Cover

Title

The Last
Commandment

AN AUSTIN GRANT OF SCOTLAND YARD NOVEL

Scott Shepherd

For Holly,

because of you there is never

a Lonesome Day

Prologue: On Your Marks

PROLOGUE

On Your Marks

I

He fell in love at the exact same time every night.

Ten minutes before eleven o’clock.

That was when Billy Street, lead singer of the Blasphemers, launched into “Ain’t I Good Enough for You”—their only hit. The audience came out of its alcoholic daze and the chitchat faded as he prepared for his nightly lover’s leap.

He had played the song thousands of times and it almost never failed—there was always one lass who’d bump her way to the stage’s lip, plant herself beneath Billy’s leather-clad spread legs, and stare up at him with lustful adoration as he furiously strummed his Fender Telecaster.

This night’s lucky lovely wore snug diamond-patterned leggings and an even tighter AC/DC T-shirt that clung to her ample-sized chest. She knew all the words to every song in the group’s catalog, even the obscure and unreleased ones. Either she was a Super Groupie or just a sad girl with time on her hands to memorize the repertoire of a band that most of London (and alas, the record industry) had long cast aside.

Billy couldn’t give two shits. In that moment, he was playing only for her—his AC/DC girl, his devoted fan. He sang his hit, then launched into the covers the Blasphemers always ended their set with, all the while keeping his well-worn rock-and-roll eyes on that evening’s object of his brief desire.

II

“That’s it?”

AC/DC girl was disappointed.

Billy let out a final grunt; what did she expect? It wasn’t like they were going to spend a cozy weekend in Bath or end up in his dingy flat—there was barely enough room for him there. Plus, Billy knew if he woke up to googly-eyes and cooing sounds, he’d want to slit his wrists.

“Afraid so, sweetcakes,” Billy mumbled as he pushed her off him and squiggled in the driver’s seat to zip up his leather pants.

The restored MG convertible wasn’t ideal for a shag but the Wooten’s dressing room was the size of a dustman’s closet and his bandmates weren’t leaving anytime soon. So he’d ushered AC/DC girl out into the alley and the MG. He handed her the red-diamonded leggings she’d shed less than three minutes earlier.

“Off with you, now.”

Humiliated, AC/DC girl lowered her T-shirt so the band’s moniker spread over the pendulous breasts that had occupied Billy’s full attention until thirty seconds earlier. “I didn’t get to . . . you know . . . finish.”

Billy gave her a pat on the rump. “But it’ll give you a good story, won’t it?”

“That I dropped my knickers for some has-been who lasted twenty seconds?”