City of Magic: The Complete Series by Helen Harper (book club recommendations TXT) 📕

swallowed it down. ‘I’m not a hero,’ I hissed, with more emotion than I wanted to convey. ‘I’m not trying to be a hero either. I’m helping out a mate.’

‘Your little collection of waifs and strays will get you seriously hurt one of these days.’ Max licked his lips as if he couldn’t wait to deal out the hurt himself.

I sidestepped and started walking again. ‘Ten days,’ I tossed over my shoulder. ‘You’ll get your money.’

‘I’d better,’ he growled after me.

I expelled a loud, irritated whoosh of air from my cheeks, adding emphasis to my fiction that I wasn’t in the slightest bit of afraid of him, but I couldn’t lie to myself. I was going to have to find the money that was owed to him from somewhere – and find it fast. First, however, there was my legitimate day job to contend with.

I sighed. No rest for the wicked.

Chapter Two

Several hours later and I could feel myself on the home run. The staff room was done. The cells were done. I’d even finished the main investigative work area. In case you’re wondering, I can tell you – unless there was a smearer or overnight drunk in custody who was less comatose and more vomitastic, it was usually far more pleasant cleaning up the arrestees’ area rather than the arresters’. The police were slobs. It didn’t matter how much lemon-scented polish I used, there was no getting rid of the combined odours of stale coffee, deodorant-proof body odour and half-eaten Maccie D’s. I’d found enough ancient French fries in forgotten corners to create a modern art installation worthy of the Tate.

I wandered into the main female restroom, which was open to all comers be they visitors, coppers or those of a criminal persuasion, ready to finish off my last section. For once it appeared relatively empty, with only one stall door closed. I’d be back home and catching up on sleep long before the next shift change. I turned up the volume on my music, enjoying the peppy pop that ensured my energy levels stayed high, and got to work on the sinks and mirrors.

If you think like Max and believe that cleaning is a mug’s game that anyone can do, you don’t have enough imagination. First of all, there’s almost immediate gratification. I didn’t need a supervisor or a passer-by to tell me when I’d done a good job and I didn’t have to wait to find out whether my efforts were passable or not; I could see the evidence with my own eyes. Secondly, to do this sort of work you needed to pay attention to detail. Most people would miss the odd dusty corner or half-hidden cranny, but I saw them all and no cobweb or smear of grease was safe from my scouring.

I could size up a room in five seconds or less, instantly estimating to the minute how long it would take to turn it sparkly and clean. I defy anyone to do a white-glove test and fail me once I’ve had my time somewhere. Not to mention that when you were as adept and experienced as I was, you could whizz through in fifteen minutes and get paid for a full hour while still maintaining full employer satisfaction. And, although my work required a certain kind of focus, I was able to free other parts of my mind to work over other problems. Such as how I was going to get hold of ten grand at short notice to keep slimy Max at bay.

I had a couple of hot tips for the horses at the weekend but there were always other sporting events, even small ones, where I could make a few quick bucks. I was a veritable gold mine of information when it came to different ploys and details that could foretell a sports outcome in my favour. Besides, I’d been in worse situations before. Perhaps taking on Christopher Rider’s debt had not been the greatest move I’d ever made in my life, but it meant that he no longer had to worry about getting his fingers chopped off, and I had the not-unpleasant buzz from the pressure to do well and make the right bets. Really it was win-win.

I was envisaging myself smugly handing over a fat wad of cash to Max before the deadline ran out when the door to the closed cubicle swung open. The reflection of a pale-faced woman with vivid green eyes blinked at me in the mirror. Distracted as I’d been by my own thoughts, her sudden appearance made me jump. I flashed her worried face a quick grin of reassurance and returned my attention to cleaning the glass.

The green-eyed woman shuffled out, heading towards me and the nearest sink. I bobbed my head approvingly; you’d be horrified how many people don’t bother washing their hands. As a cleaner, I guess I’m beneath their notice and they don’t care whether I note their lack of hygiene or not. On the one hand that’s both irritating and ego-sapping; on the other hand, it allows me to discover a vast amount about the human psyche without anyone paying me any attention. That is always useful, considering my other line of work.

I moved slightly to the side to give the woman access to the taps. Of course, I mused, there was more than the odd sports event that I could gamble on. It was only September; betting on a white Christmas, while always fun, wasn’t going to pay off any time soon. Neither was a gamble on the first manned mission to Mars (don’t tell anyone, but I’ve already laid money down for that one). One of the younger members of the Royal family who’d not long been married had, according to a gossip mag, been throwing up in the toilets of an exclusive nightclub as a result of too much tequila. What if it wasn’t tequila but extreme morning sickness? I considered the possibility that the happy