When I first saw it I thought it was an old country estate, converted and expanded into a golf clubhouse.
It wasn’t. It is a purpose-built clubhouse and function center for corporate seminars and wedding receptions, as well as catering to the golfer, and golf tournaments.
It also has a very good outlook over the golf course.
But, in my writer’s mind, this will provide inspiration for a story that could be set in a large country house, with the central tower and lookout featuring in what might be a grisly death, and a group of guests who have gathered together to enact a mock murder that turns out to be very real.
Yes, the idea has been done to death over many many years, but I have a few new twists in mind.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And the story:
It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.
The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.
He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.
The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.
There was nowhere for him to go.
The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.
Where was he going?
“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.
“What?”
“I think he’s made us.”
“How?”
“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”
“How far away?”
“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”
It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”
“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”
Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.
Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.
Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.
Or so we thought.
Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.
“What the hell…” Aland muttered.
I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication where he went.
Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.
I looked up. Nothing.
Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”
Then where did he go?
Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.
“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”
I’d lost him.
It was as simple as that.
I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.
I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.
It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.
We all know this to be an intersection of two lines like a crossroad is at a 90-degree angle
But…
It’s an angle bracket that keeps the shelf up, hopefully with books on it.
Did you know that it was something someone did in order to get something?
She began to angle for an invitation to a party that she would not normally be invited to, or he has angled his answers to the prospective employer in a bid to be more likely to be selected for the position.
It can also refer to a position, or judgement, so that someone might say, try and see it from my angle, or another angle.
Or that it refers to fishing, and the fisherman or woman is known as an angler.
It can be a position from which something is viewed, or in crime parlance, the CSI people will work out the angle of the bullet’s entry do they can locate the position of the shooter.
Angle can refer to people of Germanic origin, such as an Anglo Saxon
And, here’s something even I didn’t know, in Astrology, it is each of the four cardinal points of a chart, from which the first, fourth, seventh, and tenth houses extend anticlockwise respectively.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
Onboard the plane shortly after it took off, I watched Monroe go to each of the team and give them a folder with their role, and, no doubt, instructions on what they had to do, and to handle the equipment they were assigned. The list I’d seen required a sound technician, a grip, a cameraman, his assistant, the director, the producer, which I took to be Monroe, and a few other production assistants.
None looked happy, and probably already knew what the cover story would be. I didn’t see or hear any objections, each just took their folder and started on their homework.
She didn’t spend much time with Jacobi, just enough to tell him he was going to be the guide. It was a role he was most suited to, and that of local liaison. At least it would explain why he was with us.
After that, she came to see me.
“Was it your idea or Lallo’s?” I asked.
“Lallo’s. I’m as surprised as you, but you have to admit it’s a great cover story.”
“For a group who wouldn’t know one end of the camera from the other.”
“Plenty of time to learn. You don’t have to worry. All you have to do is be perennially bad-tempered and yell a lot. I’m sure you can do that without having me tell you how to.”
“No. probably not. Bamfield said it all the equipment worked.”
“When we take the C4, detonators, grenades, and a few other assorted armaments out it will.”
“You know where the other stuff is,” I said, hoping she understood that it was the diamonds I was talking about.
“Somewhere in one of the boxes. It was best not to tell anyone, so if anything happens, we can’t give it away. We can worry about that once we get past the border. I suggest you get your head down. At least one of us has to be sharp at the other end when we land.”
With that, she went back to her corner, ran her eye over the team now deep in their studies, then looked like she was going to get some sleep.
After a few hours, the enthusiasm to learn had died down, and each of the team members made themselves comfortable. There would be more time to study on the other side of the fuel stop. Everyone on board got what sleep they could, not that it was the best of places in the cargo hold of a C-130. One destination we were all familiar with was that of Djibouti when we would set down to refuel at the airbase there.
It was a half-hour stop, and, as Monroe advised, we didn’t leave the plane. It was best no one knew we were aboard or what we were doing, a feat I thought quite remarkable because if it was my airbase, I’d want to know.
But, as airbases went, it was the same as the rest.
Back in the air, we were heading for Uganda. It was another 6 or 7 hours, so it was a good time to get some more rest before we landed. I had no idea when the next time would be that there would be time for some shuteye.
I’d been keeping an eye on Monroe. She appeared to be the liaison for everything, and had accompanied the pilot to the base tower, most likely to file the flight plan, one of several I imagine, and to report back to Bamfield. It explained why the pilot returned without her, and she didn’t get back until 15 minutes before we were due to leave.
Should I be worried? There wasn’t much point.
After an hour, I went up the back of the plane and sat next to Jacobi. He had been ostracised by the rest of the team; an order given by Monroe for them to leave him alone. He’d been escorted onto the plane by two burly military policemen, and his bag of equipment given to Monroe for safekeeping, so we were sure from the time he left the cell at the black site to getting on the plane he had communicated with anyone.
Even so, I was sure he had been in similar situations before, and he was still alive to tell about it. If he had a plan, whatever that plan was, we would soon find out.
In the meantime, I thought he might have an interesting story to tell, and I had a few hours to kill.
He sullenly watched me come down the fuselage, and then sit next to him, loosely putting what passed as a seat belt on just in case we hit an air pocket. The flight was not as smooth as it might be on a commercial airliner and was certainly a lot noisier.
“Have you spoken to the right people yet?” I almost had to yell in his ear.
Lallo had said he was going to get Jacobi to call his friendly General in the Congo army to smooth the way, and it would be interesting to know under what circumstances Jacobi had explained our arrival at his border. And another to tell the kidnappers we were on our way. Monroe said he had made several supervised phone calls, but not exactly who to.
We had to pray that the General would be among those to also help us locate the targets and, once the exchange was made, assist us in our departure, for a small sum to compensate them for the inconvenience.
He knew why I’d come to see him. “The captors know we are coming, and hopefully before the time limit has passed. They will kill them this time if we don’t get there in time.”
“I’m sure they’d like us to think that, but you know as well as I do they need the ransom for their ongoing operations. Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to plan f which is where they kill us, the hostages, and just take the ransom. Either way, I hate to be the one who is only going to make things worse, but I don’t get to decide what’s right or wrong.”
“It’s how it works out there. Everyone is available for a price. If it wasn’t this lot, it’d be another or another.”
“Or the military, maybe, looking to cash in because the state doesn’t pay them enough. That’s why we’re putting you at the head of the procession. If we’re ambushed, you’ll be the first to go.”
“I admire your lack of faith in me.”
“You haven’t done anything to inspire faith, Jacobi. But so long as you keep your word, and do everything right, I won’t have to shoot you.”
There was no horrified look. He knew the score of being in the ‘Mr. In-Between’ business. He would no doubt get a share of the diamonds for brokering the deal, on top of whatever Lallo offered him, and a cut of the General and his men’s fees for guaranteeing our safety. I guess his business also had its hazards, wasn’t for the faint-hearted, and for those working all sides of the fence, a particularly exciting time.
Generals, soldiers, kidnappers, rebels, practically every man and his dog had an itchy trigger finger.
“It’s not me you have to worry about.”
“How so?”
“I didn’t betray them the last time, and that person was never identified.”
A good point. “Then let’s hope no one else knows we’re coming, or what we’re bringing as ransom.”
He looked at me, a look that told me I thought he might just make a play for the diamonds himself and forget about the targets. It was a very tempting ransom.
“You know how it is. Spies are everywhere.”
“Just make sure you’re not one of them.”
I think I said it with just enough sincerity that he believed me.
“It’s not worth my while, I assure you. Once you’re involved in a double-cross, you cease to be of worth to anyone. I will not be the source of your problems if there are any.”
For a man who’d already been caught out in a raft of lies, there was nothing he could say that would make me trust him. He was going to require an escort once we landed.
I had two perfect candidates for the job. Williamson and Shurl. From what I had observed on the ground before we boarded the plane, and in the plane, they stuck together. I got the impression they knew each other.
After I left Jacobi, I told them what I wanted them to do.
It was the day for sullen responses. They didn’t want to be babysitters. Tough.
Next, I went and visited Mobley, sitting closer to the front of the plane, by himself. Monroe had sat with him for an hour or so before we reached Djibouti, and it had raised a small flag.
I staggered towards him, the pilots deciding to take the rough path through the sky, and almost fell into the seat next to him.
He didn’t look at me the whole time, even when I’d sat down. Was he pretending to ignore me, or had he decided he was above taking my orders?
“I’ve got a few hours to waste so if you think I’m going away forget it,” I said, loud enough to get his attention.
A slight flutter of an eyelid. Not asleep.
“Monroe tells me you’re in charge of this motley crew,” he said, still not looking at me.
“Not because I want to be. I’m not sure what your reason is to be here, and, frankly, I don’t care, but I really don’t want to be here. I wasn’t given a choice. I’m guessing you did from what I’ve been told. We don’t have time to debate the issue. What I want you to do is when we arrive at the base, is hang back, come up with whatever excuse will fly, and give us several hours head start. You’ll be with one of Chiswick’s men. What’s important is to check no one follows us.”
“You think someone might?” A look of almost interest.
“I’m sure of it. There’s no way we will get to the base in Uganda, no matter how far from civilization it is, and not be noticed, or worse, that someone already knows we’re coming.”
“What’s the ultimate rendezvous?”
“Over the border in the Congo.” I passed him a hand-drawn map of the area, from the landing strip to the GPS co-ordinates of the exchange point in the Congo, but not the track that we would be taking, some of which I hoped might be by the river. I think Monroe had given him as much detail of the job as she could, as she probably had all of them.
“Monroe in the loop?”
“She will be by the time we land.”
“Good.”
Eyes closed again; the conversation was over.
Time to have a talk to Monroe.
“Got some good news,” she said when I sat next to her.
“We’re turning around and going home?”
“Where is home?”
It was an interesting question. I’d been bounced around so many airbases, I don’t think I’d had a permanent fixed address from the day I signed up. Was it where I used to live? No point going back, everyone I’d known back then had either moved on or died. Technically I was now an orphan, and unlike others, I had no family of my own to go home to.
“No idea anymore, I’m afraid. So, what’s this good news.”
“We have an exit strategy. Bamfield told me to tell you everything is in place. All we have to do is liberate a plane and we’re on our way home. It’s the reason why Davies is on the mission, Bamfield says she can fly anything.”
“I’ve never heard of a plane called ‘anything’.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Any other details?”
“We’ll know exactly what the score is when we get there. That’s all I know at the moment.”
“There’s more?”
“Hopefully through the pilot’s last contact with Bamfield. Otherwise, it’s going to be just another boring day at the office.”
I had hoped by the time I was promoted to assistant manager it might mean something other than long hours and an increase in pay.
It didn’t.
But unlike others who had taken the job, and eventually become jaded and left, I stayed. Something I realized that others seemed to either ignore or just didn’t understand, this was a company that rewarded loyalty.
It was why there were quite a few who had served 30 years or more. They might not reach the top job, but they certainly well looked after.
I had a long way to go, having been there only 8 years, and according to some, on a fast track. I was not sure how I would describe this so-called ‘fast track’ other than being in the right place at the right time and making a judicial selection.
When it was my turn to be promoted, I had a choice of a plum department, or one most of my contemporaries had passed over. At the time, the words of my previous manager sprang to mind, that being a manager for the most sought after department or the least sought after, came with exactly the same privileges.
And, he was right. I took the least sought after, much to their disdain and disapproval. One year on, that disapproval had turned almost to envy; that was when the Assistant Managers were granted a new privilege, tea, and lunch in the executive dining room.
“So, what’s it like?” John asked, when our group met on a Friday night, this the first after the privilege was granted.
He had been one of the three, including me, who had the opportunity to take the role. Both he and Alistair had both declined, prepared to wait for a more prestigious department. It hadn’t happened to them yet.
“The same as the staff dining room, only smaller. Except, I guess, the waitstaff and butler. They come and serve you when you have to go to them in the staff room. They’re the same staff, by the way, except for the butler.”
I could see the awe, or was it envy, in their eyes. “but it’s not that great. The Assistant Managers all sit at one end of the table, and we’re not part of the main group, so no sharing of information I’m afraid. And the meals are the same, just served on fancier crockery.”
“Then nothing to write home about?” Will was one of those who they also thought to be on a ‘fast track’. I was still trying to see how my ‘fast track’ was actually that fast.
“Put it this way, the extra pay doesn’t offset the long hours because you get overtime, I don’t, so on a good week, you’d all be earning more than me. Without responsibility, if anything goes wrong. I think that’s why Assistant Managers were created, to take the blame when anything goes wrong.”
That had been the hardest pill to swallow. Until I got the role, I hadn’t realized what it really involved. Nor had the others, and it was not something we could whinge about. My first-day introductory speech from Tomkins, my Manager, was all about taking responsibility, and how I was there to make his life easier. It was a speech he made a few times because he’d been Manager for the last 16 years, much the same as the others, and promotion if ever, would come when they died.
And Manager’s rarely died, because of their Assistant Managers.
“How old is Tomkins now?” Bert, a relative newcomer to our group, asked. He was still in the ‘in awe’ phase.
“About the same as Father Time,” I said. “But the reality is, no one knows, except perhaps for the personnel manager.” O looked over at Wally, the Personnel Department’s Assistant Manager. “Any chance of you telling us?”
“No. You know I can’t.”
“But you know?” I asked.
“Of course, but you know the rules. That’s confidential information. Not like what you are the custodian of, information everyone needs.”
Which, of course, was true. Communication and Secretarial Services had no secrets, except for twice a year when the company Bord of Directors met, and we were responsible for all the documents used at their meetings. Then, and only then, was I privy to all the secrets, including promotions. And be asked ‘What’s happening?’.
“Just be content to know that he’s as old as the hills, as most of them. It seems to me that one of the pre-requisites for managership is that you have been employed here for 30 years.”
Not all, though, I’d noticed, but there wasn’t one under the age of fifty.
And so it would go, the Friday night lament, those ‘in’ the executive, and those who were not quite there yet.
It seemed prophetic, in a sense, that we had been talking about Mangers and their ages. By a quirk of fate, some weeks before, that I learned of Tomkins’s currents state of health via a call on his office phone. At the time he was out, where, he had not told me, but by his the I believed it was something serious, so serious he didn’t want me, or anyone else, to know about it.
That phone call was from his wife, Eleanor, whom I’d met on a number of occasions when she came to take him home from work. I liked her, and couldn’t help but notice she was his exact opposite, Tomkins, silent and at times morose, and Eleanor, the life of the party. I could imagine her being a handful in her younger days, and it was a stark reminder of that old saying ‘opposites attract’.
She was concerned and asked me if he had returned from the specialist. I simply said he had but was elsewhere, and promised to get him to call her when he returned. Then I made a quick call around to see where he was and found that he was in Personnel. I left an innocuous message on his desk, and then let my imagination run wild.
At least for a day or so, the time it took for me to realize that it was probably nothing, the lethargy he’d been showing, gone.
I’d put it out of my mind until my cell phone rang, and it was from the Personnel Manager. On a Sunday, no less. In the few seconds before I answered it, I’d made the assumption that Tomkins’s secretive visits to the specialist meant he needed time off for a routine operation.
Greetings over, O’Reilly, the Personnel Manager, cut straight to the chase, “For your personal information, and not to be repeated, Tomkins will be out of action for about two months, and as that is longer than the standard period, you will become Acting Manager. We’ll talk more about this Tuesday morning.” Monday was a holiday.
All Assistant Managers knew the rules. Any absence of a manager for longer than a month, promotion to Acting Manager. Anything less, you sat in the office, but no change in title. There was one more rule, that in the event of the death of a manager, the assistant manager was immediately promoted to Manager. This had only happened once before. 70 years ago. If a manager retired, then the position of Manager was thrown open to anyone in the organization.
It was an intriguing moment in time.
Tuesday came, and as usual, I went into the office, with only one thought in mind, let the staff in the department know what was happening, of course, the moment I was given the approval to do so by Personnel.
Not a minute after I sat down, the phone rang. I picked it up, gave my name and greeting. It was met with a rather excitable voice of the Assistant Manager, Personnel, “I just got word from on high, you’ve been promoted to manager. How could that possibly happen…”
Then a moment later, as realization set in, “Unless…”
Can you reach a point where you are never satisfied with what you’ve written?
What more can I say?
Looking at the mess constituting my room and my life, slob may have been an appropriate description. I considered myself old, overweight though not necessarily fat, hair graying at the edges, and few wrinkles around the eyes, there were no real pluses in my description.
Some said I had a kindly face, but perhaps I had the look of a paternalistic grandfather. There were several men in the office who were the same age and had grandchildren. And some who had children at a time when they should be planning for retirement, not parenthood.
World-weary and perpetually tired, I’d passed the mid-life crisis, wondering what it was that affected other men my age. Twenty-odd years later, I was still wondering.
I used to think I’d missed a lot in half a lifetime.
Now, I didn’t know what to think.
Did I deserve pity? No.
Did I deserve sympathy? No!
The only person who could get me out of the rut was myself. For years I’d traded on Ellen’s good nature. She deserved better, left me, and was now happier in the arms of a man who I wanted to believe treated her far better than I. She had told me so herself, and judging by her manner, it had to be true. Only recently had she got her smile back, the one that lit her face up, one that infectiously spread happiness to anyone near her.
There were reasons why I became the person I was now. Some might say they were valid. In the cold, hard light of dawn, I could see it was time I stopped using my past as a crutch and got on with the business of living.
Perhaps today would be the first day of the rest of my life.
I took the bus rather than drove. At that hour of the morning, the traffic would be bad, and there would be no parking spaces left. And I was using public transport more and more, have become accustomed to the convenience. Time to read the paper, or a good book, or just dream about a different life.
This morning I thought about Ellen. I hadn’t for a while, but that might have been fueled by the arrival of the divorce papers she wanted me to sign. I’d had my time to be angry, and disappointed, she’d said, and she was right. It was time to move on.
And she had stuck by me through thick and thin, coming back from overseas service a basket case after nine months in a POW camp, after a war that was more horrible than anyone could imagine. Two mental breakdowns, periods of indolence and lassitude, leaving her to bring up the girls on her own. I had not been a great father, and much less a husband.
I remembered that argument word for word.
I could see the looks of pain in the girl’s faces.
I remembered the hug, the kiss on the cheek, the tears. It had not been out of hate, but a necessity. For her and the children. Until I found some lasting peace, they were better off at arm’s length. Away from the arguing, the silences, the absences.
And disappointment.
After she left I tried to get my life in order. Drugs, professional help, alcohol, meditation, then work.
Over ten years ago, it took a year, perhaps a little more before sanity returned.
She did not.
By then I knew she had found someone else, a mystery man, whom neither she would tell me who, and the girls honestly didn’t know. She’d promised that much, any new man in her life would not get to meet the girls. And she would tell me, and then when she was ready.
Then, suddenly, the children were no longer children but young adults and out in the world on their own, and I had become more a banker than a father, an observer rather than a participant, and it was as if we were more like ships passing in the night. And overnight, the ships had sailed to the other side of the world.
My own fault, of course, and a bit late now to change history. I could see Ellen’s influence over them, her prejudices and dislikes, and their contempt, like their mother, for me, simmering beneath the surface, but in fairness to them, I really hadn’t been much of a help as a parent should be.
And now I was getting my life back in order, perhaps I could try and make it up to them, and that first meeting, with them and Ellen, nearly a month ago, had been a step in the right direction. They’d agreed to see me again, without her, during the holidays, which had now arrived. All I had to do was make the call, and get on a plane.
This mess I was heading into, it would not take long. I pulled out my phone and after searching for a travel agent near where I worked, I made an appointment to see about going overseas.
She had spoken to me about the divorce papers several days ago, alternately pleading with, and then abusing, me. There had been some very strong language in the conversation, words I’d thought her incapable of using, but I confess, finally, I didn’t really know her all that well anymore.
Since then I had been calling her to arrange a meeting. She had not yet replied. With some distance to go before I reached the office, I tried calling her again. I was almost glad when she didn’t answer.
I never realized just how hard it was to revise and re-write, and how much time it takes.
Perhaps that’s why first novels take so long to write!
We had afternoon tea in the lounge several times, and it is very pleasant in winter with the log fires burning.
The interior is still as ornate as it had been in the 1930s. The chairs are very comfortable, and the atmosphere pleasant.
Mount Ngauruhoe can be seen through the window of the lounge. This was used a backdrop in the filming of Lord of the Rings.
But…
This place is the ideal setting for a murder, and I can see a story being written very much in the mold of Agatha Christie, with a couple of amateur sleuths who are staying there, trying to solve the crime.
Given the sort of shows being produced in New Zealand currently, for Acorn and other streaming services, this could be turned into a very pleasant two hour diversion with some very unique New Zealand, and foreign, characters.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Chasing leads, maybe
It was all over in the blink of an eye. The swat team had secured the scene, zip ties, and shoved me into a corner with two burly men standing over me, guns ready in case I tried to escape.
Before the next wave, I had time to consider what just happened. Obviously, Dobbin or Jan had set the scene. She lied about being able to track Maury, they found him, brought him back to the room, tortured him, and then killed him. The few seconds I had to look at the body showed signs of intense interrogation.
A side benefit was to stitch me up for the crime. The fact the police were at the door a minute after I’d arrived meant they had been waiting for me to come back. That pointed to Jan as the informant.
But to what end. If they considered I was the only one who could find the USB, why let me get caught by the police.
Jennifer would be safe. She had been in the foyer a full ten minutes before I arrived, and was sitting in a corner when I passed her. If they knew she was involved, she would have been missing. Hopefully, she would have seen the swat team arrive, and leave.
A few minutes after the swat leader spoke into his two-way radio, a middle-aged woman and a young man in his late 20’s arrived, the woman first, the young man behind her. A Detective Chief Inspect, or Superintendent, and Detect Sergeant. He was too well dressed to be a constable,. One old, one new.
The young man spoke to the swat leader, the woman surveyed the scene, looked at the body, then at me, shaking her head slightly.
I tried to look anonymous if not invisible. The fact they had found no ID on me would not count well for my situation, or so I had been told. Nor was the fact I preferred not to speak.
Never volunteer information.
A nod from her and the two swat guards took several steps back. She pulled a chair over from the side of the bed, and once three feet away, sat down.
“I’m told you are refusing to answer any questions.”
“Refusing to answer and simply not talking is not the same thing.”
“You do speak.”
“When appropriate.”
“What are you doing here?”
“This is my room, along with a young lady, who as you can see, is not here. That much you should have gleaned from the front desk.”
She pulled a card out of her pocket. “Alan, and Alice Jones. Not your real names I suspect., nor very original. Do you know who the man on the bed is?”
“He told me his name is Maury, not sure of his first name, but that wasn’t his real name. His other name was Bernie Salvin, but that might also be a fake. He was one of two men who were in charge of my training.”
“For what?”
“I suspect it might be above your pay grade.”
If she was shocked at that statement she didn’t show it. In fact, I would not be surprised if she had suspected it was likely it had to do with the clandestine security services. Torture victims were not an everyday occurrence, or at least I hoped for her sake they weren’t.
She gave a slight sigh. “And who do you work for?”
“There’s the rub. I have no idea. I’ve just been caught in the middle of a bloody awful mess.”
The second rule is always to tell the truth, or as close to it as possible so you don’t have to try and remember a web of lies, and trip yourself up at later interviews. And keep it simple.
“So, no one I should be calling to verify who you are?”
“No. Not unless you can revive the man on the bed. I’m only new, been on the job after training for about a week. I was part of a team running a surveillance exercise when a shop exploded and the target disappeared. I’ve been trying to find out what happened.”
Her expression whanged, telling me she was familiar with the event.
“Do you find out anything?”
“Only that the would be a body in the shop, a journalist, that was trying to hand over some sensitive information. I have no idea what it was, or who he was. The target, whom I suspected was there for the handover, is now also dead. So, quite literally, two dead ends. Do I look like someone who could do that to a man?” I nodded in the direction of the body.
“You’d be surprised who was capable of what. Do you have a real name?”
“I do, but I won’t be telling you. You have my work name, that’s as much as I can volunteer.”
“A few days in a dank hole might change that.”
“A few days in a dank hole would be like a holiday compared to the week I’m currently having.”
She smiled, or I thought it was a smile. “I daresay you might.”
There was a loud noise and some yelling coming from outside the door. A man burst into the room, two constables in his wake.
A man I didn’t recognize.
She stood. “Who are you?”
“Richards, MI5.” He showed her a card, which she glanced at. She’d no doubt seen them before.
“We’ll be taking over from here.”
“This person?” She nodded her head in my direction.
“Leave him. We’ll take care of him.”
“Johnson, Jacobs, let’s leave the room to them. We’re done here. Places to be, gentlemen.” She nodded in my direction. “Good luck, you’re going to need it.”
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.
But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modeled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I image back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.
I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021. It even has a cover.
Across a crowded dance floor, your eyes meet, and then that tingling sensation down your spine.
A girl who could be a princess, who might be a princess in any other lifetime, and a girl who might just outshine Annabel.
And then the moment is gone, and I could not be sure if it really happened.
“You seem preoccupied.” The almost whispered voice beside me belonged to Annabel, who had mysteriously disappeared and as mysteriously reappeared by my side.
“Just checking who are the pretenders and who are the aspirants.”
Annabel and her parents had a thing about people, who had money, who didn’t, who aspired to be part of society, and those who thought they were. It was a complication I didn’t need.
“Does it matter?”
Interesting observation, who was this girl, and what have you done with Annabel? I turned slightly to observe what some might call my girlfriend, but I was never quite sure what I was to her. Perfect in almost everything, I noticed one slight flaw, no two, a smudge in her make and hastily applied lipstick.
Did it have something to do with her mysterious disappearance?
“Perhaps not. We can be gracious no matter what the circumstances.” A moment, closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, as if preparing for a death-defying leap into an abyss. Then, with an enthusiasm I certainly didn’t feel myself, she said, “Let’s mingle.”
Being with Annabel could be an experience in itself, the way she carried herself, the way she radiated warmth and humility, and then sometimes when in high dudgeon, you wanted to be anywhere else. Today, she shone. I could see the write-up in the social pages of tomorrow’s newspaper, exactly where she wanted to be. Relevant.
I knew the drill, as consort, to be one pace back and one to the side, being aloof but not aloof, on hand to provide the comment that complimented Annabel’s narrative.
I had suggested that we might take to the dance floor, once around the floor to make an impression, but Annabel, being 3 inches shorter than me in heels, was reluctant. Not because she couldn’t dance, well, that’s not exactly true, it wasn’t one of her strong points, but there were more pressing things to do. She didn’t say what they were.
To her equals she was all smiles and politeness, to the aspirants she was gracious, to the pretenders, short but sweet. In political parlance, we would be pressing the flesh. In any political arena, I suspect, she would excel.
Then, suddenly, we chanced upon Mr. And Mrs. Upton, and their son Roderick. I’d seen them once before, at Annabel’s parent’s house when I had been invited to dinner and had noticed, in front of him she was quite animated. This time her expression changed, and it was one I’d seen before, one I thought was exclusively for me.
I was wrong.
Although that look disappeared as quickly as it came, and she had reverted to the usual greeting, she did take Roderick’s hand when she was re-introduced, and while to all others it seemed like the second time she had met him, I could see it was not.
He looked uncomfortable, and, as he made a slight movement, I could see a smudge of makeup on his lower jaw, and lipstick on his collar, in a place that would not normally be seen. It was simply a quirk of fate.
By the time I’d processed what I’d seen, we were meeting the next person.
The princess.
“Miss Annabel McCallister, I presume?”
Annabel, suddenly, seemed flustered. She usually knew everyone at these affairs, to the extent I thought she had a bio specially researched for her, but the princess apparently was not on the list.
“You have me at a disadvantage. Whom might you be?” The tone was slightly brittle, the cheeks slightly reddened, and she was annoyed and embarrassed. Someone’s head will roll for this.
“Frances Williams, or the Boston Williams.” An offered hand, taken and then released. When Frances saw her puzzled look, she added, “I belong to the distant branch who live across the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Crumbling castles, and once upon a time, tea plantations.”
And then I committed the ultimate crime, I spoke. “Surely you do not live in a crumbling castle?”
Annabel scowled, Frances laughed, “Oh, no. Daddy’s spending a few million to fill the cracks so it isn’t as draughty.”
Interview killed stone dead. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Frances. Perhaps our paths might cross again.” In which I read, I hope they do not.
Frances was a girl who could play Annabel at her own game, and quite likely she would win.
We did the obligatory waltz, her strongest dance, and it was one of fluid motion and great concentration, in order to shrug off the Frances factor. After that, she said she needed a few moments to get some air, and it was probably perverse of me to think that finally, someone had bested her.
I had no interest in further mingling and found a quiet corner in which to view the proceedings and contemplate where the princess had disappeared to.
Apparently not as far away as I thought. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
I guess I could feign ignorance, but the princess was all-knowing and all-seeing, and now beside me, close enough for another tingling sensation in my spine from the timbre of her voice.
“A tryst with Roderick, I suspect.”
“Handsome lad, cheeky grin, just enough nervousness that someone would suspect they’d been shagging.”
I turned to look at the amused expression. “Who are you, really. You’re definitely not one of the Boston Williams.”
“No. They’re too stuffy for me. My real name is Cherie, not French, but I can speak it if you like?”
“Probably not. Mine is schoolboy at best. How did you get in here?”
“A rather enterprising waiter, and a hundred dollar note. Most of these twits wouldn’t know the real thing even if they fell over it.”
“An attention-seeking journalist then?” She would not be the first, to try to see how the so-called other half lives.
“Perish the thought. I just love these affairs, the people, the atmosphere, the food, and the drink. And meeting people like you, a contradiction in every sense. You don’t want to be here, and yet here you are. You don’t want to be with her, and yet you are. Duty? Obligation?”
“All of the above.”
“And now you know she’s having a dalliance.”
“What rich and famous couple are monogamous? You read the papers, its musical beds. It comes down to how much pride you want to swallow for the sake of family, business, and appearances.”
She shook her head. “That’s not you. Humor me, come to the Cafe Delacrat tomorrow, 10:00 am. We’ll chat.”
I took Annabel home, and it was like nothing had happened, and she was not seeing anyone else. The girl, if nothing else, was a consummate actress, and had I not seen the evidence, I would still think I was the only person for her. But she was inordinately happy, and I had not been able to do that for her for a long time.
Perhaps it was time to move on.
I nearly decided to stay in bed and not go to the Cafe Delacrat, but the thought of seeing the princess once more was the compelling argument to go.
When I got there, a few minutes before the hour, she was not there, and I thought to myself, I had been tricked. That thought magnified when it came to a few minutes after when the waiter brought out the latte. The coffee aroma was good, so it would not be a wasted visit.
And, like the princess she was, she arrived late. Dressed in a yellow summery dress with flowers, red shoes and handbag, and the obligatory scarf and sunglasses, she looked movie star stunning. She sat down, and the waiter was there before she finished squirming into the seat.
“I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Latte.” He probably knew, but I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
“I didn’t see you arrive, otherwise…”
“Very few people do.”
“By the way, you look amazing.”
“What? This old thing. It’s been sitting in the back of the closet since I last visited San Gimignano. Have you traveled?”
“Yes.”
“Man of few words. Compliments women. Apologetic. That girl is not for you.”
“And you might be?” I was wondering what her motives were.
“Me? No. Too old, a bit of a lush, certainly not monogamous, and frankly, you could do a lot better. In fact, you deserve better.”
“Then…”
She was watching the other side of the road, the front entrance to a rather pricy hotel in fact, as a taxi stopped and two passengers got out. When it drove off, I could see a man and a woman, and when I looked closer, I saw it was Annabel and Roderick, holding hands and looking very much in love, as they literally bounced into the hotel. No baggage, 10:00 am, no prizes for guessing why they were there.
“How did you know?”
She shrugged. “I know she is not the one for you. So, if you had but one wish, who would you wish for? I’m sure, over time, there has been a girl who stole your heart. We all have one, in my case, probably two, or three.”
Who was this woman, my fairy godmother?”
Yes, she inspired me to think, and closed my eyes to go back to a time in university when I ran into this amazing girl who spent far too much time helping others than to worry about herself. We spent a lot of time together, and yet we were not together in that sense, as much as I wanted to be. I sense though it was not the time or the place for her, and, after two years, she simply disappeared.
“Miranda Moore.”
I hadn’t realized I’d said her name out loud.
“Yes?”
I opened my eyes and looked up to see the very girl, a few years older but no less attractive than she was then, apparently a waitress at that cafe.
“Peter?”
“Miranda? Wow. I’ve been looking for you, high and low. What happened?”
“My mother died and I had to go home. It’s been a few years of hell, but, like you say, wow. Looking for me, you say?”
“High and low.”
“And now you’ve found me?”
“I’m not letting you disappear on me again. Can we…”
“I finish at noon. Come back then, and I’m yours. God, it’s so nice to see you again.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 