesn’t buy a round in here these days.’ ‘Maybe you should stick to lemonade.’ ‘What, with my image to keep up?’ I really didn’t want to get on to the subject of his image at that

one I knew was John Rice. Despite what she’d asked, a few people brought flowers. Me included. I laid a single white rose on her coffin. I didn’t order a limo to follow the hearse. I didn’t want to sit in it on my own. I followed it in my black E-Type Jaguar. I’d given it a good clean and waxing, and touched up the whitewalls. It must have looked a bit strange, but I think Wanda would have appreciated it. It was a joyless occasion on a joyless day. It had rained overnight and early in the

‘None of those things. Not poor either. Not by the looks of this place. Who paid for it?’ ‘That’s none of your business. I think you should go now.’ ‘Is that right?’ I said. ‘Yes.’ ‘And if I don’t?’ ‘I’ll call the police.’ ‘Why don’t you call Robber? Get him over here. I’m sure he’d love to renew his acquaintanceship with you after all this time. Ask you how come you’ve got a nice place like this, on what the government pays.’ She looked over at the telephone and then back to me. ‘Why are

bastards with their ‘Take the money and go away and play, little man’ attitudes. Those shitheads who just love having a copper in their pockets. The ones who knew I had the power and took it away. When I think of them, I want to get all the money I took and go back and mash it down their throats until they choke. They took everything I valued and trod all over it in their handmade Italian shoes. And I let them. The silence stretched and I looked at her. Always let them speak first, that’s one of

hell I was crying for. She fell asleep on the sofa amongst the muddle of our discarded clothes. I gently moved her, and found my T-shirt and boxer shorts. I opened the French windows and stood in the pre-dawn coolness and felt the goose bumps come up on my arms, and smoked the last cigarette in the packet, and finished the bottle. I found her bedroom and came back and picked her up and put her to bed. Then I got dressed and went home. I’d drunk myself sober by then, although I doubt that the

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