John Kemp

Four dark cases. One London private investigator who knows every secret has a price.

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‘So you want to sign up for a membership?’ ‘I do. Very much,’ I lied through my smile. ‘I’m sure we will be able to accommodate you.’ ‘I can’t wait to get started.’ Now, I was just lying through my teeth. ‘Let’s sit over here, shall we,’ she offered. #dousedcigars #mystery

‘Trust me, it’s all platonic.’ Trust her? Trusting her was like trusting a parachute that a chimpanzee had packed. I wouldn’t be jumping. And I certainly wasn’t believing her story. #minibars #filmnoirs #mystery #novella

2/2 ‘How did you know it was me?’ she whispered. I smiled. ‘I’ve done this sort of thing before.’ ‘What? Meet women in cafes to discuss their husband’s extramarital affairs?’ ‘Yes, but not always in cafes.’ #spanishguitars #filmnoirs

Fifteen minutes later, a woman on her own, wearing dark sunglasses and a headscarf came in. She glanced at each table and tiptoed around as if she had gravel in her shoes. That’s her alright. I ushered her to my table. After introductions, she looked at me, incredulous. 1/2

I tried to dampen her spirits, reminding her of the billion-to-one odds. Truth was, I had no idea where to start, let alone challenge the evidence — evidence that seemed locked in a chest, set in concrete, and dropped into the Water of Leith. #dousedcigars

I’ve dealt with men who used their fists. She used something worse. Words. #filmnoirs

2/2 The train eased into the station. We had arrived in Stuttgart. #pullmancars #filmnoirs #londondetective

Raindrops briefly bounced off the windows. Looking out, the fields were replaced by the harsher tones of asphalt and concrete. Otherworldly looking power plants sat beside industrial parks lighting up the horizon. Under the fast-darkening sky, the glow of suburbia beckoned. 1/2

I was tempted to take his easy cash. I had a feeling this temptation might come back to haunt me, so I decided to dig deeper. I might have been digging my own grave, but I wasn’t going to jump into it voluntarily. #filmnoirs

My cover seemed to be unravelling faster than lights coming off a Christmas tree in January.

“Mini-bar whisky. Cheap. Bitter. Honest. Like the client.” “Every bad decision starts with ‘just one drink.’”

‘...I guessed you might be here.’ ‘Why were you looking for me?’ ‘I hadn’t heard from you in a while. I wondered if you were in jail or even dead.’ I looked her up and down from her teased blonde hair to her leather boots, then back to her sulk. ‘Wondered or hoped?’

I concluded that a murder had been committed here - regardless of whether or not I could find a body. That was useful, no doubt, but there was more to a murder case than taking an inventory of dead bodies.

She wanted me to prove her husband was innocent. She was willing to pay well for it.That’s usually a bad sign. Still… I listened.

I didn’t aspire to be blinded by money. But I took it anyway. And I knew, even then, it would come back for me.

They call it the City of Angels. I hadn’t met one yet. Not the kind you pray to, anyway.