Book 3 - The Spy Who Haunted Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

shovel. He was a tall, thin, sad affair, wrapped in a long grimy coat with food stains down the front, topped with a thick scarf to keep the cold out. He wore heavy old-fashioned spectacles with the kind of thick lenses normally employed to fry ants with the help of the sun, behind which his gaunt face had the kind of pallor usually found only on things that live at the bottom of the sea. Coffin Jobe was cursed with an unusual affliction. You’ve heard of narcoleptics, who have a tendency to fall suddenly asleep and then wake up again? Coffin Jobe is a necroleptic. He has the tendency to suddenly fall down dead, and then get over it. A serial resurrector, as it were. He’s been dying and coming back to life again on a regular basis for some years now, and no one knows why, least of all him. (Though there are those who say he’s doing it in order to get used to being dead, so he can develop an immunity.) However, as a direct result of his many assignations with the Other Side, Coffin Jobe can See the world with more than usual clarity. This has made him very useful on many a criminal endeavour, as there’s no one better at spotting hidden traps and unexpected dangers.
    He’s also as crazy as a sewer rat on amphetamines, but you have to expect that. People make allowances.
    I’ve always suspected that Coffin Jobe can See the torc around my throat and therefore knows I’m really a Drood, but he’s never said anything. He’d never betray a friend and a confidant. Not unless there was really serious money involved.
    The Dancing Fool, on the other hand, would sell his own granny for the promise of a bent penny. He was the fastest fighter in the world and made sure that everyone knew it. He could move so fast you didn’t even know you’d been hit until the ground jumped up to slap you in the face. All the best martial arts are based on dances; he claimed his was based on an old Scottish sword dance. He practiced the deadly martial art of knowing exactly what an opponent is going to do before they do it. He called it déjà fu. He liked to style himself as an international assassin, but really he was just hired muscle. He was talented enough, but not all that bright, and was cursed with a terrible temper. When the red mist descended he was a danger to anyone around him, including his own allies. A broad, bluff Scottish type, he wore clan colours I knew for a fact he wasn’t entitled to and affected a lilting Highlands accent.
    He also had no sense of humour. You could tell that from his clothes.
    And finally, there was Strange Chloe. A disturbing young lady, with a permanent scowl and a stuck-out lower lip. A Goth, of course. In fact, a Goth’s Goth, dressed in black, complete with fishnet stockings and a black velvet bow holding back long jet black hair. Her stark white face was dominated dark makeup and stylings she’d actually had tattooed in place. The eyelids in particular must really have hurt. Strange Chloe had a mad on for the entire world, so much so that when she really concentrated, the world actually crumbled under the force of her gaze. She could make walls fall down, rivers evaporate, and people crumble into dust, and she did. Fortunately, she lacked the energy to get into any real trouble and hadn’t the ambition necessary to make herself a major player, for which the rest of us were very grateful. She did just enough to get by and spent most of her time sulking in bed.
    I couldn’t help feeling that the quality of her life would improve greatly if she just got her ashes hauled on a regular basis. But it would be a brave man who tried.
    So; a man who could See traps, a thug for hire, and a woman who could make things go away just by looking at them. Not a bad crew.
    Strange Chloe fixed me with a thoughtful glower. “What are you doing here, Shaman?”
    “Shaman knows secrets about the Tower of London, Chloe,” Big Aus said smoothly.
    “Such as?” said the Dancing Fool. He did his best to sound