Page 1 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter One

Eoin

I’m not sure if it’s the stink of cheap booze or cheaper aftershave that’s making my eyes water.

Probably both.

In the five months I’ve been working this case, I’ve had to rely on my strong stomach because the places I’ve been doing business in don’t exactly feature in London’s tourist brochures.

Unless they’ve started a new campaign called See Where Health Inspectors Fear to Tread .

“Another round?” Donny asks, raising his empty glass to the barkeep.

I nod, keeping my posture loose, my eyes half-lidded like I’ve nowhere else to be.

Patience is everything in this job.

“So, these diamonds.” My voice is low, so it doesn’t carry past our corner of the pub. “Your source is solid, yeah?”

Donny’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Pure as fucking snow, mate. Fletcher collection, just like you asked. Top quality.”

I take a pull of my beer, which tastes like someone’s wrung out a dishcloth into a glass. “My buyer’s particular. If these aren’t the real deal…”

“These are the real deal. Nicked from a penthouse in Mayfair.”

“You nick ’em yourself, did you?” I ask, knowing full well he didn’t. Donny’s a fence, not a burglar.

“Nah, got a new supplier.” His chest puffs up. “Moving up in the world, ain’t I?”

“Let’s see the goods, then.”

He glances around the pub, then reaches inside his grimy jacket. My instincts have my hand drifting toward the concealed weapon at my hip. If anything goes south, I’m ready.

Donny produces a small velvet pouch and drops it on the table between us with a soft thud.

I take my time, keeping my movements casual as I loosen the drawstring. Inside, the six Fletcher diamonds glitter even in this dim light. Each one is worth more than I’ll make in five years.

I plaster on an underwhelmed expression. “Not bad. Mind if I check ’em?”

Without waiting for an answer, I fish out a jeweler’s loupe from my pocket. Donny fidgets as I examine each stone, though I already know they’re genuine.

“They’ll do,” I finally say, tucking the pouch into my jacket. “The usual price?”

“Nah, these are premium. Twenty percent more.”

I snort. “Ten. And that’s generous.”

“Fifteen,” he counters, looking offended. “I got expenses.”

“Like what? Better aftershave? Because you should consider it.”

He grins, revealing teeth that could star in a dental hygiene horror film. “Twelve and a half. Final offer.”

“Fine,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “Twelve and a?—”

The pub door bangs open. Two uniformed officers step inside.

Donny’s eyes go wide. “You fucking rat?—”

I don’t wait for him to finish. “Move!” I shout to the officers who are already lunging for Donny, but the slippery bastard is quicker than he looks.

He bolts, knocking over our table and sending beer glasses shattering across the floor.

I chase after him. Five months of graft aren’t going down the toilet because Donny Walsh fancies himself an Olympic sprinter.

Donny crashes through the back door into the alley behind the pub. The door slams into my shoulder as I follow, but adrenaline makes the pain irrelevant.

“Stop! Police!” I roar, but of course, he doesn’t stop. Because no one in the history of crime has ever thought, Oh, they said stop, better turn myself in and save everyone the cardio .

The alley is narrow, slick with decades of grime and God knows what else. Donny stumbles on a pile of rubbish, and I see my chance. I dig deep, legs burning, and launch myself at him.

We go down in a tangle of limbs, skidding across wet pavement.

The impact knocks the wind from my lungs, but training takes over. I grab his right arm and twist it behind his back, using my weight to pin him down.

“Get the fuck off me!” he screams.

I lean close to his ear. “Eoin O’Connell, Metropolitan Police.” I slap my badge down in front of his face. “You’re nicked, you stupid bastard.”

“You’re dead!” He spits, struggling harder. “You hear me? Fucking dead! I’m going to fucking kill you.”

I twist his arm higher, making him yelp. “There’s a queue of people wanting to kill me. But feel free to join the line.”

The two uniformed officers appear at the end of the alley, running toward us. Donny keeps struggling, managing to get a hand free. He claws at my face, fingernails digging into my cheek.

“Ah, for feck’s sake,” I growl as I grab his arm again. “Quit yer wrigglin’, Donny. It’s over.”

The officers reach us, and together, we haul Donny to his feet.

There’s murder in his eyes when he looks at me.

“How the fuck are you a cop?”

“Scotland Yard has a thug quota to fill, and I was the only applicant who could spell detective correctly,” I reply. “Though, between you and me, I had to sound it out.”

Donny spits a mixture of blood and saliva that lands just shy of my boot. The uniformed constable to my right tightens his grip, making Donny wince.

“The Fletcher diamonds,” I tell one of the officers, producing the velvet pouch from my jacket. “Evidence.”

“Nice work, O’Connell,” says a familiar voice from the end of the alley. Detective Inspector Patel approaches, her dark eyes taking in my disheveled state with a hint of amusement.

She nods to the officers to take Donny away.

As they drag him off, still cursing my name, my ancestors, and any future children I might have, Patel examines the pouch of diamonds.

“The Fletchers will be relieved. Lady Fletcher was particularly attached to these.”

“Glad to bring joy to the aristocracy,” I deadpan as I wipe blood from my cheek from where Donny scratched me. “I’m going to write up my report, then try to wash this stink off me.”

“No, you’re not.” Patel’s expression shifts, becoming serious. “You’re wanted at headquarters. Immediately.”

I frown. “Can’t it wait? I need to get Donny booked?—”

“Orders from Detective Chief Superintendent Thornton himself. And he said to come as soon as you were finished here.”

A cold finger of unease traces down my spine.

“Did he say what it’s about?”

“No. But it’s big. The deputy commissioner is there too.”

Jaysus.

“Am I getting the boot?” I’m joking, but my stomach clenches. This job is everything I’ve clawed and bled for since leaving Belfast.

Sometimes it feels like the only thing that separates me from the likes of Donny is a different path chosen at the same crossroads.

“If you were being fired, they wouldn’t waste the deputy commissioner’s time on it,” Patel says. “Car’s waiting at the end of the street.”

Fucking grand. Blood is drying on my face, my clothes reek of cheap beer, and I’m about to meet with the highest brass at Scotland Yard.

What in the name of God do they want with me?