the Disappearance of Jonathan Bloom

By Martin Sowery

Julian Bowen is young, good looking but not so wealthy as he seems. When he meets a moneylender who's making fat profits from his friends' excesses, Julian sees a chance to wipe out his mounting debts and make a new start; but his plan leaves a group of innocent tourists in deadly danger in the middle of Africa; and meanwhile there are some people in London who want more than their money back

For Jill Stevens, more at home in an accounts department than the savannah, a wildlife safari turns into a nightmare ordeal that she must find new strength within herself to survive.

Set in the parched heartlands of south east Africa, this unusual tale mixes an intriguing and violent crime mystery with a gripping struggle to stay alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Sowery
• Release date: Mar 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301786787

Martin Sowery

Martin lives in the Yorkshire Dales and Madrid - another poor boy who grew up smart enough to make money, dumb enough to blow it (on failed marriages to good women) and lucky enough to get a decent living from corporate law; ending up somehow with a great family spread far and wide, a stack of old cycle racing injuries, and a cluster of real and imagined stories that insist on being told.

Book preview

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF JONATHAN BLOOM

By Martin Sowery

Copyright 2013 Martin Sowery

Prologue

Imagine a scene viewed from a distance: a residential street in a fashionable part of London where there are not many pedestrians at this hour of day. Light traffic moves carefully past the vehicles parked on either side of the road. A newcomer arrives and pauses to admire the wrought iron railings that front the smart brick facades of a row of town houses. He’s still only for a moment, then he strides up up three stone steps and slaps his palm firmly against the porcelain doorbell of the particular residence he has selected.

He’s a youngish man; well dressed. At any rate he’s wearing a good suit, though something in the wearer’s manner makes it seem more casual than smart. He came here by taxi a few minutes ago. F or some reason he instructed the driver to drop him two streets short of his destination, even though a very light rain is falling and he doesn’t have the look of one who walks for pleasure. Anyway, it’s more like dampness in the air than true rain; not enough to distress his carefully cut black hair.

One or two passers by move along the street while he’s standing at the door, but he’s not kept waiting long. It seems he was expected. Another man opens the door and welcomes him inside after a brief handshake. The other is also wearing a suit, but his style is more precise and neater than his visitor’s. Seen together, the two men have a similar look, although the visitor is taller and not quite so slender. Each face has an expression that could be described as watchful. They could be brothers perhaps, or maybe rivals.

The householder eases the door closed behind his visitor. Although it looked like an ordinary door from the street, the guest notes that sophisticated security fittings are controlled from within. His host leads him up an impressive staircase and through a small but beautifully decorated hallway, into a drawing room, where he directs the visitor to sit in a chair upholstered in soft antique leather. He excuses himself and leaves the room for a moment.

The visitor takes in his surroundings. Everything is expensive and carefully arranged. Much of it is old in a European style; but there are odd examples of tribal art, masks on the wall and carvings, in wood and stone, that seem a little incongruous here. There’s a burgundy chesterfield that matches this armchair where the visitor is now sitting; with a pair of tall blocks of veined green marble flanking either side of it. An oversized table lamp of ornate polished brass sits on top of each column. The floor is polished wood parquet and in front of the chesterfield there’s a gorgeous rug with a rich, deep pile and just the hint of a pattern, so subtle that it’s hard to say exactly what colour predominates.

The host returns to the drawing room; but it’s only for a moment. He’s just checking on something. The visitor gives him the confirmation he seeks and the other excuses himself once more.

Now the visitor stands and begins to inspect the room, touching various objects that catch his attention. He picks up one of the brass lamps and holds it above its marble base for a moment, as if weighing it. He bends down to feel the pile of the thick rug with his smooth palm. He walks across to the fireplace and begins to inspect the small items displayed on the mantelpiece.

When the other finally comes back to the doorway of the drawing room, his visitor is holding a silver, jeweled box of some eastern design. It would be gaudy, if it were not so small and exquisite. The visitor senses the host’s displeasure and replaces the box on the mantelpiece. The other frowns, only for a moment.

Then he advances into the room and he’s holding a pen in one hand and in the other he has an envelope that’s stuffed thick with some kind of wad, together with a single sheet of printed paper. He goes across to a desk that is generations old carved walnut topped with a blotter of antique leather. He sets the paper and the envelope down on the desk, but rather than joining him there, the visitor beckons his host, as if he wanted to point out something in the room from this own perspective.

The other frowns once more, as if he were starting to find this visit tiresome. He shrugs and steps towards his guest.

Everything has happened so slowly up to this point, but suddenly events speed up. The visitor seizes hold of the heavy brass lamp and in the same swift movement brings it swinging around in an arc that connects the weighted base to the head of the unsuspecting other. The point of impact is the back of the skull, just a little higher than the earlobes. The victim stands motionless for a second, then exhales a soft sigh and drops to the ground. The visitor aims one more blow down at the head of the body lying on the thick rug, but this time it’s with all his strength, swinging from behind the shoulder.

When the visitor stands fully upright again, he’s still holding the brass lamp. It hasn’t broken or bent, although the shade is torn and crushed; partly bent around his wrist. Something like blood but more than blood is dripping from the base of the lamp onto the rug. A stain of deep red, small at first, is spreading across the thick pile, obliterating the delicate ambivalence of the original colours.

For a while, the visitor stands watching the growing stain. He’s panting a little, from his recent exertion or from excitement. The fallen body doesn’t move at all. Finally satisfied, the visitor drops the lamp onto the rug and disconnects its cable from the plug set in the floor. Stooping, he grasps the victim’s wrist, checking for a pulse. He keeps trying that for a minute or so, then he grunts and folds the rug over the body so that it’s wrapped tightly. There’s no blood leaking onto the parquet floor, so far as he can see.

Once he’s completed these arrangements, the visitor starts to move around the flat with more urgency. There are many things to be done and not much time. There’s a plane he needs to catch in a few days’ time and his first task is to locate the tickets.

First Day

The noise that had become as familiar as toothache was suddenly absent. In the moment that the fasten seat belt signs clicked off, the usual rush to stand in the aisle, followed by a period of cramped and pensive waiting. Finally, a breath of natural air, as the door locks were released and then out at last from the cursed tube and down the steps on legs that felt strangely clumsy, eyelids fluttering in the brilliant midday sun of a new continent.

Seen from the hot tarmac, Victoria Falls International Airport met the expectations of most travellers. It presented a shabby exterior that had been new when the world was a different and wider place. Inside, the arrivals facility had a decaying look about it, although everything seemed to run smoothly. The fittings were old fashioned and knocked about by hard use and some of the flooring was coming away. Nevertheless, the place was bustling with human traffic and all of the various functionaries in attendance seemed to have some idea of what their responsibilities were, even if those functions weren ’ t obvious to the casual onlooker.

By the time the new arrivals from Johannesburg had crossed the space between the British Airways jet and the official beginning of Zimbabwe, baggage handlers were already tossing their packs and bundles through the open hatch in the side of the building that served in place of a belt carousel.

The passenger who had occupied seat 15B on the Johannesburg flight smiled as he compared the primitive effectiveness of these arrangements with what he had left behind in Europe. Back home, they had up to date technology and advanced management skills to ensure travellers could expect to be subjected to delay, confusion and discomfort in equal measure. It was refreshing to see how simply things could be done when there were no layers of management to direct them.

The new arrival was a tall, dark haired man of slender build. On more than one occasion he’d overheard some woman describing his appearance as elegant and now that had become how he liked to think of himself. He had quick darting eyes that took an interest in everything going on around him; but at the same time he seemed very much at his ease. He registered the way the airport employees were dressed in cheap but clean clothes that showed they weren’t paid much but took pride in what they did. He noticed the cracked but well-swept floors; the haphazard piling of baggage and the calm efficiency of the officials, with their old-fashioned English procedures and ageing Chinese computer system.

The facility was pleasingly efficient, in a primitive sort of way. No need to worry about the passport and visa he was carrying. If his papers hadn’t been challenged in London or Johannesburg, they would certainly be acceptable here. He had a range of passports in his luggage that he’d recently acquired from a friend in unusual circumstances. All of the photographs on them looked something like him.

Passenger 15B reminded himself that he was supposed to be an old hand in Africa and should not be seen to find anything about his current surroundings unusual or noteworthy. He reminded himself to stay wary, though none of the others seemed like types who ’ d be suspicious; at least based on the brief conversations they ’ d shared since first meeting, as they waited for the short connecting flight to the Falls. They ’ d naturally fallen together at Jo ’ burg airport; and he was confident that he ´ d made an impression as a likeable, straightforward kind of chap who had a sense of humour but didn ´ t like to push himself on other people. He was complacently aware that the girls in the party had been the ones paying him most interest. Being handsome and unattached he was used to that sort of attention; and he knew how to be charming when it suited.

In fact he ´ d charmed everyone; patiently listening to them talking about themselves, which was what people most liked to do after all. You only had to smile and nod in the right places and everyone was prepared to consider you a good chap. And none of them had noticed that he ’ d said very little about himself.

Just now he was standing slightly apart from the group, watching them busy themselves over papers and luggage and reminding each other about the detailed arrangements of the trip.

Only one of them looked like the genuine outdoors type. He said his name was Andrew Parker: short, strong sort of build, carrying a few kilos round the middle. Dressed in faded khakis; the very picture of the white man in Africa, though apparently he was a claims assessor for an insurance company in everyday life. Clothing and pack all serviceable and worn, like his weathered face. Only the close-cropped red hair and beard didn ’ t quite match the image.

The two youngish women had paired up on the way out. 15B was confident they hadn ´ t known each other before. They were different types. The pretty one with long dark hair who introduced herself as Emma had arrived with more luggage than everyone else. From the way she kept stealing glances at the men of the party, he decided that this one was looking for romance, but maybe not so experienced with men as her manner tried to suggest. Back home, Emma was probably Emily, or something equally sweet and innocent, but here on holiday and in Africa she was allowing herself some freedom. It might be interesting to explore that space between who she was trying to be and what she was really like. She had that sort of full-bodied figure that he sometimes enjoyed. Emma would be quite easily managed, he decided.

Her friend Jill was more difficult to read. Jill looked like she could be any age between late twenties and early forties: just the right range for him. Good body; a little hard and boyish maybe; but no surplus flesh. Medium height; nice brown hair; face a little wrinkled around the eyes but with good cheekbones. It was those eyes that made him unsure: they had that independent look in them that made men like him imagine that she might be more interested in girls than boys.

Among the men, he ’ d already decided that George was queer. No doubt about it. Not that George was camp, but there was something in the way he carried himself. He kept fussing to see that everyone else was alright. He moved his fleshy hands about too much when he talked and he talked too much. He dressed with more fashion and care than was normal in a man of his age. George was a little overweight and clumsy and perhaps he was the one who seemed most out of place in Africa, with the exception of the Johnsons.

The Johnsons were an elderly couple from some nondescript town in the middle of America, which 15B forgot in the instant that they named it. The man was a dried up stick and the woman ’ s frame hunched shapelessly over a substantial paunch. She breathed with a slight wheeze, even standing still in the airport. Maybe the two of them had booked the wrong holiday by accident. In any case, it seemed likely to 15B that one or both of them wouldn ´ t survive a fortnight in the African bush; a reflection that for some reason caused him to smile.

The final member of the party was a thirty-something male who ’ d made so little impression on 15B that even his name had not stuck. He ’ d said that he was a teacher of some kind. The two of them were about the same age, but 15B was happy to suppose that his contemporary wouldn ’ t provide much competition so far as the women were concerned; or in any other way for that matter. The traveller was willing to admit that he tended to use up and discard women quickly (what was it that one of them had said recently? - that she felt she ’ d been damaged by him). Still he sincerely believed that he ’ d be doing Emma a favour by taking her on and sparing her the sickly attentions of this teacher. At least she ’ d have some fun to remember along with any bruising that might be involved.

Passenger 15B had introduced himself as Jonathan. Mr. Jonathan Bloom, of London; an enthusiastic naturalist and wildlife photographer in his spare time; besides his other accomplishments. He ’ d visited Africa several times in the past; and like the others he ’ d been attracted to this trip by the promise of something a little different: more off the beaten track than regular safari tour operators offered. Jonathan had been looking forward to the trip so much that he ’ d even talked to his friends about it; which was unusual because he had few friends and even with close acquaintances he was normally cautious about sharing personal details.

The other members of the party didn ´ t need to know that Jonathan Bloom made his living in the city as a moneylender; advancing funds to young well-heeled men who didn ´ t have the time or patience to match their expenditure to their income; or that he had definite but non-specific connections to what the police liked to call organized crime. Still less did they need to know that Jonathan Bloom had never in fact left London for Africa; or that the passenger who had been occupying seat 15B normally answered to the name of Julian Bowen.

Julian enjoyed having secrets: knowing something that others didn ’ t confirmed what he had always known about himself; that he was smarter than other people. So he was in a good mood as they cleared customs and discovered a tall, spare black man with a shaved head and a gap toothed grin waiting for them outside. The black was holding up a piece of card on which the words Wilderness Tours had been traced faintly with a ballpoint pen.

The representative shook hands with everybody and told them to call him Michael. He explained that they would all meet Mr. Kriegman the next day; and meanwhile he would take them to their hotel. He didn´t say much else; just scooped up the bags of the Johnson´s, and an extra one of Emma’s that she was struggling with, then without looking back he strode outside to where a big four wheel drive vehicle was waiting for them in the car park.

***

Julian Bowen had always felt that life would not be worth living unless he could enjoy the best of everything. Unfortunately he was also too impatient to wait long for anything: and since he had not been born with the family advantages that he ’ d have liked, it had not always been easy for him to acquire all the luxuries he needed. His parents had managed to fund his time at a well-thought-of boarding school and later a decent university, but then it had come as a disagreeable surprise, after completing what with some exaggeration could be called his education, to realize that from that point on, he would be expected to make his own way in the world.

Fortunately, Julian possessed the sort of effortless charm that enabled him to rely on the help of a network of more industrious chums he´d gotten to know at school and university. He had perfected the knack of being able to ask for a job or a loan or whatever other assistance he might be in need of in such a way that the chap who was helping him out almost felt that Julian was doing him a favour by accepting the favour.

In this way he ’ d drifted through his twenties in a succession of positions that didn ’ t require him to work too hard, running up some sizeable debts in the process. He was always well paid and he ’ d seldom found the actual work beyond him even if he faked qualification for most of his employments. Generally he knew that once he managed to secure a position, by whatever means were necessary, there was no reason to fear that his duties would be beyond him. Such was the nature of the age, Julian had concluded. Providing you steered away from pretending to be an engineer or some kind of scientist, there was nothing about any job that took more than a week or two to master. And if you did get stuck there was always some competent junior around who you could be persuaded to do the work for you without letting on.

The problem wasn ´ t that he found work a challenge - rather the opposite. However much they paid him, he ’ d get bored eventually. And anyway it always seemed that sooner or later his expenditure would inevitably overtake his income to the point he ’ d need to move on. There were so many more interesting things to do than turning up at an office each day: parties to attend, girls to pursue, new restaurants and fashionable resorts to visit. Invariably he would let things slide and then he ’ d be covering his tracks for a while until eventually he ’ d be found out. After that, he ’ d be shown the door promptly; and the friend who ´ d sneaked him in would find himself in trouble as well; which wouldn ’ t bother Julian except that each time it happened he had one less patron to call on. Gradually, as the years rolled on, his list of potential benefactors was starting to wear thin.

The job that he might still have at the moment, unless his employers had already decided to take him off the payroll (Julian had not checked his email for a while) was a case in point. He ´ d got in at the bank through Teddy Jameson, who was supposed to be his oldest and closest friend. Teddy was doing well in investment business. Merchant banking was a lark that had always interested Julian, who was sure he would have the right talents for it. He would have played the Teddy card years earlier, but of course he ´ d needed to wait until Teddy had climbed the slippery pole far enough to steer the thing his way. Julian had been confident Teddy would never be able to refuse him anything.

Their friendship went back to school days and the rugby field, which for Teddy made it a sacred thing. Julian had always been indifferent to sports and he was blessed with the kind of body that stayed healthy and strong without needing exercise, but at the school he and Teddy attended, rugby wasn ’ t easy to avoid and besides Julian could see even back then that morons who got excited about chasing a ball round in the mud might be useful for him to know later on in life.

This was all early on, when he ’ d been having some problems adjusting to life at boarding school. His mother would send him tearful letters about how much she was missing him, as if it hadn ’ t been her and father who ’ d packed him off there. Usually Julian would be too angry to reply. The rugby field was a good place to use some of that anger without the risk of getting into trouble.

When he broke Teddy Jameson ´ s leg with an overenthusiastic tackle, no-one blamed Julian, except of course Julian himself, who expressed his remorse very publicly. Teddy took it very well and said it was just one of those things. It was almost as if he felt he should apologize for his leg not being strong enough to save Julian the embarrassment of having injured him.

Even after the break didn ´ t heal well and Teddy learned he would always have one leg slightly shorter than the other, it didn ´ t occur to him to blame Julian. The two boys were bound together by the incident. In the strange way that school society works, they both acquired status, Teddy famous as the boy whose leg had been shattered so badly that it was gruesome to think about, and Julian as the ferocious tackler who snapped limbs. Teddy conceived for Julian a lasting and genuine affection that Julian indulged without ever confessing to his friend or anyone else that he had walked onto the pitch that morning having already decided that he was going to break Teddy Jameson ´ s leg and knowing how he would do it. Not that he ever had anything personal against Teddy. He had only wanted to know what it would feel like to smash a bone.

And in fact Julian had found that it felt good - it gave him a sense of power. The fact that his victim remained unaware of the crime and sometimes even acted as if he were indebted to Julian for his injury made the memory of it all the more satisfying.

When he finally went to see Teddy about a job, his old friend told him not to worry too much about qualifications; he would be a natural

Reviews for the Disappearance of Jonathan Bloom

[dekedastardly · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Disappearance of Jonathan Bloom is a sharp, well written thriller, which fairly cracks along in an easy to read style, long enough to allow character and situation development, but at just over 200 pages it's short enough to get through in one or two determined sittings.The author wastes no time in creating an instantly dislikable protagonist Julian Bowen, a schemer used to profiting from his wits and manipulating people to achieve his goals, a chancer turned murderer when backed into a corner. Needing to lay low having stolen the identity of one Jonathan Bloom he heads out to the African Savanna with an eclectic bunch of somewhat naive travelers and care worn guides. Needless to say he reverts to type, carnage ensues and he leaves the stranded party to their fate. What ensues is a rollocking yarn of survival, teamwork, and a race against time and the fearful conditions to say nothing of the hungry wildlife.What will become of Bloom/Bowen, how many times can one man disappear? Will anyone survive, will Bloom return to finish what he started or will his deserved malediction befall him?Enjoy lost of twists and turns in the finding out.I received The Disappearance of Jonathan Bloom from the author as a Goodreads Giveaway win, and was pleased to do so.