The Icing Man's main character is a retired executive living in the tranquillity of rural Suffolk. His life is shattered when a series of bizarre, seemingly unrelated events lead him and his friends into a nightmare world of pornography and murder.
Excerpt from Chapter One: Pervert
I think the root of my enchantment is the way in which Julian and his mate operate in perfect accord, almost as if they're acting out a well-rehearsed play or ballet. Kathy, without question, does indeed come across as the 'brains of the outfit'. Like a graceful bird of prey she hovers from aisle to aisle, surreptitiously regarding potential targets. Once a candidate's been located, Julian skilfully makes an approach.
The pattern is always the same - a casual remark about some product or other, a brief introduction, then somehow the switch to the business at hand. This part of the operation still remains a mystery to me. There always seems to be a critical moment when the unsuspecting victim may take offence, lash out and storm off, but I've yet to witness such an event. Invariably, the negotiation is successful or at least in part. Failure, when it does occur, is perhaps the most remarkable and entertaining part of the whole process. Julian, smiling throughout, deftly manages to quell any alarm or anger and within seconds departs from the mark as one might expect an old friend to...
It's now less than five minutes since the last campaign and already I sense that Ms Murkett has identified the next contestant. Correct, Julian's on the move! Basket in hand, he sidles up to what appears to be a young mother no more than nineteen years old. The girl has two children in tow - one toddling beside her; the other a baby propped up in a trolley. She's a pretty girl - tall, dyed-blonde unkempt shoulder-length hair and trim figure teetering on the voluptuous side in certain areas. Her make-up is decidedly overdone and less than skilfully applied. Julian seems to be passing her by then suddenly bends down to retrieve something the toddler's dropped. The harassed girl is grateful. Julian smiles, picks up the child and points to an item on a nearby shelf. The vivid image of a 1960s encyclopaedia salesman with his foot well and truly in the door flashes across my mind. This is indeed an unsung art form. But wait! All is not well. The girl's becoming agitated. She's hastily retrieving the toddler from Julian's arms. A crisis is developing... but my friend shows no sign of concern. His smile broadens; he picks a jar or bottle from the shelf and shows it to the flustered woman. Words tumble from his mouth and in a moment the girl's face relaxes. She blushes. A further brief exchange and the woman accepts Julian's card. They smile; nod to each other and, following a US-style military salute, the master takes his leave. Another triumph.
Truly amazing. At this juncture if I were watching with a female partner, I'd be tempted to say something clichéd like, 'Was that good for you too?' As things stand, however, several fellow shoppers are eyeing me with a mixture of concern and suspicion. Definitely time to move on to the cereals and crisps section...
Almost two-thirty. Time to end the excitement for today, collect the shopping I came for and head back home.
Idling the time away while queuing at the checkout, reading about this week's special offers, a characteristic voice gave me an unwelcome start.
'Hi, Doc. How's it goin'? Looks like you're stockin' up for a bit of a siege there to me. Guests comin'?'
I turned to discover that Julian had joined the back of my queue. The three ladies separating us looked at me expectantly, their interest in my as yet undelivered response clearly spellbinding.
'Hello Julian,' I replied a little sheepishly. 'Yes, a trifle more than usual. I'm expecting someone from the Work Experience programme tomorrow.'
'Oh right,' he beamed with enthusiasm. 'Great! Teach the kids a trade. Wish I'd had the chance. By the way, did ya catch today's show? Not bad, eh?'
I knew full well what was being referred to, but the thought that Julian was aware of my role as voyeur both robbed me of speech and delivered an acute injection of embarrassment. At this point the trio of shoppers, if seated, would certainly have been perched on the edge of same, hardly able to contain themselves; desperate to discover the topic under discussion. Unfortunately, the prolonged silence prompted my friend to answer for me.
'Of course ya did - daft question. A fair selection for a Tuesday, if I do say so myself,' he continued. 'And what about the girl with the legs up to the Mississippi and 747 upper deck? Definitely a star in the makin'. What d'ya think, Doc?'
If it had been anyone other than Julian you'd be forgiven for concluding that he was either playing to the gallery or deliberately trying to embarrass me. This, however, was Julian; and I'd come to appreciate that malevolence wasn't in his nature. Also, the assumption that I would without doubt have witnessed his efforts was interesting. Probably it stemmed from a misunderstanding of my role as part-time, or more correctly these days, very occasional, forensic consultant to the police. For most people, the mention of forensics instantly conjures up images of Sherlock Holmes and more modern TV investigative marvels. In fact my area of expertise was restricted to esoteric poisons and, although I'm by nature an observant individual, I lack the star qualities of Mr Holmes or his contemporaries.
In response I smiled and nodded my agreement. The ladies frowned and shook their heads in disgust, still none the wiser regarding the topic. As for Mr Stammers, he just carried on beaming, oblivious that anything was amiss. Thankfully it was at last my turn for the ubiquitous barcode scanning ritual, and ten minutes later I was more than relieved to signal a fond farewell to my neighbour.
