Or as it might more commonly be known as, spending a few hours in a historical museum. which just happens to cover some of the material you need for a school project.
I brought up the subject of living history yesterday after we all packed off to have an hour ride on a steam train and accompanying equally aged carriages.
Since these trains have been missing for nearly fifty years, there is basically two generations of people who have never had the chance to travel in such a manner in their lifetime, unless, of course, they have found a tourist train like our example, the Mary Valley Rattler.
It’s the same as the early days of finding gold in Gympie, in Queensland, Australia. It dates back to the 1860s, and one can only imagine what it was like because most of the history is in books. Yes, they have sketches, and sometimes photographs, but these do not generally date back to the middle of the nineteenth century.
But, visiting a living example of what it was like in ‘the old days’ can give those generations a glimpse of what it was like.
Single room schools, because unlike today when schools now cater to over 1,000 children in varying years, one school held about 20 or 30 in all grades, with a single teacher.
In fact, today, I saw a collection of readers that I remember reading when I was in grade school, a long time ago. Even the desks and the ink wells brought back interesting memories, one of which when I was ink monitor.
But housed in a number of old-style buildings was the information on the diggings, the mines and the impact of gold in general, and, at the very end, the children got to do a little panning for gold, and found a number of small fragments of real gold.
Once they’d been shown by a panning expert that looked as if he had been transported into this time from the past.
There are similar places elsewhere in this country that preserve the past to show future generations what it was like.
After this weekend, we have more than enough information to work on the project, based around gold mining, and it’s impact on the people, the area, and the government.
And best of all, it has generated an interest in the past, reading more, and perhaps if we’re lucky, an interest in writing something based on history, which sometimes is quite difficult when it has to compete with more interesting pastimes like computer games.
The Art of the Slow Burn: Why You Need to Hook Your Readers Early (Even When Taking Your Time)
We’ve all heard the golden rule of writing: Start with a bang. Grab the reader by the lapels on page one, throw them into a high-stakes action scene, or drop a mind-bending mystery that demands an immediate answer.
It’s solid advice. But what if your story isn’t built that way?
What if you are writing an atmospheric literary drama, an intricate, world-building-heavy fantasy, or a psychological thriller that relies on a slow, simmering escalation of tension? As writers, we often fall into the trap of believing that “taking our time” gives us a free pass to wander. We spend the first three chapters describing the weather, establishing generational family trees, or letting characters slowly drink their morning coffee.
Here is the hard truth every writer needs to hear: Some stories can take their time before sinking the hook in, but it’s best to give the reader a reason to keep turning the page.
Let’s explore how to master the delicate balance of the “slow burn” without putting your reader to sleep.
The Misconception of the “Slow Burn”
When readers pick up a slow-burn story, they aren’t looking for instant gratification—they are looking for immersion. They want to be enveloped in a rich environment or watch a relationship evolve over hundreds of pages.
However, slow burn does not mean stagnant.
Stagnation happens when nothing of emotional, psychological, or narrative consequence is happening. A slow burn, on the other hand, is about anticipation. It’s the feeling of walking down a dark hallway where you know something is waiting for you at the end. You aren’t running yet, but your senses are heightened.
If your story requires a gentle, unhurried opening, you cannot afford to be passive. You have to actively manufacture curiosity.
4 Ways to Hook Your Reader While Taking Your Time
If you aren’t starting with an explosion or a murder, what should you put on page one? How do you keep the reader invested while you lay your narrative foundation?
1. Weaponize the “Promise of the Premise”
Even if your plot is moving at a leisurely pace, the reader needs to know the journey is worth the mileage. Establish the stakes or the core question early, even if you don’t answer it for a long time.
Example: If your novel is about two people who slowly fall in love over a ten-year friendship, show a flash-forward of them at a crossroads, or establish early on that one of them is moving away forever. The reader now has a ticking clock in the back of their mind, making the slow, cozy scenes that follow infinitely more poignant.
2. Create Immediate Character Intrigue
If the plot isn’t racing forward, the characters must carry the weight. But backstory dumps won’t save you here. Instead, hook the reader with behavioral anomalies or compelling contradictions.
Introduce a character who is outwardly charming but makes a deeply unsettling observation.
Show someone reacting to a mundane situation in an entirely unexpected way.
Curiosity is an itch. If you give the reader a psychological puzzle to solve about a character on page two, they will keep reading just to figure out what makes that person tick.
3. Establish an Irresistible Atmosphere
If you are going to take your time getting to the plot, the world you are building better be a place the reader actually wants to inhabit. Atmosphere can be a powerful hook in its own right. Think of gothic horror or cozy mysteries. The pacing is often deliberate, but the sensory details—the chill in the air, the creak of the floorboards, the smell of rain on dust—create a mood so intoxicating that the reader forgets they haven’t reached the inciting incident yet.
4. Ask a Question the Reader Needs Answered
You don’t need a dead body to create mystery. You just need a gap in information. Drop a subtle hint about something that happened in the past, or introduce an unspoken tension between two characters. When a writer hints at a secret without immediately revealing it, they are playing a game of psychological chess with the reader. The reader keeps turning the page not because they are running from danger, but because they are chasing an answer.
The Golden Rule: Respect Your Reader’s Patience
Readers are generous. They will happily go on a long, winding journey with you—if they trust you.
Trust is built in the opening pages. It comes from tight prose, a distinct narrative voice, and the subtle, underlying sense that the author knows exactly where they are taking you, even if they are taking the scenic route.
Take your time, breathe life into your world, and let your characters develop organically. Just make sure that as you weave your slow-burn tapestry, you’re handing the reader a thread they can’t help but follow.
How to Make a One-Day Warsaw Stopover Unforgettable: Your Ultimate Guide
So, you’ve got a one-day stopover in Warsaw, and you’re wondering how to make the most of it. Maybe it’s a layover on your way to another European city, or perhaps it’s a quick visit squeezed into a packed itinerary. Either way, Warsaw—a city of resilience, history, and vibrant culture—is waiting to surprise you. With just 24 hours, it might seem impossible to capture the essence of Poland’s capital, but trust me: one place can make your day truly memorable.
The challenge? Warsaw is packed with incredible spots: the historic Old Town (a UNESCO World Heritage site), the hauntingly powerful Warsaw Uprising Museum, the lush Łazienki Park, and the bustling Nowy Świat street. But if you only have time for one standout experience, I’d point you straight to the Warsaw Uprising Museum.
Why the Warsaw Uprising Museum?
Yes, it’s a museum—but not just any museum. This is a visceral, immersive journey into the soul of Warsaw. In 1944, the city’s residents rose up against Nazi occupation in a brave, tragic 63-day struggle. The museum doesn’t just tell that story; it makes you feel it. From the moment you step inside, you’re surrounded by the sights, sounds, and emotions of that pivotal moment in history. It’s a tribute to courage, sacrifice, and the incredible rebirth of a city that was nearly destroyed.
What Makes It So Special for a Short Visit?
Emotional Impact: You’ll leave moved and inspired. It’s a powerful reminder of why Warsaw is called the “Phoenix City”—rebuilt from ashes with unwavering spirit.
Central Location: Easily accessible by public transport or taxi from the city centre or airport (Chopin Airport is just a 20-minute drive away).
Efficient Experience: You can spend 2–3 hours here and come away feeling like you’ve truly connected with Warsaw’s heart. It’s time well spent, offering more depth than a quick stroll through tourist spots.
Making Your Stopover Memorable: A Quick Plan
Morning: Head straight to the Warsaw Uprising Museum (book tickets online to skip lines). Allow yourself to absorb the exhibits—don’t rush.
Afternoon: Grab a traditional Polish lunch at a nearby milk bar (like “Bar Bambino”) for pierogi or żurek soup. Then, take a short walk to the reconstructed Old Town to see the Royal Castle and Market Square—it’s a beautiful contrast to the museum’s history, showcasing Warsaw’s renewal.
Evening: If time allows, enjoy a coffee or craft beer in the trendy Powiśle district before heading back to the airport.
But What If Museums Aren’t Your Thing?
If you’re craving something lighter, Warsaw’s Old Town is a fantastic alternative. Stroll through its colourful streets, admire the meticulous post-war reconstruction, and climb the bell tower of St. Anne’s Church for panoramic views. It’s a testament to beauty rising from destruction.
Final Tips for Your One-Day Adventure
Transport: Use Warsaw’s efficient public transport or Bolt/Uber for convenience.
Currency: Have some Polish złoty for small purchases, though cards are widely accepted.
Mind the Time: Keep an eye on your flight schedule—allow ample time to return to the airport.
A one-day stopover in Warsaw doesn’t have to be a blur. By choosing one meaningful place—like the Warsaw Uprising Museum—you’ll take home more than just photos; you’ll carry a piece of Warsaw’s indomitable spirit. Whether you’re a history buff, a curious traveller, or someone seeking authentic experiences, this city will leave a lasting impression.
So, go ahead—turn that layover into a memorable chapter of your journey. Warsaw is ready to welcome you.
All of us writers know what this is, the sort of combination of words that all come together as a story. A tale about anything, whether it is true or just plain fiction.
A story can be long, or it can be short. It could be a magazine or newspaper article, or it could be what a child tells their mother or father when they get into trouble.
Come to think of it, I think that’s where I got an interest in writing stories, because as a child, I was always in trouble.
Of course, if you are telling certain types of stories, then it’s bound to be a lie. And made even worse if it is gossip!
That story might even be my interpretation of events, and as it happens, no two stories may be the same, especially if I and others had witnessed the same event.
This is not to be confused with the other version, storey, which is a single level in a building, one that might have thirty or more stories.
And, just to add to the confusion, living in Brisbane in Australia, we have the Storey Bridge.
Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
So, you’ve got a layover in Lisbon—just one day to dip your toes into the magic of Portugal’s sun-drenched capital. Maybe you’re en route to somewhere else, or perhaps it’s a quick escape squeezed between commitments. Whatever the reason, you’re here now, with 24 hours to uncover a piece of Lisbon’s soul. The city is bursting with charm—colourful tiled buildings, steep hills, and the scent of pastéis de nata around every corner. But with limited time, where do you go to make that single day truly unforgettable?
Lisbon offers countless gems, from the historic Belém Tower to the lively streets of Alfama. Yet, if I had to choose one place that captures the essence of Lisbon—its beauty, its spirit, and its heartbeat—it would be Miradouro da Senhora do Monte.
Why This Spot?
Perched on one of Lisbon’s highest hills in the Graça neighbourhood, Miradouro da Senhora do Monte is more than just a viewpoint—it’s an experience. While other miradouros (viewpoints) like Portas do Sol or São Pedro de Alcântara are popular, this one feels like a local secret. It offers a breathtaking, panoramic vista of the entire city: the red rooftops cascading toward the Tagus River, the majestic São Jorge Castle, and the iconic 25 de Abril Bridge stretching into the distance. It’s peaceful, often less crowded, and provides a moment of quiet awe amidst a bustling city.
Making Your Day Memorable
Start your morning here. Grab a coffee and a fresh pastel de nata from a nearby bakery, find a spot on the wall, and watch Lisbon wake up. The soft morning light paints the city in golden hues, and you’ll hear the distant sounds of trams clattering and church bells ringing. It’s the perfect introduction to Lisbon’s laid-back yet vibrant vibe.
From there, wander through Graça’s cobbled streets, explore the historic Alfama district (just a short walk downhill), and maybe catch a live Fado performance later in the day. But it’s that serene moment at Miradouro da Senhora do Monte that will stick with you—the feeling of being on top of the world, with all of Lisbon spread out at your feet.
A Tip for the Journey
Wear comfortable shoes—Lisbon’s hills are no joke! And don’t rush. The beauty of a one-day stopover is in savouring small moments. Whether you’re travelling solo, with a partner, or with friends, this viewpoint offers a slice of Lisbon’s magic that’s both intimate and grand.
So, if you have just one day in Lisbon, make your way to Miradouro da Senhora do Monte. Let the view steal your breath, and let Lisbon steal your heart. Até logo, and safe travels
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
The Art of the Slow Burn: Why You Need to Hook Your Readers Early (Even When Taking Your Time)
We’ve all heard the golden rule of writing: Start with a bang. Grab the reader by the lapels on page one, throw them into a high-stakes action scene, or drop a mind-bending mystery that demands an immediate answer.
It’s solid advice. But what if your story isn’t built that way?
What if you are writing an atmospheric literary drama, an intricate, world-building-heavy fantasy, or a psychological thriller that relies on a slow, simmering escalation of tension? As writers, we often fall into the trap of believing that “taking our time” gives us a free pass to wander. We spend the first three chapters describing the weather, establishing generational family trees, or letting characters slowly drink their morning coffee.
Here is the hard truth every writer needs to hear: Some stories can take their time before sinking the hook in, but it’s best to give the reader a reason to keep turning the page.
Let’s explore how to master the delicate balance of the “slow burn” without putting your reader to sleep.
The Misconception of the “Slow Burn”
When readers pick up a slow-burn story, they aren’t looking for instant gratification—they are looking for immersion. They want to be enveloped in a rich environment or watch a relationship evolve over hundreds of pages.
However, slow burn does not mean stagnant.
Stagnation happens when nothing of emotional, psychological, or narrative consequence is happening. A slow burn, on the other hand, is about anticipation. It’s the feeling of walking down a dark hallway where you know something is waiting for you at the end. You aren’t running yet, but your senses are heightened.
If your story requires a gentle, unhurried opening, you cannot afford to be passive. You have to actively manufacture curiosity.
4 Ways to Hook Your Reader While Taking Your Time
If you aren’t starting with an explosion or a murder, what should you put on page one? How do you keep the reader invested while you lay your narrative foundation?
1. Weaponize the “Promise of the Premise”
Even if your plot is moving at a leisurely pace, the reader needs to know the journey is worth the mileage. Establish the stakes or the core question early, even if you don’t answer it for a long time.
Example: If your novel is about two people who slowly fall in love over a ten-year friendship, show a flash-forward of them at a crossroads, or establish early on that one of them is moving away forever. The reader now has a ticking clock in the back of their mind, making the slow, cozy scenes that follow infinitely more poignant.
2. Create Immediate Character Intrigue
If the plot isn’t racing forward, the characters must carry the weight. But backstory dumps won’t save you here. Instead, hook the reader with behavioral anomalies or compelling contradictions.
Introduce a character who is outwardly charming but makes a deeply unsettling observation.
Show someone reacting to a mundane situation in an entirely unexpected way.
Curiosity is an itch. If you give the reader a psychological puzzle to solve about a character on page two, they will keep reading just to figure out what makes that person tick.
3. Establish an Irresistible Atmosphere
If you are going to take your time getting to the plot, the world you are building better be a place the reader actually wants to inhabit. Atmosphere can be a powerful hook in its own right. Think of gothic horror or cozy mysteries. The pacing is often deliberate, but the sensory details—the chill in the air, the creak of the floorboards, the smell of rain on dust—create a mood so intoxicating that the reader forgets they haven’t reached the inciting incident yet.
4. Ask a Question the Reader Needs Answered
You don’t need a dead body to create mystery. You just need a gap in information. Drop a subtle hint about something that happened in the past, or introduce an unspoken tension between two characters. When a writer hints at a secret without immediately revealing it, they are playing a game of psychological chess with the reader. The reader keeps turning the page not because they are running from danger, but because they are chasing an answer.
The Golden Rule: Respect Your Reader’s Patience
Readers are generous. They will happily go on a long, winding journey with you—if they trust you.
Trust is built in the opening pages. It comes from tight prose, a distinct narrative voice, and the subtle, underlying sense that the author knows exactly where they are taking you, even if they are taking the scenic route.
Take your time, breathe life into your world, and let your characters develop organically. Just make sure that as you weave your slow-burn tapestry, you’re handing the reader a thread they can’t help but follow.
My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.
I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.
Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.
Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.
The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.
I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.
The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.
I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.
Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?
Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.
There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.
The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.
As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.
There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.
With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.
A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.
He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.
Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.
I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.
The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.
“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”
Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”
“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”
He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.
Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.
“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”
“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”
“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”
I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.
“Name of guest, sir?”
“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.
She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”
Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”
Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”
An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.
“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”
Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”
Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”
I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.
“No.”
“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”
She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”
“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.
“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.
The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”
“No. You have more than you can know.”
“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”
“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”
Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.
I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.
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
…
A second later the light came on and I was temporarily blinded.
The woman had to be on the other side of the door, and coming into the room, I must have passed her. Her voice sounded quite old, so it must be the mother.
“Turn around, slowly.
I did. By that time my eyes had readjusted, and I could see a woman, still dressed, with what looked to be an Enfield WW1 rifle. Just as dangerous now as it was then, particularly at this close range.
“Mrs Quigley, I presume,” I asked. Remain polite and conversational and keep her from getting nervous.
“Who are you?”
“Sam Jackson.”
“Is that your real name?”
“Why would you presume to think it wasn’t?”
“You’re breaking into my house which means you’re a criminal, and criminals by nature are also liars. Why would I think you any different to the rest?”
Good question. “I knew your son.”
“Which one?”
“Adam.”
“He’s not here. He hasn’t been around since he gallivanted off overseas a few years back.”
“I saw him only a few days ago, in London. Not gallivanting, by the way, but with feet firmly planted on the ground.”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
She didn’t know he was dead, and I didn’t think it was my business to tell her. That was Dobbin’s job, and I was surprised he hadn’t. Or, I only had her word for it he hadn’t.
“Are you hard of hearing.” Get into the middle of the room.”
I moved slowly into the middle, watching her edge slowly towards the writing desk while keeping the gun aimed at me. If I tried to run for it, and if she was any sort of shot, I’d be dead before I got three, possibly four paces. If I could get a shred of surprise.
I hadn’t seen the phone on the desk, and watched her pick up the receiver, and, with the same hand, started dialing a number.
“Put it down.” Another voice, another woman, coming from the doorway.
Jennifer.
With a gun in hand, pointed at the woman.
“What if I shoot him, or you?”
“You’ll be dead before either scenario happens. Just put it down. I’m not here to shoot anyone if I can help it.”
Of course, this was just like one of those scenes out of a comedic spy film. Guns pointing in all directions.
And, true to form, a click, and a voice. “You put your weapon down.”
He appeared out of the shadows and had the gun pointed straight at Jennifer’s head at very short range.
Adam Quigley, aka O’Connell, and very much alive.
Jennifer dropped her gun, but Adam didn’t take his gun off her.
