A modern-day Sherlock Holmes, Bernie Quist operates as a consultant detective from Baker Avenue in York. His assistant is Watson, although this Watson is a streetwise youth from the Grimpen housing estate and he's definitely no doctor. The mismatched duo take on bizarre cases which invariably lead into the realms of the supernatural, a shadowy world that, thanks to his dark secret, Quist is all too familiar with.
Itâs almost Christmas and the ancient streets of York are filled with twinkling lights, bustling Yuletide markets and the occasional cloudburst of dismal British sleet. A mundane investigation leads Quist and Watson to an isolated village on the wintry Northumbrian coast, where two faces from the past await: an infamous practitioner of the black arts, and someone they were hoping never to see again. What begins as an intriguing mystery soon becomes the detectiveâs most dangerous and horrific case, with Quist discovering the terrifying secret of the Mulgrave Ritual and his life hanging precariously in the balance.
The Rumba of the Beast, a festive tale of gruesome murders, black magic and ballroom dancing.
A dark and very peculiar game is afootâŚ
A modern-day Sherlock Holmes, Bernie Quist operates as a consultant detective from Baker Avenue in York. His assistant is Watson, although this Watson is a streetwise youth from the Grimpen housing estate and he's definitely no doctor. The mismatched duo take on bizarre cases which invariably lead into the realms of the supernatural, a shadowy world that, thanks to his dark secret, Quist is all too familiar with.
Itâs almost Christmas and the ancient streets of York are filled with twinkling lights, bustling Yuletide markets and the occasional cloudburst of dismal British sleet. A mundane investigation leads Quist and Watson to an isolated village on the wintry Northumbrian coast, where two faces from the past await: an infamous practitioner of the black arts, and someone they were hoping never to see again. What begins as an intriguing mystery soon becomes the detectiveâs most dangerous and horrific case, with Quist discovering the terrifying secret of the Mulgrave Ritual and his life hanging precariously in the balance.
The Rumba of the Beast, a festive tale of gruesome murders, black magic and ballroom dancing.
A dark and very peculiar game is afootâŚ
Oliver Tarrant rarely ventured far from his Northumberland home and his familiarity with foreign weather was limited, to say the least. Heâd expected Mexico to be hot, but not this hot. Twenty-four hours ago, when he stepped from his airplane into the sky bridge tunnel, heâd felt a scorching draught tussle his curly blonde hair. Mystified as to why such a warm country would install airport heaters, heâd glanced up and realised his mistake. The tunnelâs rubber seal had failed to make full contact with the doorway and this was just the daytime air wafting through from outside.
No, these temperatures were very different to the climate Tarrant was accustomed to back in northern England. Stepping out of his air-conditioned hotel in Mexico City felt remarkably similar to opening an oven to check on the progress of the Sunday roast.
At least it was cooler here in the mountains, he mused.
Sitting in the rear of the police car, Tarrant turned from watching the passing countryside. âI have to say it,â he murmured, nervously. âI donât like this.â
âWhy am I not surprised?â snorted his colleague. âYou want to be careful you donât piss your pants. You havenât liked anything since we arrived and most of the time youâre scared of your own shadow. I canât believe the Laird sent you with me.â
Tarrant gritted his teeth, but said nothing. Richard Brunton had always been an arrogant bastard and he detested the man, but their somewhat unique situation meant they were forced to get along with each other. Attractive, with shaggy black hair and a fashionably unshaven square jaw, Brunton stood a few inches over six feet in height, a good eight inches taller than the slender Tarrant. His muscular stature was intimidating, which, along with his aggression, was the main reason the Laird had long ago appointed him his Head of Security. Out here in the wilds of Mexico, however, Bruntonâs size and violent nature wouldnât count for much if things turned bad.
Tarrant swallowed uneasily. When dealing with drug cartels like this, things could often turn very bad indeed.
Wearing a pale blue civilian suit, Eduardo Garcia, the district Police Chief, sat in the front of the patrol car beside the uniformed driver.
âA smooth road, I think you gentlemen will no doubt agree?â He spoke perfect English and gestured to the winding route through the woodland ahead. âBelieve it or not, this has nothing to do with our Highways Department. No, we have Senor Blanco to thank. He paid for the repairs and the resurfacing of the entire road between the city back there and his home. Presumably he doesnât like bumps. I should say: he didnât like bumps.â Garcia laughed. âHe wonât be disliking anything anymore.â
Tarrant peered out over the lush landscape of forest and rugged mountains. Heâd assumed Mexico would be an arid desert, a preconception shaped by countless movies featuring dusty towns with men in sombreros lounging around during siesta. Presumably some parts were like that â maybe around the Texas border â but he hadnât realised the size of this place, some eight times larger than his native Britain. This was the south of the country, fifty miles west of Mexico City on the edge of the Cumbres Sierra Nevada National Park.
âIs this it?â asked Brunton, leaning forward.
âThis is it,â confirmed Garcia. âThe Aztec Palace.â
Tarrant gazed at the building complex ahead, an isolated collection of white towers and red-tiled rooftops, all enclosed behind a high wall. Constructed atop a rugged hill, it did indeed resemble a palace, with a helicopter pad, a private reservoir to supply water, and several machine gun turrets to supply security. An inconceivable amount of money had clearly gone into this residence and it was safe to say that the owner, Francisco Blanco, wasnât short of pesos.
âWelcome to the headquarters of the Muerte Blanco Cartel,â said Garcia.
âMuerte Blanco?â Brunton translated the name and laughed cynically. âWhite Death?â
âEr, yes.â The Police Chief pulled a sour face. âI have to say, Francisco Blanco was somewhat theatrical. Until last night he was one of the biggest players in the world of narcotics. I think this palace speaks as to just how powerful he was.â
Tarrant remembered once reading why footballers were paid such obscene wages â they needed those hundreds of thousands every week because their sporting careers could be relatively short. They might be out of a job in their mid-twenties and thirty million in the bank would protect them from the nuisance of having to find another line of work. Blancoâs people were similar. A career in a drug cartel also paid quite well, but it too could be short-lived and the severance package often left much to be desired.
The electronic gates were open and the patrol car drove through to enter a tiled plaza decorated with huge Aztec statues and a central fountain complex. Circumnavigating the latter, it pulled up outside the main doors beside a small fleet of police vehicles and forensic vans. Clambering from his seat, Garcia beckoned to his guests.
âGentlemen, pleaseâŚâ He nodded to the entrance. âMy people are working inside, but itâs quite safe to go in and explore. Feel free to report anything you see in your magazine story, but Iâll need to personally vet any photographs you take.â
The two men had no intention of taking pictures, mostly because they werenât journalists. A lucrative bribe had ensured the Police Chief hadnât bothered to verify their false story, or check the fake credentials.
Tarrant gazed anxiously around the courtyard. The stone walls were painted gleaming white and festooned with the red blossoms of climbing plants. Some areas were covered in a very different shade of red; a dark congealing red that seemed to be highly popular with clouds of buzzing flies. Beneath the crimson splatters and arterial sprays lay the mangled bodies of seven or eight men.
Tarrant gulped. Or maybe nine or ten â with the state they were in, it was difficult to be sure.
âSo which one is Blanco?â he asked.
âOh, no, my friend.â Garcia shook his head. âThese are just a few of his men. There are many more like this inside, but youâll find Blanco, or rather various pieces of him, out back by the main swimming pool. Just be careful you donât slip in the blood as we go through. By the way, itâs perhaps a little late to be asking, but I hope you arenât squeamish?â
Brunton grinned. âNot at all,â he said, truthfully.
âWhy is everyone wearing a white suit?â asked Tarrant, still staring at the corpses. âItâs like a uniform.â
âI suppose you could call it that,â explained Garcia, leading them into the palace. âBlanco insisted that all his foot soldiers dressed the same. It ensured that, whenever they killed, the terrified witnesses would know who was responsible. Murderers in your country strive for anonymity, but these people like to advertise their power.â
Tarrant walked slowly through the opulent interior of marble columns and expensive artworks, gaping around in wide-eyed horror. Blancoâs men had indeed been outfitted in white, but their clothes now resembled blotchy camouflage attire, if ever camouflage attire were needed for a bizarre environment of scarlet and white. Floors, walls, and even ceilings, were splattered with blood and torn corpses were strewn everywhere, many having been literally ripped apart. The air conditioning was switched off and a sickly, almost metallic, stench filled the rooms and corridors.
Tarrant knew that blood contained metal, probably iron, if memory served, but surely there shouldnât be so much iron that it actually stank?
âIâm afraid this isnât a rare scenario,â said Garcia, noticing his pale features. âOver two-hundred thousand people have died in the drug wars. Blanco originally had an alliance with the Delgado Cartel in the north, but recently they had a falling out.â
âErâŚâ Tarrant looked around at the carnage. âThis is the result of a tiff?â
Garcia shrugged. âThese people donât fool around. Angel Delgado, the cartel head, obviously decided to remove Blanco from the picture and send a definite message to the other players in this business. God alone knows how many he sent here to inflict this sort of damage.â
Brunton and Tarrant exchanged knowing glances. It had taken far fewer assassins than the Police Chief believed, but both men had to agree, it did look as if an army had gone through the place, a crazed army wielding chainsaws.
They walked out through open rear doors to a large swimming pool where Garcia headed to speak with a group of his officers.
Tarrant turned to Brunton. âThere are bullet holes everywhere,â he whispered. âHow come the guards all missed her?â
âDonât be stupid,â sneered Brunton. âThey almost certainly didnât miss. No, the information was correct; this is definitely the person weâre looking for.â
Like the building interiors, the swimming pool area was lavishly decorated with Aztec tiles and large statues, but the overall aesthetic was ruined today by the arms, legs and intestines floating in the murky red water. Green hummingbirds whirred between pots of begonias, their emerald beauty incongruous beside the visceral devastation. Some of the more stupid ones hovered briefly over mutilated bodies, mistaking the ghastly wounds for the bright red flowers. A marble nymph poured an endless torrent into the pool from the upturned urn she carried. Tarrant stared at the giant water feature, his mouth falling open.
âMy God,â he croaked, seeing the human colon draped over its head like a red wig.
Garcia strolled back to his side. âItâs doubtful that God was present last night,â he said, pointing to a pile of offal. âBlanco is over there. His head has been taken, presumably as a trophy for his rival. Iâm told Senor Delgado preserves them in bottles of formaldehyde to decorate his study.â
âEach to their own,â murmured Tarrant, dryly.
 The knowledge that just one assassin had done all of this terrified him. Moving away from the Police Chief to walk around the pool, he took a small hip flask from his jacket pocket and sipped.
âTake it easy with that,â snapped Brunton, following. âWe have a limited supply and you donât need it.â
âThis womanâŚâ said Tarrant, quietly. âLike you said, they were correct about her, but are we really sure sheâs the right one for us. Maybe we could find aâŚâ
âWhat?â scoffed Brunton. âA less dangerous one? I think dangerous kind of goes with the job description. Besides, we donât have the time to shop around as it were.â
âBut the riskâŚâ
âEverything is a risk. Just our being here is a risk. Imagine finding ourselves in a Mexican prison for whatever reason and being separated from the Fountain for too long.â
Tarrant winced, That was something he definitely didnât want to imagine.
* * * *
The Four Seasons hotel stands in the heart of Mexico City on one of the central tree-lined avenues. Entering the main lobby, Tarrant and Brunton discovered an oasis of coolness and calm, quite a contrast to the endless cacophony outside where Latin American temperaments were paired with loud vehicle horns. Grateful for the air-conditioned breeze, the two men took one of the elevators to the top floor where the most expensive suites looked out over the rooftops. The subdued lift music was supposed to soothe the guests, but it did little to calm Tarrantâs nerves. He hesitated as the doors slid open.
âWhatâs wrong now?â snarled Brunton.
âI canât help thinking...â Tarrant swallowed and took a few deep breaths. âIf she should suspect weâre lying to her⌠If she suspects that this is just a ploy toâŚâ
âCome on.â Grabbing his arm, Brunton marched him to the suite at the end of the corridor and rang the bell. âYou might not like this, but you know thereâs no other way. The clock is ticking and we have to get this done.â
A middle-aged woman in a white towel robe answered the door. Strikingly attractive, with dark shoulder-length hair, a black silk patch covered her left eye. Tarrant was momentarily taken aback. Heâd never given any real thought to such things, but heâd expected top assassins to have two eyes. With this particular woman, however, he didnât suppose it mattered much.
âMiss Crane?â asked Brunton. âMaria Crane?â
âThatâs the name I currently use.â The woman looked him over, smiling at his muscular frame. âHow can I help you?â
âWe know youâre here in Mexico on business.â Brunton lowered his voice. âWe have a proposition that we hope will interest you â a business proposition.â
âI see.â Crane paused for several seconds, which felt like minutes to Tarrant. âThen youâd both better come on in, hadnât you?â
They followed her into the plush suite and she closed the door behind them, smirking at Tarrant.
âNo need to be so frightened,â she said.
âEr, noâŚâ He looked confused. âIâm notâŚâ
âYour breathing is rapid and your heart rate is elevated; the pulse in your rather appealing throat is pumping much faster than it should. Donât worry, I wonât bite.â
âHe knows what youâre capable of,â explained Brunton, grinning. âWe saw your handiwork at the Aztec Palace this morning. It scared the shit out of him, but I found it impressive.â
âIs that so?â She stared for a few moments. âI see.â
Tarrant had the distinct impression that she was considering whether or not to kill them. With all the cartel warfare, finding bodies in a Mexican hotel room wouldnât be too unusual for Conchita from housekeeping. It was probably on a par with discovering a condom in the bed, or a stolen towel.
âHow did you find me?â asked Crane.
âWeâve been searching for⌠someone, er, like you,â said Tarrant, nervously. âWe, um, trade in a certain product and we asked some of our customers on the Dark Web if they knew of anyone like you whoâŚâ
âAngel Delgado, the cartel boss, is one of our clients,â broke in Brunton, exasperated by his colleagueâs edginess. âHe told us all about you; about what you are. He explained how he hired you to take care of Blanco and told us where you were staying.â
âDid he?â Crane nodded. âMy work is strictly confidential. Iâll have to call upon Senor Delgado and discuss this before I leave the country. Just out of curiosity, what does Delgado buy from you?â
âBottled water,â laughed Brunton.
âIs that some attempt at a joke?â
âNot at all,â Tarrant quickly assured her. âShallow people will pay stupid money for water, but our product is different and itâs actually worth the price.â He took out his hip flask and warily passed it to her. âUm, this is it: Ravenspoint Spa.â
Crane sniffed. âYes, this is water, but itâs something far more, isnât it? How much do you charge?â
Brunton winked at her. âWe charge thousands, darling.â
Closing her eye, she sniffed again. The liquid was odourless, but Tarrant guessed this womanâs olfactory senses might be a little different to the norm.
âInteresting.â She returned the flask and smiled thinly. âYou mentioned a business proposition?â
Brunton nodded. âAs I say, weâve just visited the Aztec Palace. We have a similar job for you and we need your unique talents as soon as possible.â
âWhere?â
âThe north of England, near Newcastle.â
âIâve visited Scotland.â Walking to the glass balcony doors, she gazed out over the lush trees in the neighbouring parkland. âThe weather is a little different to this.â
âThis is a nice view,â said Tarrant, approaching her. âBut allow me to show you a much nicer oneâ He took out his phone, tapped a banking app and held up a page of transfer details for her to read. âThis amount is only a deposit and itâs ready to send to the account of your choice. You just need to enter your details.â
âI like you.â Smiling at him, she took the mobile and transferred the money. âI canât say as Iâm so keen on your big brash friend there, but I do like you.â
âUm, very good,â said Tarrant, nervously clearing his dry throat. Hopefully she wouldnât like him too much. âNow all you need do is travel to Britain and we can discuss the work.â
âWho is it?â she asked.
âYou mean the target?â said Brunton.
âI mean who just paid me that money? Youâre clearly representing someone and I want their name.â
âReginald Mulgrave,â said Tarrant.
âIâve never heard of him.â Crane shrugged. âBut fortunately for you that isnât a problem. His money is good.â
âThe deposit is an incentive,â said Tarrant. âYouâll keep it whether you take the job or not. The remainder will be deposited after you visit Britain and speak to Reginald in person. I should point out that time is very much a factor here. Itâs less than two weeks to Christmas and the work needs to be completed before then. It needs completing before the 21st of December.â
Crane laughed. âChristmas wonât get in the way of anything. Iâm not in the habit of celebrating such things.â
Well, thatâs one less name on my gift list, thought Tarrant, nervously.
âIâll be there,â she confirmed. âI have a loose end named Delgado that I need to tie up and then Iâll fly out two days from now.â
âExcellent,â said Brunton. âIâll supply you with all the contact information.â
Tarrant was still far from happy about this. Despite the air conditioning, rivulets of sweat trickled down his back.
âYes, excellent,â he agreed, his heart thudding. âWeâll look forward to seeing you there.â
* * * *
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This installment of the Bernie Quist series begins with a grizzly scene in Mexico of a violent mass murder connected to the drug cartels. We donât yet know how this is connected to Bernie and his streetwise assistant Watson but it paints a vivid picture of the villains and the lengths they are willing to go to get what they want.
The story then jumps to Bernie Quist, werewolf and genius consulting detective, and his streetwise assistant Watson being followed by two shady characters throughout the Yorkshire countryside. These two mysterious and at times bumbling characters are then joined by still more villains who all seem to have the same goal: to get Bernie to a sleepy little hamlet on the Northumbrian coast. What he and Watson find there is totally unexpected and maybe just as sinister.
I loved this take on the Holmes and Watson story. The relationship between Bernie and Watson is funny and refreshing. Unlike the original Sherlock Holmes, Bernie is not condescending towards Watson and finds real value in Watsonâs youth and unconventional personality. Meanwhile, itâs obvious that Watson respects and looks up to Bernie but he also canât help teasing him and bringing levity into his life. It was a joy to read the dialogue between them and their friendship/partnership seemed genuine and well constructed.
I also really enjoyed the mini-history and geography lessons sprinkled in throughout the story. I feel like a learned a lot about the history of Northern England and itâs topography. These little historical snapshots were not overly long and really made me want to visit all the places that were described so eloquently.
Overall, I really enjoyed the mystery as well and was surprised by the twist at the end. Although I found certain parts to drag a little and lose momentum, this did not last long and the story soon picked up again. I havenât read the rest of the Bernie Quist series and you donât really need to in order to follow this story. However, I enjoyed this installment so much, I will be sure to go back and read the rest.