Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 4

Four

I’d been to London before, not with Cecile, but with my parents on a graduation present at the end of school. My father had called it a mission to see how the other half live, and why, in his opinion, our country didn’t need a Queen to be our head of state.

A Republican, not a royalist. But it had done little to change my opinion, simply because it didn’t matter to me who ran the country; all positions of any colour were equally as useless.

But I remembered the trek over London, seeing the Horse Guards, Number 10 Downing Street, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, and Buckingham Palace. A whirlwind of ancient buildings that had been in existence long before our country was discovered.

A little of that sense of awe I had then came back when passing by Trafalgar Square and heading down Whitehall as far as Whitehall Place.

If we were not on a mission, I would have liked to spend more time exploring because the last time had been so quick and disjointed. My father had not been one for being a tourist. Neither, apparently, was Emily.

In sight of the hotel, I felt a shiver go down my spine, either a sign of the cold weather or there was something wrong.

I stopped suddenly and turned. Emily nearly crashed into me, eliciting a grunt between disapproval and annoyance. “What is the matter with you?”

She turned also to see what had caught my interest. She was too late, but I hadn’t. Two people, what looked to be a man and a woman, had almost managed to blend into the background, but not before I caught a glimpse of them.

They were familiar in the sense that I could swear I’d already seen them before, way back at Trafalgar Square, trying to act like tourists, which was what caught my attention.

“There’s nothing there, you’re jumping at shadows.”

I still kept an eye on that direction, waiting to see if they showed themselves. They didn’t, but that didn’t mean they were not there. And if they were following is, I was leading them to the hotel, where if we discovered nothing, they no doubt had the resources that could.

Better I didn’t lead them there.

“Believe it or not, there are two people following us, and I’m not going to lead them to the hotel. We are going past it and onto the gardens, then along the riverside to the Houses of Parliament if we have to, to lose them.”.

It took a combination of the cold weather and luck to shake off the people following us.

In fact, by the time I realised they were no longer there, I had begun to believe it was just a case of nerves and imagination.

We’d walked quite a distance up the Embankment, almost to Westminster Abbey, before coming back down Whitehall. Even with snow lightly falling, there were the intrepid tourists vying to get their photos taken with the Horse Guards standing on guard duty.

It was not a job I could do in all sorts of weather, but standing still on a day that is cold, snowing, or worse, raining, would be debilitating, if not impossible.

Emily had not said very much while we dodged and weaved, and, to her, it must have seemed comical. And after I said I thought we were in the clear, she said, “Are you sure you’re not suffering from an overactive imagination?”

At that moment, in the middle of Whitehall with the snow coming down, her comment seemed valid. “That’s quite likely, but I honestly thought I saw someone, possibly two people more than once.”

“There are a lot of people out and about, so seeing them more than once doesn’t necessarily mean they’re following us.”

True, but it was better to be safe than sorry. And I had a very bad feeling we were going to run into them again. Whatever Cecile had done, it had to be serious if she was trying this hard not to be found.

It didn’t take long, after walking a brisk pace in the cold, spurred on by the fact the snow was falling more densely, and it was getting harder to see anything through the white shroud before we reached the hotel again. I checked again, waiting a minute or two, just to make sure we’d got away from them before escorting Emily through the door.

Once inside, after shaking off the snow, it was considerably warmer. I notice then my hands had begun to freeze, and stepping back into warmth caused a tingling sensation through them. Another hour and they’d be ice blocks.

We took off our coats and went over to the reception counter.

The check-in clerk with the name tag ‘Wendy’, hung up the phone, the call she was on completed, then turned her attention to us.

“How may I help you?”

“I’m hoping you have a guest here named Cecile Robinson. She would have checked in four days ago. My name is James Bentley, and she was expecting me.”

Wendy typed the name into the computer. It took about a minute before her expression changed, possibly indicating she’d found something.

“I’ll be just a moment.”

Without waiting for my response as she went through a door almost behind her, into an office of sorts. I could see two people in there just before the door closed.

The reception desk manager or security.

I just hoped she wasn’t calling the police.

…

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 54

As some may be aware, but many are not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mouse catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.

Recently, I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits, I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20160903_163858

This is Chester. Did someone use the word ‘vet’ out loud?

It is odd how some animals can recognise some words and remember what activity is attached to it.

Chester knows the word vet, and his memory attaches a great deal of seemingly horrible experiences, not the worst of which is being transported in a pet basket.

Yes, we have just tried carrying him, but there is a sixth sense in every cat that tells them when they’re nearing a vet. Within 50 metres of the front door, the hair stands up, and the cat starts hissing as if he were facing off against a formidable opponent.

We only carried him once, never again.

But the histrionics start in the house where we have to mount a search party to find him, There are innumerable hiding places, and we have to be organised.

Invariably, each time something like this happens, he finds somewhere new to hide. We keep forgetting he can use his paws to open sliding doors and close them again, a talent he had learned.

We’ve also learned to start looking a half-hour earlier than we used to. The vet is only three minutes away, and we used to leave it to the last minute, but being late for the appointment happens only once.

Vets are worse than doctors when you miss appointments. Perhaps Chester knows this and tries to use it to his advantage. It no longer works.

Then, once we find him, the next exercise is to get him into the basket. I’ve never seen so many tricks on how not to let the humans put him in it.

But, over time, we’ve learned, and sometimes it’s easy; others, I have the scars to prove it.

Then, once we get to the vet, it’s a completely different cat, not Chester, but some other cat disguised as him. Chester has never given the vet an ounce of trouble.

Perhaps we should become vets.

Chester is fine, just a little off-colour perhaps from something he ate. Not all pet food is agreeable, and we’ve been trying to get him to have something different. I even specially cook fish for him, and maybe that was the problem.

What is off-putting is the ease with which he goes back into the basket for the vet.

But all is well, and he will be glad to get out…

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 20

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a 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 prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

A chessboard of players

…

I sighed. Someone else who wasn’t who they seemed to be.

At a guess, it was a gun in my back. We were far enough away from anyone else for them to recognise what was happening.

“No need for whatever weapon you have in my back. I’m neither armed nor dangerous.”

“Why are you following me?”

Should I tell her the truth or tell her a lie. The latter would be the most expedient, but I needed to talk to her, so I went with the former.

“You know O’Connell.”

“Were you the one who attacked me?”

“I told you I meant you no harm. What happened to you wasn’t my fault.”

Whatever was in my back was no longer there, so I turned around to face her. She had changed her look since O’Connell’s flat, not only the change in hair colour and length but also the makeup, making it difficult for anyone to recognise her from a distance. I’d been lucky.

“What do you want with him?”

“More than likely the same as you. He made the mistake of thinking you were interested in him, but I suspect your assignment was to get close, and the flat next door was as close as you could get.”

“What are you babbling about? We were friends.”

“How often did he stay in that flat? Everything in it still has the price tag on it.”

“You’re loopy. I’m going now, and I suggest you don’t follow me again.”

“I know where you live remember. All I want is some answers.”

“There are no answers. He was a friend, that’s it. I’m going now.” She turned and started to walk away.

“If I know who you are, the chances are the others do too.”

She stopped. Interesting response. In her shoes, my first reaction, if I was an innocent person, would be to call for a policeman to have me taken away for assaulting her.

She turned and took two steps back towards me. “What are you talking about now?”

“O’Connell’s flat was like Marks and Spenser this morning. I came and found another woman claiming to live next door, named Josephine, unconscious on the floor, and I didn’t do it by the way. She works for a man named Nobbin, McConnell’s direct superior, and whom I think, indirectly I do too, and I suspect she was neutralised by another man named Severin.

“Whatever O’Connell was up to, there are a lot of people who want a missing USB with what I suspect is very interesting, and probably damaging information. You wouldn’t have it, by the way?”

“Who are you?”

“That’s what I’m not sure about. Like I said, I think I work for the same man whom O’Connell worked for, but before that, I worked with the people who had him killed for whatever was on the USB.” It sounded far more horrible out loud than it had a few seconds earlier in my head. God only knew what she was thinking about it. “Who do you work for, because a woman who can do the transformation you just did is either a call girl or an agent?” Another thought just occurred to me, a reason perhaps why she had changed her appearance so radically. “Your flat was searched too, wasn’t it?”

No need to answer yes or no. The look on her face was enough.

We ordered coffee and sat down. She was still very wary of me, but since I seemed to know, or presumed to know, what had happened, she was going to ask me some questions I wasn’t going to be able to answer.

And not because the answers were in the top-secret category, it was simply because I didn’t know.

“So,” I asked, “who do you work for?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“But you were either keeping O’Connell close company by insinuating yourself into his life, or you were maintaining some sort of surveillance.”

She was plating it close, and with a poker face. She was better at it than I was.

“Where is he, by the way?”

“Dead.”

“Dead?”

No mistaking that look of fear the flickered on her face, then disappear again into rocky granite.

“Dead. Seems he came across some information, and it caused his death. I was there shortly before he died, shot by a sniper, I think, and there was nothing I could do about it. Any idea what that information was?”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, but either way, if I did or I didn’t the answer would be the same, no. He told me he was a reporter, working on a really big story, and that he would have to go away for a few days. I knew that was his cover story.”

“Were you after that same information?”

“Probably, maybe, I don’t know. Our information was mostly conjecture, a profile built up by our research department, based on his travels, and sightings at a location we know is running a network of agents. The conclusion was that it was not one of ours, so I was assigned to find out exactly who they were.”

“O’Connell would not have told you.”

“Given the circumstances I find myself in, I’m beginning to think that. If you worked with him, then he was on the same side as you, so are you good or bad?”

That was a rather interesting question to be asking me at this late stage, and especially after she had told me basically what I needed to know, bar who she worked for, but that, I was beginning to think, was MI6.

“A rather silly question to ask, don’t you think? It stands to reason that if I was bad, then I would not have left you alive in O’Connell’s flat.”

“Not unless you wanted something from me and set this up as a trap.”

So that was the reason why she kept checking everyone she could see upstairs and monitoring the stairs to see who arrived and left. We were in the right spot to keep tabs on everyone. And I knew her gun wasn’t very far from her hand.

“Obviously you don’t have it, so my work is done here. I suggest you don’t go back to that flat.” I stood. “Your location and probably who you are is compromised. And two men and their attack dogs will be looking for you. Good luck with that.”

“Aren’t you one of those two men attack dog, by your own admission?”

“I’m new and not cynical enough to shoot people out of hand. You’re probably lucky in that regard. And if someone like me can find you, then think what a seasoned professional would be able to do. Have a nice life, what you have left of it.”

Writing a book in 365 days – 217

Day 217

Writing exercise

“Everything that happened in that house was a catastrophe”

…

Sitting around the table in the lawyers’ conference room were seven very eager faces, and, at the other end, opposite Blanding, my parents’ lawyer.

It was time for the reading of the will.

The seven seated at the other end were, in age order, eldest to youngest: Jacob, John, Jesse, Julian, Judy, Jessica, and Jennifer.

I was named Ferdinand. Yes, that apparently was a name, but I usually used my middle name of Aloysius, or more often than not, the short form, Al.

There was a reason why I was sitting away from the others. Technically, I was not a brother, but the only child of my stepfather’s brother, adopted by him after my parents died a year after I was born.

It had remained a well-kept secret until the day my stepmother, who died a few hours earlier than my stepfather, was conscious long enough to tell the eldest son of my adoption.

From that moment, I became persona non grata with nearly all the other siblings. It went from thirty-five years of harmonious sibling rivalry to me instantly becoming an outcast. I don’t think it was what the mother had intended, but then she hadn’t realised just how greedy and insecure her children were.

I had, though it had taken time. The two eldest boys thought I was different, not just the fact that my name didn’t start with a j, but the fact that I had red hair and that I had slightly different characteristics.

While the parents were alive, no one really questioned it. After they died and there was a fortune at stake, it came down to being one less to divvy up the pot of gold.

But here’s the thing. None but one, Jennifer and I stayed to look after them in their home when neither could look after each other or themselves. The others left home as soon as they could and only came back for handouts to save them from their stupidity.

For them, the memories of what happened in that house were a stark reminder of everything they should have become. They had been given every opportunity, but none seemed to like the idea of having to work for it.

Jennifer and I both got the intended message and understood. I remember the number of times the father had said, if only the others had been like Al. He made a point of it. The others blamed me when the father started rejecting their demands for assistance, saying that I had made their lives impossible. Nothing in that house, as far as they were concerned, had led anywhere for any of them except to catastrophe.

In turn, I never understood them. From a very young age, they all believed they would be looked after, that why they should not work or try to make their mark when, in the end, there would be a fortune waiting for each of them.

Or perhaps I did. Their parents spoiled and indulged all of them. Not me. Perhaps that was the indication I should have seen that I was not really one of them. The father never gave me anything, often telling me that he expected me to make something of myself, as his brother had.

I never understood what he had meant by that until the mother’s revelation. Then everything made sense.

More than one he had said, privately to me, that I was not one of them, that I did not have to be like them, that they, meaning the eldest two boys, would never amount to anything.

He was right.

But it was his fault they turned out that way. His and their mother.

Now, a greater catastrophe was likely to befall them if the father had carried out his threat to cut them all off.

I was there when he told them they had six months to turn their lives around, during which time they would not be getting their usual allowances.

As far as he was concerned, it was time for all of them to sort themselves out. His ultimatum had been met with stunned silence and disbelief. I don’t think any of them had considered the well might run dry.

The fact the parents died in an accident did raise a few questions in my mind, so soon after the ultimatum, and the thought, however unbelievable or insidious, was whether one of them, or all of them together, had ‘arranged’ for their deaths.

Jennifer was more inclined to believe they had. None had a story that would stand deeper probing. Each was vouching for the others, alibis were shaky, and as far as she was concerned, the police had closed the case too quickly. As far as they were concerned, it was an accident.

I looked at Blanding and caught his eye. He had his inscrutable face on. It was time to begin

…

“Right,” he said after clearing his throat. “Shall we start?”

He looked around the table at all the expectant faces. No one could tell whether he was about to deliver good news or bad. Even I didn’t know.

All I had was a phone call from the lawyer’s office, a request to be there. The others tried to have me excluded, but Blanding would have none of it. He simply told them that the reading could only progress if all eight of us attended, an explicit condition stipulated by both parents.

The room went silent.

“Now that the investigation into the untimely deaths of your parents has been concluded and a result of death by misadventure recorded, the will can now be read. It doesn’t necessarily mean that any benefits will automatically be payable after this reading. There are formalities, and these will take time.”

Eldest son: “How much time?”

“As long as it takes.” That was it. No more. Blanding took the will document out of the folder in front of him and removed the first page. The good stuff presumably started on the next.

The eldest son was going to ask another question but then decided against it. I got the impression he was kicked in the shin under the table.

Blanding continued. “Your mother’s will has been read and wishes executed. She died before your father, and her wish was for everything to go to her husband and several annuities for friends. She never thought of her domestics as servants but friends.”

Eldest son: “But she didn’t leave anything directly to any of us, not even the girls.”

“No. Her intention was always to leave it to your father. Had she, in fact, survived him, there was a small lump sum payment of approximately a thousand pounds each and the annuities.”

“What about the estate, the holiday houses, the apartments overseas?”

Yes, the eldest son had been doing his homework, listing all the places we went to, not realising that the property portfolio was largely smoke and mirrors. I discovered the true nature of what they owned and what they rented, and it didn’t surprise me.

The father had been very clever to hide the fact that they were not as wealthy as most people believed, and having ready cash to give the children meant a gradual depletion of assets over time.

Being who they were didn’t mean they were filthy rich. The trick their father had told me once is to appear rich without anyone guessing what your true financial situation is.

Blanding put down the document and took off his glasses. I thought he was going to massage his forehead like a person trying the assuage the pain of an oncoming headache.

Maybe he had one already.

He massaged the bridge of his nose. Maybe the glasses were new and weren’t sitting right.

Then he looked at Jacob. “I’m sure you’ve been compiling a list of everything you believe should be in the estate. Did you think to also compile a list of the sums of money you borrowed from your father?”

“Borrow?” Jacob’s expression changed. “We did nothing of the sort. He gave us…”

He stopped abruptly when he heard, rather than watched, a thick folder land on the desk with a thud, perhaps more for effect than emphasis.

“Every time your father loaned each of you money, you had to sign a document to say that at the end of a specific period, you would either repay the loan in full or start paying the interest. I daresay you didn’t read the fine print or look at or listen to anything but simply thought your father would never expect anything in return. So, back to my original question, did you compile a list of all your borrowings?”

“Of course, we didn’t. Are you stupid? The man is dead. There’s no one to pay it back to.” John had the logic all worked out.

“Well, there’s the thing. It became repayable when he died. It’s stated very clearly in the documents, very legal documents, I might add. But just for the sake of clarity, the aggregate sums borrowed by each child are: Jacob, 18 million, John, 9 million, Jesse, 6 million, Julian, 4 million, Judy, 15 million, Jessica, 7 million, Jennifer, zero, and Al, zero. That’s close to 60 million pounds. Where do you think that lot came from?”

The siblings were looking at each other but mistake at Jacob and Judy. I thought I heard a muttered “What the hell did you do with 18 million, Jacob?” If they asked me, if would tell them. Gambling.

“The old man was loaded. Inherited wealth, he said.”

“I’m sure he said a lot of things to which you chose not to hear. Giving you all you asked for over the years cost a lot, so much so, he was forced to sell all of the properties, including, in the end, the manor house. There wasn’t much in the rest, the paintings of forebears were worthless, the furniture and fittings all very old but not worth a fortune old. The manor house has been given to the new owner, who was gracious enough to allow your parents to remain in it, rented free, until they decided to move on. It was always going to revert back to him. So, scratch any property off your list of assets.”

“Cash, shares, bonds?” The confidence in the tone before had gone as the realisation of what had happened sank in.

It would be long before the others turned on Jacob and Judy, even though all of them together caused the problem.

“You know the answer to that question, Jacob,” I said

He turned to me. I could feel the hostility. “How come you didn’t get anything. Bet he knew you weren’t one of us and was never going to give you a penny.”

Jennifer rounded on him. “Like me, he didn’t seek to burden your father because staying home and looking after him, we knew exactly what the financial situation was. You all should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Jacob jumped to his feet. “If that’s all?”

“There is the matter of repayment of the loans.”

Jacob laughed. “Good luck with that old man.” Then he left. The others quickly followed him out the door.

Blanding sighed. “Well, that went better than I thought it would.”

“Were you serious about the loans?” I asked.

“Your father was. We could take them all to court, but they don’t have anything, so it would be a meaningless exercise. But at least they have no more opportunity to get anything more. They have to make their own way now. But, now for the rest of the will.”

“I thought all that was left was the three thousand odd pounds,” Jennifer said.

“After the sales of a few bongs we found in the bottom drawer of your father’s desk. No, that’s what your father left you two. He was very glad you stayed to help. Both of them were. It was always his intention to leave the manor house to you, and the proceeds from the sale of a half dozen paintings that used to hang in the Paris apartment, about 40 million pounds. He set up trust funds for the two of you, so you have somewhere to live, and enough to keep you going.”

“And if the others find out?”

“They can contest it, even get a slice of the proceeds, but the estate has first lien on the money in repayment of their debts, and the proceeds would barely cover the repayments. No. There’s no point, and no legal firm would take the case. Now go and enjoy it.”

He put two sets of keys to the manor house on the table, the same two we’d given him when we arrived.

We shook his hand, and he left the room. I may have been mistaken, but I think he had a smile on his face. Jennifer was looking down the street, and I joined her. Both of us saw the six other siblings exit onto the street, just as the heavens opened and dumped a heavy shower of rain on them.

“I think,” Jennifer said, “Mum and dad just got the last laugh.”

…

Searching for locations – Port Macquarie – Day 3 – Part 1

The Maritime Museum

The three houses that make up the maritime museum used to be the pilot’s houses. They were built between 1896 and 1937. There used to be four but one was relocated to another part of Port Macquarie.

In between two of the buildings is, of all things, a sea mine

they also have several model ships which are up for sale.

They have sailors dressed in the way they were back in the 1820s

A cannon of one their warships

And models of the ships that brought the soldiers, convicts, and free settlers to Australia

There is an interesting collection of flags that were once used to communicate from ship to ship or shore, before the advent of radio.

When I should be sleeping…

My mind will not rest.

Down here, it is summer, and the last few days have been exhaustingly hot, well, it is summer after all, but tonight it is particularly hot.

So, as I can’t sleep, I’m lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, otherwise known as the cinema of my dreams.

Where am I?

Well, it has to be someplace other than here, of course.

…

I’d seen the Trevi Fountain in the movies, but, until now, it just seemed like any other fountain, only larger.

In reality, it was much more than that, and, so it seemed, it was also that for many other people. Mid-afternoon on a warm sunny day, they were all standing in awe.

Perhaps some were making a wish, and I saw several toss coins in. There would be a lot of money in there and I couldn’t help but think about what sort of job it would be to retrieve it.

Odd too, I thought, if they hadn’t, how many old and rare coins might be somewhere on the floor. Of course, I only thought of the aesthetic value rather than the practicality of the water system that the Romans had built long before such feats of engineering were being contemplated.

No, I was here on holiday.

After years of travelling to a great many places for my job, one that never really gave me any time for sightseeing, I’d decided it was time to indulge in a little tourism.

Before this, I’d been to the Colosseum, the old ruins, the Spanish Steps, and the Parthenon. This was going to wrap up in the afternoon.

“So, are you here on business or pleasure?”

I turned to see Giuseppe, a man I’d had a rather complicated relationship with in the past, and one who is not told I was coming.

But, the fact he was here was no surprise.

It was however surprising that he could sneak up on me. It showed I was slipping, or, more than likely, I was more susceptible to being distracted.

“I am but a humble tourist. I’m sorry but you have been following me for nothing.”

“Why is it I find that difficult to believe?”

Maybe because of what I used to do, but it was not something I would openly admit. And the only reason he was standing there was that someone else had made a mistake, and required a bit of diplomacy to smooth the waters.

Unfortunately, that had destroyed my invisibility in Italy, and probably most of Europe, and these days I spent most of my time in semi-retirement driving a desk. Not entirely put out to pasture.

“As difficult as it might be, having your cover blown makes it impossible to continue, verified by the fact you’re here now. Was it a red flag on my name, or facial recognition?”

“Just remember, we’re watching you.”

A last shake of his head, he walked over to a car parked a host distance away, got in, and drove off. I had no doubt he was not the only one who had been watching me.

“It seems you were right.”

Another voice, This time a woman, and expected. Carla had been waiting in the coffee shop for Giuseppe or someone like him to make an appearance.

“They were not exactly hiding the fact they had me under surveillance.”

She handed me the coffee with a smile.

“That means we can have some fun, does it not?”

That had been the plan. I knew if I entered Italy using the identity I used the last time, it would put them on alert, and prompt a reaction.

“It still doesn’t mean they won’t suspect something is afoot.”

“And since when did you start doubting yourself?”

Since my last operation fell apart because I made one simple mistake that no agent would have made in a million years. But, I had, and it basically ended two careers.

The other person had just handed me the coffee, and unaccountable seemed less angry with me than she should be.

“You of all people should know the answer to that.”

She sighed and took my hand in hers. “What I do know is that there’s a very clever operation afoot and you’re the one who planned it. And far from being on the sidelines, we have a new and very important role to play. And speaking of play, it’s time you and I got into our roles. Oh, and just for the record, I still love you and I know how you feel about me, and before I brought you coffee I made a wish.”

So had I, and it had been answered.

…

It was another of those dreams that might lead somewhere. We’ll just have to wait and see.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

Searching for locations – Port Macquarie – Day 2 – Part 2

The old courthouse

A number of the historical sites are conveniently located in the town centre, making it easy to stop for a morning coffee and unique muffin, visit some history, and then go shopping.

The courthouse is one such site on the corner of Clarence and Hay Streets.

It was designed by a Scottish architect responsible for a large number of courthouses, post offices, police stations, and lighthouses.

It was built in 1867 for 875 pounds and opened for business in 1869 and in use until 1986.

It was one of the early designs for the interior

There’s even an opportunity to dress up as the judge

You can lock people in in the cage, though perhaps not a good idea.

There is the judge’s room to one side, complete with fire for cold days, and a lot of dusty reading

And a room for the clerk, and perhaps a soldier or two to guard the prisoners

PI Walthenson’s second case – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’.

Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.

It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years since many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.

In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.

…

Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.

Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.

In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.

…

After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.

Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.

He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.

Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.

Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?

Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.

He was also a member of the American Nazi party.

When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.

It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.

…

Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’