GROUNDSPEED
A kidnapping with
horrific repercussions

DIRTY BUSINESS
Industrial pollution
 and multiple murder

THE CHINA MOON
A high-flying
espionage tale

GIDEON'S BIBLE
An unconventional
detective hunts
for a UFO

S'END FOR BRADEN
Southend's nicest
private eye

THE GRACE OF GOD
A hit & run, a
blackmailer and a
hungry newsman

EXIT POINT
An autogiro aviator
and a terror plot

THE HOUSESITTER
A human target is lured
to a fatal rendezvous
(coming soon)

STOP LINE
A dangerous genetic
drug must be stopped
(work in progress)

EXCLUSION ZONE
A suitcase bomb on an
underground train
(coming soon)

NINE TENTHS
OF THE LAW
Life on the London
despatch circuit
(coming soon)

Top

THE CHINA MOON
                   She can run, now he can't hide ...

Introduction

I can't remember how long I took to write this novel. But it wasn't long. Maybe 3 months. Of course, when you factor in the various rewrites and upgrades (and repairs), it took perhaps double that.

Or more.

I worked particularly hard at structuring this one, partly in response to advice/comments/observations from helpful literary agents. I wanted a strong heroine, first and foremost. I wanted a strong hero, but didn't want him to be a tough guy. I preferred him to be not exactly hapless, but a more gentlemanly type, meaning decent and old-fashioned, etc. I wanted to have some aviation in there too, so I gave him a microlight (see my novel GROUNDSPEED for another microlight tale). I wanted it to be set in England. And I wanted a lot of fast-paced action with some witty dialogue..

What I got was ... well, what I got.

A novel, anyway.

This tale has had more positive feedback than any of my books. I flatter myself that I got a near-miss publishing offer a few years ago. Certainly a significant editor seemed impressed. But it just didn't happen.

To get the story rolling. I started it with pure dialogue; a question and answer routine in a police station (Paddington Green). That way, everyone could state their position and interest, and my hero could quickly bring the reader "up to speed" (tip: try not to use clichés like that in your novels).

I'm not sure if the intro needs cutting. It's a long chapter. But I've left it as I wrote it, so you can form your own conclusion. The title, THE CHINA MOON, refers to not one but a series of geostationary spy satellites over China.

As a footnote, after it was rejected two million times, I tried rewriting it in the third person tense. I waded through a few chapters, and the change certainly added a little tension and made it more "thrillerish", but I decided that I liked it the way it was originally written (in the first person) and abandoned the rewrite.

The trouble with first-person stories is, of course, that you know your hero is going to survive (unless he has been given some slow-acting poison that allows him just enough time to jot down the whole sorry tale).

Anyway, hope you find something here to entertain you.

THE CHINA MOON

110,000 words

Plot: A plucky Chinese girl steals a vital piece of missile technology and flees to Britain looking for a buyer - with a trio of hatchet-wielding killers hot on her heels. Photographer and microlight pilot Brent Manning is unlucky enough to get caught in the crossfire ...

Chapter One

“Look, How many times do you want me to bloody-well say it? I don’t know who she is, where she is or what this is all about. I simply found her hiding in the back of my camper van and gave her a lift.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?”

“Yes. Well, partly. I couldn’t dump her at the side of the motorway, could I?”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s an offence.”

“So is the transportation of illegal immigrants.”

“Yes. I know. But I didn’t know she was an illegal immigrant then.”

“Really? You’d just passed through the Port of Dover, hadn’t you? I should have thought it fairly obvious what she was.”

“A lot of people pass through Dover. Only a tiny percentage, apparently, do so illegally.”

“Well what did you think she was doing hiding in the back of your vehicle?”

I flashed a humourless smile. “Helping herself to a free ride. A lot of people do that too.”

“But you were suspicious of her?”

“Of course. But then, I’m suspicious of many people. Including you.”

“And she was obviously not English.”

“Well that’s not a crime. Yet. But she might well have been British. A lot of Chinese people are. And her command of the language was good.”

“Well didn’t you think it was your duty to contact the proper authorities to have her status checked?”

“No.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because it’s not my job to police national frontiers. I’m a private citizen. I was very tired and I told her that I’d drop her off at the next junction.”

“But you didn’t, did you?”

“No. I didn’t get a chance. And you know exactly why.”

“Ah yes. The ... er, altercation you had with the oriental gentlemen.”

“They were definitely oriental,” I agreed. “But I wouldn’t call them gentlemen. They rammed my camper van remember and tried to force us off the road.”

“Us?”

“Well one of us. Seeing as we were together, I thought the difference was academic.”

“And then you hit them back?”

“Yes. I ... I mean, no! Not on purpose, that is. I was trying to recover control and accidentally hit them.”

“I see. So why didn’t you stop and try and discuss it with them?”

“Discuss what?”

“The accident you just had. Why didn’t you stop to exchange insurance details as is required under the law?”

“I’ve explained all that a dozen times, haven’t I?” I said, speaking slowly, deliberately. “It wasn’t an accident on their part. They meant to do it. They were trying to force us to stop.” I ploughed my fingers through my hair, and then dropped my hands quickly when I remembered the spreading damp patches beneath my arms. “And God only knows what they intended to do after that. They looked pretty determined.”

“I see.”

“And anyway,” I continued, “that was ... well, that was when she pressed the gun into my side and ordered me to keep driving.”

“The imitation gun, you mean?”

“Yes. But I didn’t know it was an imitation then. I thought it was real. She said it was. It was only when I finally managed to get rid of her that she admitted it was a toy. For protection. How was I to know any different?”

“How indeed?”

The voice was cool. Superior. I didn’t like it the first time I heard it. I liked it considerably less now.

My interrogators were silent momentarily as they considered my statement. They exchanged glances; three very different men each oozing the same brand of cool, disarming self-possession. I could almost smell it on them, like an aftershave.

Confidence; for professionals ...

One of them was a small man in his early forties wearing a mid-blue mohair suit. Using some kind of shorthand, he was writing down everything I said, his pen skating across the pages of his spiral bound notebook in exaggerated streaks and scratches.

He had a podgy face, a button nose and thinning hair turned wiry about the ears. The gold-rimmed glasses he wore magnified his eyes to improbable proportions. He’d been introduced to me simply as Mr Clement and spoke only twice to confirm some spelling he was uncertain of. Whatever government department he was from hadn’t been made entirely clear. And at the time I hadn’t thought to ask for clarification.

Sat on his left, immediately behind the desk, was his companion. He was introduced to me as Mr Davington; a tall, cadaverous man in his late fifties. He reminded me vaguely of the actor, Vincent Price. It was in the hair mostly; the streaks of grey at the temples and that rakish, sardonic grin. His eyes were grey. They glittered like polished flint. His mouth was cruel, his nose long and probing. He was wearing a light grey casual suit and the most horrendous tie I’ve ever seen.

Quietly smoking, cogitating, he studied me the way a scientist might study an uncatalogued laboratory specimen. Davington was the one with all the questions. He’d effectively kept me pinned to that chair for over five hours. Like his partner, he was also coy regarding exactly which government department he was from.

The third man of the trio had introduced himself to me as Detective Inspector Blake. A Special Branch man, Blake was roughly the same age as myself; thirty-five perhaps, a little older maybe. Medium in both height and build, he had cool blue eyes and a wide, generous mouth. His hair and hands were meticulous; evidently a man who took personal grooming seriously.

He looked like a career policeman. Tough, but genial. Shrewd, but somehow not cynical. I wondered if these traits were assets or a liability in his profession, or whether this was just some role he was playing for my benefit.

Beneath a dark grey suit he wore a white shirt and maroon, polyester tie. The tie was pulled a little too tight at the neck for my comfort, but it was a lot easier on the eye than Davington’s ... It was Blake who, six hour earlier, had snapped the handcuffs on me and had released them again upon our arrival at Paddington Green Police Station.

He was familiar with my work, he’d said, and had once seen an exhibition of mine at the ICA.

You’ve got a terrific eye for irony. Truly.

Really? Well I’ll give you my autograph some time — if I manage to get some blood back in my —

“Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we, Mr Manning?” said Davington. He flicked a long column of ash from his cigarette. “Or may I call you Brent?”

“No you may not call me Brent,” I said, tempted to remind him that smoking in a public building is illegal. “Mr Manning will do fine.”

He drew on his cigarette. Exhaled.

“As you wish. Now tell us once more what exactly were you doing in — ” he feigned a look at Clement’s notes. Clement obliged by turning his jotter round and flicking back a few pages, “ — in Eastern Europe. In your own time ...”

I buried my face in my hands, wishing it all away. As a child, I used to do that whenever I wanted something, or someone, to disappear. It never worked, but because I’ve always been something of an optimist at heart, the habit has lingered.

When I reopened my eyes a few seconds later, my antagonists were right where I’d left them.

The three wise monkeys.

Or was it The Three Stooges?

“I was working on various photo-assignments,” I explained for the sixth or seventh time. “Five days in Prague. Two in Budapest. Then a weekend break in Austria.”

I banged my fist on the table to punctuate that sentence. The empty coffee cups jumped. Spoons rattled in their saucers. A biro rolled off and fell to the floor. Nobody bothered to retrieve it.

“And you spent a month in Spain before that, you say?” said Davington.

I nodded.

“You certainly do get around, Mr Manning.”

“It’s my job.”

“And what exactly were you photographing, again?”

“Are you deaf or stupid?” I was beginning to lose my temper now. “Or perhaps a little of both?”

“If you please ...”

I sighed. Resistance, as they say, was futile. I pushed the empty coffee cups away and gave my hands some space to gesticulate freely.

“Okay. Here it goes again. From the top. And this really is for the last time. I did a three-day fashion shoot in Prague — ”

“Where your assistant broke her ankle?”

“No. That was Budapest.”

“Which was before Prague?”

“No. Budapest was after Prague.”

“Who was that for again?”

“The Ford Motor Company. And if you bloody-well phone them, they’ll confirm that.”

“And then where did you go?” he continued, unperturbed.

“Austria. Austria. AUSTRIA!”

“And then Spain?”

“No. I started in Spain and worked my way across to Prague.”

I really was beginning to lose it then.

“Touring?” persisted Davington.

“In Spain, yes. I was touring.”

“In that — ah — camper van of yours. The thing you call the — ” he snapped his fingers searching for the right word, “ — the snail?”

“Exactly,” I concurred. “The snail. That thing.”

“How amusing.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Davington steepled his eyebrows and drew heavily on his cigarette. His flinty eyes bored into mine. He was the type of man you hoped didn’t have kids. Actually, he was the type you hoped didn’t even a have a wife.

“What was the number of your room, Mr Manning?”

“I’m sorry?”

“In Vienna. You must have stayed somewhere. I assume it was a hotel.”

“I stayed in my van. I’ve told you that. I always stay there?”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“And why is that may I ask?”

“Because (a) it’s comfortable, (b) there’s always a vacancy, and (c) the room service is terrific.”

“Your home from home, eh? Wherever you lay your hat and all that?”

“If you like.”

He nodded, then opened a folder and took out a collection of Polaroid photographs. He spread them on the desk. They were all of my camper. Inside and out. It was the first I’d seen of them and was a little annoyed at the invasion of my private space. They must have been taken since my arrest.

“Well it certainly looks very well equipped,” he said, gazing down at the snaps. “Six berths. TV. Satellite dish. Stereo. Microwave. Fridge. Freezer. Shower.” He looked up. “How long is it? Thirty foot?”

“Thirty-five. And you forgot to mention the Portapotti.”

“Quite. And a miniature dark room on board too, I hear?”

“Yes. That too. What of it?”

“You tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I’m a photographer. I travel for months on end. I develop my own pictures. I mind my own business. End of story.”

He shrugged and pushed the photographs to one side.

“And you say you didn’t meet the girl before you arrived in Calais?”

“I didn’t meet her at Calais,” I corrected. “As I told you, I discovered her there in the back of the van halfway up the M2 from Dover. She could have got on either at Paris or Calais. I had no idea she was there until I heard the noises.”

“And you stopped immediately to investigate?”

“Yes.”

“On the hard shoulder?”

“The fast lane was busy.”

Davington smiled without a hint of humour, then looked across at Clement and waited until his pen stopped moving. He shifted in his chair, took a final draw on his cigarette and stubbed it out like a man squashing a particularly juicy bug. His breath was thick with the odour of burnt tar.

“Tell me, what did you and the girl talk about?”

“Various things.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. The weather. The countryside. What I did for a living. Things like that. She asked me a lot of general stuff about England.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“Such as ... anything. Tourist stuff.”

“You said earlier that she’d never been here before. Is that right?”

“So she claimed. I took her at face value.”

“I see. And at what point then did she tell you that she was here illegally?”

“After the hooligans — or whatever they call them in China — tried to ram us off the road. I told her that we ought to report this to the police. In fact, I was about to do that on my mobile phone when she stopped me. She said that if the police got involved she’d be deported and ... well, executed.”

“What did you say to that?”

“I told her that if she had anything to fear in China she could apply for political asylum.”

“And?”

“She said she didn’t want to do that yet and repeated that she’d be in serious trouble if she went back.”

“Did she say why?”

“I don’t think so. I assumed she was some sort of dissident. Yes, that’s right. I remember. I did ask her that. If she was one of those Falun Gong people or something.”

“And?”

“She nodded and said that it was something like that. She said it was complicated.”

“Exactly that?”

“As far as I can recall. I said that I could drop her off and report the assault on my own. But she put the gun in my ribs and told me to keep driving.”

“Which you did?”

“It seemed a sensible decision.”

Davington drew breath.

Then he said, “Tell me about the men in the car.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the make and model.”

“Mercedes Benz saloon. Medium sized.”

“Colour?”

“Still black.”

“Registration number?”

“Be serious, will you?” I said, shaking my head.

“Well was it an English registration number?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Left hand drive?”

“I ... I think so.”

“You said there were three men in the car?”

“No, I said two. But it all happened so quickly. One moment the girl and myself were driving along chatting. The next moment I had a car trying to ram me off the road.”

“You and your thirty-five foot, five ton camper van?”

I took the point. “It’s a desperate world,” I said weakly.

“And then you swerved off the carriageway and managed to, er, lose them?”

“I had a gun in my ribs, remember. And she jerked the wheel.”

“Oh yes. The gun. Nevertheless, it sounds as if you did a very professional job of eluding your — what would you call them exactly, Mr Manning?”

“I wouldn’t call them anything. I don’t know who they were or what they were up to. I was just happy to see the back of them.”

He sat back on his chair. We stared at each other for a moment or two.

“And you still say you can’t remember the girl’s name?”

“That’s right.”

“But she gave it to you?”

“Yes. But I wasn’t planning on maintaining a long term relationship with her.”

He paused, then opened the file again and showed me another photograph. This one wasn’t a Polaroid. It looked like a passport picture except that it had been enlarged to a ten by eight.

I took it from him. It showed a Chinese girl aged somewhere between eighteen and twenty four. She had an oval face and large almond shaped eyes. Her mouth was small, her lips full, her ears nothing if not delicate. Her hair was pulled tightly back and secured behind her head. I thought I could have made her look a lot prettier than that, but there was no doubt it was the same girl. She looked startled, as if someone had shown her the wrong end of the birdie.

I gave the picture back. He put it into the folder.

“And you dropped this girl off where?”

“Marylebone Road.”

“What address?”

“No address. I let her out beside a telephone box.”

He pushed a familiar street map towards me.

“Where was it again, Mr Manning?”

I stuck my finger on the spot. It was smudged from all the other times I’d pointed it out.

“Right there.”

“Just abandoned her there on the street, eh?”

I rolled my eyes. “One minute you’re accusing me of harbouring an illegal immigrant. Now you’re accusing me of abandonment.” I grimaced. “Besides, she seemed to know where she was.”

“Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

“Didn’t what strike me as odd?”

“A few moments ago you said that the girl had never been to the United Kingdom before. But now you say, quote, “she seemed to know where she was” unquote.”

I nodded. “As I also explained, she said that she knew a lot about England. She said that she’d been studying for years; the language, the culture, the history. Everything.”

“Including the London street plan apparently.”

“I suppose so.”

“Did you ask her about those men in the car?”

“Of course I did. She said that she’d never seen them before.”

“Did you believe her?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean “you don’t know?”’

“I mean that I don’t know. She might have been lying. She might have been telling the truth.”

“And then you dropped her off.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you report the incident to the police?”

“I thought it might ... well, get awkward.”

“Because you had an illegal immigrant on board?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

He then started picking through my things on the table; the contents of my pockets. My wallet. My keys. My pen. My passport. And my driving licence. I noticed then that my mobile phone wasn’t there and wondered where it was.

Davington picked up the passport and examined it. It was dog-eared and filled with entry and exit stamps. The photograph showed an earlier me with an experimental moustache.

“How did you find Russia, Mr Manning?”

“Cold.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Bit of both.”

“And what were you photographing there?”

“Military installations for the bloody Red Chinese!”

He gave me a patient look.

“Landscapes mostly,” I corrected. “For a book. I’ll give you the name and address of my publisher if you want and you can order a copy. £19.99 in hardback.”

He ignored that, put the passport down and picked up my keys. There were about thirty of them on a large, untidy bunch attached to a chain.

“Why so many?” he said, jangling them.

In the glare of the single overhead light they glinted like a crusty brooch.

“Two are ignition keys for my camper,” I told him. “One is for the alarm. One is for a big lock and chain that I use if I have to leave the vehicle unattended for a while. One’s for the petrol cap. One is for my on-board generator. Four are for my house. I’ve also got about a dozen secure lockers on my camper for my cameras and lighting equipment.” I paused. “And the ones with the big plastic tags are for my microlight.

“Microlight?” He raised his eyebrows.

“It’s an aircraft. Like a hang glider, only it’s got an engine.”

“How interesting.”

“I think so.”

“You fly it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Wherever I can.”

“I see.”

He glanced round at Blake and motioned him to ask a few questions. As before, Blake gently shook his head; evidently a man content to listen and learn through others.

An admirable trait.

Abruptly, Davington turned to me and said, “You know the girl, don’t you, you Mr Manning?”

“Know her? In the personal, professional or biblical sense?”

“You’ve been working with her.”

“No, I haven’t. I never met her before today.”

“You’ve been travelling with her across Europe, haven’t you?”

“Refer to my previous answer. Look, who exactly are you, anyway?”

I thought it was time to find out.

“Did you give her any money?”

“I asked who you were. You don’t look like police officers to me.”

“Did you give her any money?” he repeated.

“No. It never occurred to me.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“You’ve got a dirty mind.”

“Is she blackmailing you?”

“Not yet. But I live in hope.”

“Who are you really working for?”

“Myself and the Inland Revenue.”

“Just a humble photographer, eh?”

“Well, my agent thinks I’m slightly more than that. But then he gets ten percent of my income to tell these awful lies.”

He hesitated, then leaned forward until his face was less than a foot from mine.

“What do you know about the China Moon, Mr Manning?”

“The what?”

“The China Moon.”

“I never heard of it, but it sounds vulgar.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“I’m hurt.”

“I put it to you that everything you’ve told us here is nothing but a tissue of lies.”

“Lies, huh?”

“Yes. Lies. Damned lies.”

“Oh, those. They’re the one’s that come before statistics, aren’t they?”

“I advise you not to make light of this.”

“I’m not,” I told him. “In spite of my superficial good humour, I’m taking this very seriously. I’ve been stewing here at Her Majesty’s pleasure for — ” I checked my watch again, “ — five hours and fifteen minutes. I’ve told you everything except my innermost sexual fantasies and I’m worn out. And now I think I’m done. I’ve been travelling for weeks across Europe. I’ve got about a hundred rolls of film in my van that need developing and a huge pile of washing to deal with. I’m hot, tired and hungry — and I need a seriously stiff drink to help wash the taste of all this nonsense from my mouth. So I suggest that you now do one of three things. Either you charge me with something. Or you get my solicitor down here pronto. Or you show me the door. But that’s all you’re getting out of me. I’ve been as cooperative as I possibly can, and I’ve nothing else to add. Okay? ”

For a moment neither of them moved. Then Davington got to his feet.

“Very well then, Mr Manning,” he said. “I’m afraid you leave me with no choice.”

“You’re charging me?”

Those flinty eyes, now looking as hard as industrial diamond, studied me coolly. Blake was on his feet now too, but Clement was sat quietly watching, pen poised.

“No,” Davington said at last, “We’re releasing you. For now. But I suggest that you don’t leave the country for the next few weeks. At least.”

Leave the country? God. Any more of this and I’d be ready to quit the planet.

Relieved, I pointed at my things on the table. “May I?”

Blake nodded and gave me a commiserating smile. I started loading my pockets and watched as Davington and Clement quietly left the room.

“Where’s my mobile phone?” I said, remembering it.

“Isn’t it there?” Blake looked at the table. “Okay. Just a minute.”

He went out of the interview room and came back with it less than a minute later.

“Sorry about that,” he said, handing it back. “Mix up.”

I checked for any missed calls and put it in my pocket wondering what that was all about. I was about to leave when Blake said softly, “How about that autograph, then?”

“How about what?” I thought I misheard him.

“Your autograph,” he repeated. “I really am a fan.”

I gave him a filthy look, then accepted the pen and notebook he was handing me.

“Make it out,” he said, “to My Good Friend, Steven. Steven with a V.”

I shook my head, dumbfounded.

“You’ve got a bloody nerve,” I mumbled as I scrawled both my mark and his message in blue biro.

“I know.” He took the notebook back and examined it. “I’ve found it helps to have plenty of that in my game.”

“Oh? And what game is that, exactly?”

He smiled and motioned me towards the door.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he said.