The Persian

  The

  Persian

  Gordon A. Watt

  Copyright © 2011 Gordon A. Watt

  First published in 2011

  Second edition 2017

  The right of Gordon A. Watt has been asserted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Be kind to sausage dogs. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN: 9781549822025

  Contents

  Praise for The Persian

  About the Author

  Author’s note

  Thanks

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  ACT ONE

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  ACT TWO

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  ACT THREE

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  EPILOGUE

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Praise for The Persian

  “…a strong emphasis on the redemptive power of love - this makes it the more shocking when things turn very dark indeed!”

  “The whodunnit was engaging, the ending shocking. The characters were well-drawn and likeable.”

  “A love-letter to London.”

  About the Author

  Gordon splits his time between Cheshire and London, making hard-hitting documentary films for television or the big screen, and writing novels under nostalgic pen-names. He is happiest in a good coffee shop with a laptop, or watching cheesy TV shows with his significant otter Kit, and their sausage ‘dawgter’ Lizzie.

  Author’s note

  This book is a re-issue of my first novel, published in 2011. At the time I was in a hurry to get it out there, and afraid that if I didn’t move quickly, I would lose impetus and give up.

  A novel is bloody hard work, and constructed over a long, long time. As any self-published writer will tell you, there is no back-up. Unless you have a copy-editor looking over your shoulder, mistakes creep in. Your confidence takes a hit after a while and you see the work for what it is - crap fit only for burning.

  Then you read it again, and it doesn’t seem quite so bad.

  Then the confidence thief strikes again and you look for the matches…

  With 20/20 hindsight, I came to understand that I released The Persian too soon. With far more mistakes than it deserved and structural problems that I regretted almost straight away. I know now that I needed to publish when I did, and that the paralysis of indecision would have made sure that nothing got done at all if I didn’t make some kind of move, however foolhardy.

  Ultimately, I’m glad I did. The book was never destined to become a bestseller, but the reviews were mostly kind, and gave me the confidence to write another novel, then a novella, and some shorter works.

  I wanted to go back to The Persian, to correct some of the errors that I should never have allowed to escape with the novel’s first release, change a couple of scenes to lift what sometimes read as mawkish prose or over-complicated plotting and generally tidy up a rather unprepared first novel. I have left much of the style intact, aware that this is where I began my process, and to provide me with a base-line for future work.

  Five years on, I’m more aware than ever that I have everything still to learn. I’m going to make my mistakes on the page, and in the open, but hopefully, some years from now, I might just get my head around this novel writing lark.

  I hope you’ll still want to read them.

  G.W.

  24th September 2017

  Cheshire, UK.

  Thanks

  I would like to thank the following especially for their invaluable help editing and proof-reading this book.

  Mark Radford, Alan Moloney, Simon Miles, Kit Perren, Scott Conant, Linda Sills, Sylvain Lamaud, Chris Long, Joe Ruffles and Keith Marais

  Thanks go also to the wonderful group of test readers for putting The Persian through its paces. Any inaccuracies, mistakes and balls-ups are entirely my fault.

  Finally, the greatest apologies go to my Persian friends, who will giggle their way through my terrible Iranian references. I have made several films about Iran, and have a fascination with the Persian culture, history and people. I hope one day to visit the country without fear of imprisonment or worse, something that in the current climate, the country’s gay population can only dream of.

  Dedication

  For Kit

  Leone Dulce

  With looks dishevelled, flushed in a sweat of drunkenness

  His shirt torn open, a song on his lips and wine cup in his hand.

  With eyes looking for trouble, lips softly complaining

  So at midnight last night he came and sat at my pillow…

  Hafiz, circa 1320-1389

  PROLOGUE

  Weak and drowsy, the man on the wide bed stirred and cracked his eyes open onto a vaguely familiar room.

  His skin itched and burned, but he didn’t have command enough of his limbs to rub the discomfort away. His gums ached along the line of his teeth, and his lips felt chapped, his throat raw.

  Summoning strength, and moving impossibly slowly, he made claws of his hands and hauled himself, naked and trembling toward the pillows at the top of the bed where he settled heavily, curled up into a foetal ball.

  A high-pitched whine ma
de his ears ache, a sharp counterpoint to the rasp of his shallow breathing echoing through his aching skull. He groaned softly, the sound almost too loud in his head. He couldn’t remember getting drunk, but this felt like the aftermath of a killer night out. Why the ache though? Why so tired?

  Finally, not caring enough to answer his own mute questions, he merely sighed when strong hands lifted him into a kneeling position on the bed, his shoulders slumped and head hanging heavily.

  The figure moving him changed position and, after a moment, there was a brush of thick, soft body hair against his buttocks - again familiar - and a substantial pressure beneath him. Dull pain blossomed from so far away it almost felt as if it belonged to someone else. Strong hands took hold of his hips, pulling him into position.

  Then the fingers moved slowly up over his shoulders to meet around his neck where, after a moment’s hesitation, they began to squeeze.

  ACT ONE

  [One O’clock News]

  [Run sting]

  Good afternoon, I’m George Taylor. More on our main story today, the discovery of the bodies of two men in a London hotel this morning. Police have said that the investigation is ongoing, but that the deaths do appear to be suspicious and may be linked to a previous crime. Our home affairs correspondent Emma Payton reports.

  [Run VT]

  [Hatton Hotel exteriors]

  [EP V.O.]

  The men, both in their thirties, were found by police in this luxury hotel in the centre of London during the early hours of this morning. The Metropolitan Police say that information given by an anonymous caller led them to the location. The Hatton hotel has released a statement to say that they are assisting the Police with their investigation. Little is know about the identity of the men at this time, but they do not appear to have been staying at the hotel.

  [CLIP - Police spokesman]

  “As you might understand, this is an ongoing investigation, and we can’t say much at this point. We would like the caller from last night to get in touch with us. It’s possible that he may have further information which may be of use in understanding what has happened here.”

  [Police entering building]

  [EP V.O.]

  The bodies of the men have been taken to Saint Thomas’ Hospital. Police are urging the public to come forward with any information they might have.

  Emma Payton

  BBC News

  Two

  The coffee shop was… nice, Mitch decided, though his inner voice painted the word with more sarcasm than he’d manage out loud. It used to be a family-run business selling authentic paninis and perfect coffee made from a blend of beans that the owners proudly declared a family secret, but in the two weeks he’d been away filming for a documentary, the old shop had closed, and a chain had moved in. Mitch hoped the family had made a killing on the deal. He also hoped they’d left their secret blend recipe behind for the new manager, but knew the answer wouldn’t make him happy.

  It wasn’t as if the shop was unpleasant, but the new unit was almost offensively inoffensive. A patchy wall of bare London brick as you enter; raw chipboard behind the tattooed barista; even copper piping and Edison bulbs throughout the place. Ten years ago it would have been unusual - shabby chic even; now, even with the coffee aromas, he could have just walked into any fashionable store along Regent Street and found the same decor, the same customers. It was just… nice.

  The handsome ‘authentic’ Italian barista shyly smiled at him as he sprinkled the logo of the store in cocoa onto the foam of the two overpriced coffees. He winked at Mitch as the tall man collected his drinks, and almost remembered to close his mouth.

  Carol sat at a small table by the new plate glass window, gazing thoughtfully at the shoppers passing by, out in the summer sun. She smiled her thanks when Mitch sat down and gratefully took a sip of her coffee. He did the same and silently cursed the pleasant blend. Bastards.

  “You’ve pulled,” she noted, indicating the barista with a significant stare with her bright grey eyes. Faint laughter lines betrayed her amusement.

  “Saw that did you, hawk-eye?”

  “I thought he’d carved his number in your crema!”

  “Chance would be a fine thing! Though I’d have to change his diaper, and, you know…” He made a face, scrunching up his nose and shaking his head in distaste.

  “I know how that spoils your evening,” she replied. “Still, I can’t remember the last time you phoned me with an after-match replay. You’re losing your touch.”

  “Hey - if you guys want to fix me up - I’m not stopping you, I’ll even play nice.”

  “Well, there’s a cute constable at the station…” Carol said with a smile. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “Well, you know I like a man in uniform,” Mitch said. “Should I bring nappies?”

  “He might be changing yours if you don’t get a move on!”

  Mitch couldn’t remember his last proper date. His friends fixed him up with guys from time to time, but he’d never felt the necessary connection, and the drinks they’d had were just that. He was beginning to worry that he was broken.

  “So, how did it go?” She asked, serious again. “This morning, I mean.”

  She was referring to the hotel deaths. The press scrum outside the hotel that morning had been mayhem, each channel desperate for a prime position in front of the detective at the scene. Mitch recalled the look of disgust at the childish antics of some of the camera operators and press photographers that the senior officer hadn’t been able to disguise.

  “Oh - same old,” he said quietly, “too much press, not enough story. The editors are desperate to fill the bulletins, and we make a meal of it as usual.”

  “It’s the same at our end.” She said, warming her hands on her oversized mug. “There’s a bit of a scrabble to get onto the team covering the case. Anything out of the ordinary is going to be in demand.”

  “Is it that out of the ordinary?” he asked.

  “Oh yeah. This one’s gonna run.”

  Carol was coming to the end of her probationary period with the Met, and had begun to look for a more permanent position within the force. Mitch agreed with her move to the Police; getting away from the military suited her. She looked well and seemed relaxed - apart from the occasional nerves which he suspected only he could see.

  “Have you got a placement yet?”

  “Not yet, but I should hear in the next couple of weeks. ”

  “What are you up to till then?”

  “Very little at the moment. My tutelage has finished, and I’m kicking my heels. I’m taking the time to learn what I can about each department. The Met lets you float a bit and show your face around.”

  “What do you want to do? You must have a few options?”

  Carol, with her military background, would be valuable in many fields.

  “That’s the thing - there’s almost too much choice. I’ve put in for CID, but I’m not likely to get in first time around.”

  Mitch blew his cheeks out. “That’s a tough first choice. What else have you applied for? Do you have a backup plan?”

  “Nothing.”

  Mitch laughed. “Nothing? What if you don’t get in?”

  “They’ll find something for me,” Carol said, smiling. “I know it might be daft, but I don’t want to give them easy options. I know what I want to do.”

  “But don’t you–” he started, as a loud beep and vibration issued from his chest.

  Carol smirked as a text message pinged through, conveniently sparing her from Mitch’s ire. Shaking his head at her in mild disbelief, he pulled the phone from his jacket pocket to check the message.

  The package went down well. Ed says he won’t need you again today. Enjoy the afternoon! Emma. X

  “Looks like I’ve been let go,” he said, taking another sip of his coffee. The afternoon was starting to look rather rosy. A pub visit looked to be in order on the way home.

  “Are you coming to
Rita’s welcome party then?”

  He’d almost forgotten about it. Rita, his lovely next door neighbour, routinely took in lodgers for Monarch’s, the art academy in London. The new term was due to begin in a few days, and she’d asked him to come round for drinks to welcome her new student.

  “I guess so. Who else is coming?”

  “Just Tom and Pete.”

  He’d been through the academy previously - so it didn’t surprise Mitch that Tom would be there. Pete was his long-suffering partner, though any partner of Tom’s would be long-suffering eventually, he decided.

  “It’ll be fun to see them. It’s been a while.”

  “Is he still fixing you up with his boy-toys?” Carol asked, smirking.

  “Let’s just say that Tom’s taste in models is of… a particular flavour,” Mitch said, trying to be polite.

  Carol laughed and held her hands up. “I don’t need to know!”

  He laughed too. “You’re dying to know!”

  “Well, one day he’ll send something nice your way.”

  “Sending isn’t the problem,” he says.” It’s getting rid of them!”

  “Well, you’ll find someone when you’re ready.”

  “I think you’ll know before I do,” Mitch said quietly, and finished the last drop of foam from his awful cup of coffee.

  He didn’t know exactly when he’d decided to take the detour home after getting off the tube at Walthamstow, but his feet had found their way to their usual mark in front of Rick’s grave. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know how he had got there, but more that the journey to the cemetery seemed to have been wiped from his short-term memory.

  The once-pink lilies in the planter at the base of Rick’s headstone had long gone beyond the point where they might have been described as ‘dying’. The limp petals lay all over the grey stone chips surrounding the grave, and some of the flowers had stuck to the gold-inlaid characters in the granite headstone.