SEAT 97

SEAT 97 Wrong place, wrong time: the mystery of a very public murder Tony Bassett Published by THE BOOK FOLKS London, 2023 © Tony Bassett Polite note to the reader This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate. You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers. We hope you enjoy the book. SEAT 97 is a thrilling standalone mystery by Tony Bassett. Details about the author’s other crime fiction titles can be found at the back of this book. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Also by Tony Bassett Other titles of interest FREE BOOKS IN YOUR INBOX Chapter 1 The assassin slid his sleek, silver Porsche Boxster into the narrow Victorian mews and switched off his Miles Davis CD. He reached into the glovebox and pulled out his favourite toy – a rare 92S Beretta. ‘This should be child’s play,’ he muttered as he cut the engine. He checked his watch. It was just before 7 p.m. and still light. Sunset wasn’t for a while yet. Time to get ready, he thought as he put on a pair of black leather gloves and screwed the silencer into place. He loaded ten rounds in the magazine and put the safety catch on. Then he climbed out, opened the front boot and concealed the gun beneath the spanners and wrenches in his plumber’s bag. The car was parked between two rows of charming, two-storey houses. It was just a brief walk from there to the concert hall, where he would carry out his mission. He smiled to himself because, a short distance away at the far end of the terraced street, lay the Kensington Road. Afterwards, he could join the fast-flowing traffic and disappear into the anonymity of the London night. Slipping off his blazer and trousers as discreetly as possible, he slid his legs into light-grey overalls and buttoned them at the front. As he fastened his tunic, his eyes rested briefly on the purple wisteria clambering up the wall of the white-washed house opposite. Red geraniums, crowded into two wooden tubs, added colour to the street, which lay in the shadow of the high-rise Royal College of Art building. He glanced around. The cobbled lane was deserted. After collecting his tool bag, he put on a grey, peaked cap, locked the car and set off at a brisk pace towards the Royal Albert Hall’s southern entrance. His brow was already glistening with perspiration. He ventured past the glass entrance doors and came to the stage door on his left. He waited there for an opportune moment, which came a few minutes later. Some men wedged the two wooden doors open and began carrying in some camera equipment from a lorry. Then a minibus drew up, packed with chattering musicians. A pert young woman with blonde hair was perched behind a reception desk on the left, protected by a glass screen, as he slipped through the doors. ‘Yes. Can I help?’ The workman set down his bag. ‘A leak in the toilets.’ Her face was blank. ‘First I’ve heard of it.’ He frowned. ‘Well, I got a call two hours ago.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll have to call the manager. Where did you say the leak was?’ ‘Disabled toilet, behind Block L in the stalls.’ She dialled a number on her phone as two men shuffled in, wheeling a trolley laden with sandwiches and desserts, all wrapped in cellophane. ‘Oh thanks, lads,’ he joked. ‘I’ll take my supper in the champagne bar.’ The two men ignored him. ‘Special order from Miss Kay’s dressing room,’ one of the trolley men announced. Recognising their lapel badges, she waved them through the turnstile before her call was answered. ‘Is Graham there?’ she asked. ‘Do you know where he is?’ Two other men with badges plodded into the reception area, carrying flowers. She beckoned them through as well while the musicians began filing in. ‘Can you ask him to call me?’ she asked, swivelling to face the wall. By the time she turned back, the assassin had slipped through the barrier along with the flowers. ‘What the hell?’ she cried as he disappeared from view. * * * While the receptionist desperately continued calling the deputy manager, ticket holders in the auditorium were beginning to take their seats. Nick Colton, a journalist on The Post newspaper, and his wife Greta had arrived early to avoid any last-minute rush. They were sitting near the back of the stalls but nonetheless had a clear view of the stage. A few minutes after they took their seats in Block L, a stout man clutching a ticket could be seen stepping gingerly down the aisle, peering at the end of every row. He was in his mid-forties with receding greyish hair held back in a ponytail, and was wearing gold-rimmed glasses. ‘Oh, the view’s just as good from here,’ the man said, while nodding at the couple and smiling. The stranger gazed around the vast arena until his eyes finally settled on the stage. ‘Yes, this will be fantastic.’ He peeled off his jacket, placing it on the empty aisle seat beside him, and settled himself down beside Colton. ‘I’ve just switched seats,’ he informed the couple. Greta, a slim, olive-skinned brunette, leaned forward and smiled at the