The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 21

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

Chiara knew the moment she told Martina that one of the Germans was dead, she would be in trouble. Not only from the resistance but from the British or whoever they were, up at the castle.

The man’s name was Eric Carmichael, and he was a nice man, more of a boy really, having not suffered the full effects of a front line. He wanted to, but the Gods, as he called them, were against it.

Now he was dead.

He had come to the farm, told she was not there and had left again. The pity of it, on any other occasion, nothing would have happened. Nobody went out at night, so no one knew of their association.

Of course, if he did tell her anything, which he hadn’t so far, she would pass it on to Martina. And, perhaps the only annoying thing about him was that he kept asking about the resistance as if it was still operational. It was one of the reasons who Martina kept her at arm’s length, so she had nothing useful to tell them if they took her in for questioning.

Now it was a matter of seeing if he had told anyone about this affair, and if he did, she would not be safe at the farm. It was why she was in hiding, waiting, and watching to see if anyone came.

Along with Carlo, and the new man, Atherton.

Not far from where the soldier’s body lay in the ditch, one that no one had yet found.

Until now.

A car was coming along the road quite fast, heading towards her farm. Atherton recognised it as one of the staff cars from the castle, and as it slowed to turn the corner, Atherton could see it contained three men, the driver, and the two men who had followed him down the stream.

Suddenly the car skidded to a stop. All three got out and went over to the ditch. The driver had seen the bicycle.

It was an interesting conversation.

“The fool looks like he run off the side of the road and into a tree, fell off and hit his dead on the rocks.”

It was the man who had set me free. I’d recognise him anywhere.

“Or maybe some ‘innocent bystander’ shoved a wrench in the wheel and he went over the handlebars.”

The big man turned to him. “You have a story that implicates every member of the enemy population, don’t you? Where’s the wrench?”

“They could have tossed it away or thrown it into the bushes.”

“The kid’s an idiot. He was out for some fun and had his mind everywhere but on the job. If she’s that tempting, maybe I’ll go and have a look in myself.”

The driver took a closer look, then suddenly bolted for the bushes and threw up. I’d expected more seasoned soldiers in the group of paratroopers, but maybe they were late recruits with only half the training, and barely out of school. He didn’t look all that old. Neither had the lad in the ditch.

The tall guy yelled out, “when you finish puking, get over here and help us get him into the car. Then we’ll meander down to this farm.”

Carlo knew a quicker way across the country to their farm. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what he was intending to do.

Three fewer Germans, three fewer problems.

I followed, trying to keep up.

“You got weapons hidden away?”

“Several rifles and a handgun.”

“It’ll do. When we get there, you say out of sight. Me and the new laddie here will take care of them.”

A look in my direction told me I’d just been recruited into the killing force. Exactly what I’d been hoping to avoid. I guess it was time to make a stand.

A few minutes later we were in the large shed out the rear of the farmhouse, retrieved the rifles, of which one was a sniper rifle, a rather interesting trophy, and not the sort of gun any soldier would leave lying around.

I was tempted to ask where she got but decided against it. I had an awful feeling the previous owner had met a gruesome if not a sticky end. Chiara was not just a pretty face.

“You know what to do with this thing?” Carlo said, holding it out in my direction.

“Vaguely, but I think I can manage.”

With it was a carton of shells, rather long and ugly and very deadly, even at long range. But this time, we were not that far from the target area so wind and external conditions would not be a factor.

Also, I was hoping the sight had been calibrated.

After getting a feel for the weapon I took up a position on top of some hay bales and could see through a large enough crack when I put the barrel, and stretching out, found a comfortable position, and aimed for the back door.

It was like putting out my hand and touching it. This was going to kick like a mule on the recoil, but I would only have time to worry about reloading for the next target. Then I realised the driver might be a problem, especially when the shooting started, so I swivelled around to the back end of the house where a vehicle might come, and, saw the blue, altered the sight, and then saw the car approaching slowly.

I was hoping it would remain in sight, so if anything happened, I would be able to pick him off. It would be all that much harder if he managed to try driving away.

I tracked the car to the point where it stopped, just pat the corner, with only the back half displayed in my sight.

Damn.

In the distance, we heard two car doors slam shut.

The driver was staying put.

Double damn.

A minute later we could hear pounding on the front door, then nothing. My guess, they kicked in the front door. There was no one at home, Chiara’s parents were away because they had no crops in the ground. Their problem was water, and the river was running low this year. Aside from the fact they were not going to feed the enemy soldiers who would simply take everything and give them nothing in return.

I heard rather than saw Carlo stiffen and resight the back door. His shots would be far more difficult than mine.

The tall man came out the back door, stood on the ground not far from the door, his head filling my scope.

“Now,” Carlo said softly.

A pull of the trigger and the man’s head exploded, at just the same time as the other man came out. A reload and another shot. I missed the head, winged him, and Carlo finished him off. Once shot at an impossible range.

Another reload, and swivel towards the car, now reversing, and making it very hard to see his face or body to get a clear shot. Back, around and driving off, in a panic. He’d heard the two shots.

“The fuel,” Carlo said, “shoot the fuel.”

I lined up where I thought the fuel tank was and squeezed the trigger.

Almost instantaneously the car exploded in a ball of fire. Just under my line of sight, Carlo was running. If the driver escaped…

I put the scope on Carli and then to the side. I saw him raise his gun and fire twice. The drive must have miraculously thrown clear of the car, only to find himself in Carlo’s sights.

Chiara had appeared behind me. “We have to go,” she said.

I picked up the gun and took it with me. It could come in handy later on.

Carlo was already heading back to the shortcut through the woods and we met him on the path about twenty yards along.

“That’s going to stir up a hornet’s nest,” he said.

More than that, I thought. Now Johannsson knew he had a real problem. There would be a price to pay for this exercise, and the villagers were the ones who would be paying it.

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 4

Four

It was like a Hollywood script.

It was a friend of a friend of a friend, more an acquaintance really, that came up with a plan. A plan that, if I’d been given a million years to think up, still wouldn’t

But in an odd way, I’d seen it all before.

I was dressed in a prison guard’s uniform, in a room with two others similarly dressed, and a woman who looked definitely in charge. It was a detail, part of a plan to remove Latanzio from his prison cell at the police station where he was being held for the duration of the arraignment.

My disappearance, and that of Amy, the leader of my security detail, had sent the police into a frenzy particularly when after sifting through the human wreckage of the hotel, they found five dead police officers, and nine unnamed gunmen, all without any identification.

The police were not naming names, but the media were. A blatant act of attempting to silence a witness and the most positive indication yet that Latanzio was guilty.

But the problem was, there was no evidence the witness was dead, and this being the case, the trial was put on hold until the witness was found, dead or alive. The only lead they had was a man and a woman matching our description who had been seen landing in and leaving a helicopter in a carpark in lower Manhattan. No one knew where they went after that.

It was now a day and a half after the event, and rumours were rife as to where the witness was, and who was to blame for the attack on the hotel. Latanzio’s brother was quick to blame a rival family with whom they were locked in a territorial battle. The rival family blamed the [name] family, and neither was backing down.

But for the innocent bystanders, there were two takes on these events, the first, a smiling [name] being escorted out of the court, and when a voice cries out ‘did you have the witness killed?’ he replied, ‘What witness?’. The other, because of the seriousness of the situation, the police decided to move him from his current holding facility to a more fortified jail on fears that members of his organization, or their rivals, might stage a similar shootout attempting to break him out.

They were, of course, right, but it wasn’t going to be his organization or any other for that matter, nor was it going to be a break-in.

We just got the call to say that the real transfer crew was going to be delayed and that the call had not reached the police station but was intercepted by another friend of a friend.

Our mission was a go.

We walked out of the room and into a large warehouse where there were four motorcycle police and a van, the van an exact replica of that to be sent to transfer the prisoner from the police station to a real jail. Everything looked very, very real. We had all studied actual tapes of prisoner transfers, enough to know precisely how to act, remarkable given the time we’d been given.

It was a tense moment, there in the warehouse. Then Amy said, “Mount up. Time to go. I’ll see you back here soon.”

There were more rooms, several set up for what was to come. We had several guests, waiting in other rooms, waiting to be reunited with [name] knowing only that he was being rescued and they would be leaving for a non-extradition country. It had been easy. The arrogance had been staggering.

I was on autopilot, having snapped into a mode where at times I felt like I was looking down at myself. I think it was the same for the others, having studied those tapes so many times, we became them.

The transfer went smoothly, no one suspecting we were not the real crew.

It was curious to observe [name] close up and feel the confidence, the arrogance of the man. He was in no way intimidated by the fact he was being transferred, in fact, if I was not mistaken, he looked as though he knew he was being broken out.

And for a moment when he looked me directly in the face, I thought he might recognize me, but he didn’t.

The station police escorted him to the back of the van, we escorted him into the van, chained him up, and the doors closed, just as I heard, “He’s your problem now.”

They would have to be relieved that he was no longer on their premises, and they would not have to fend off any attack. But from the expression on the officer in charge, I got the distinct impression we would not make our destination, at least, not with the prisoner.

However, that had been accounted for in the master plan.

It was why the warehouse we were going to use as the ‘studio’ was not far away.

I was surprised that they had found a place that was part of a rabbit warren of interconnected buildings at the basement level and that it had two entrances, one at the front, and one at the back so it would appear the prison van was taking a shortcut.

The plan was to stop, briefly in the building, offload the prisoner, and then drive on, heading for the jail. In that part of the city, there was no easy place to attack the van, that would, if it happened, come several miles from the building.

There were tracking devices on the van so anyone tracking would note the minor change to the route, and think it was an avoidance tactic.

Now, all we had to do was execute the plan, and hope anyone tracking us wouldn’t notice the subterfuge.

…

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 4

I didn’t get the last part of the opening sequence sorted until after we arrived in Vancouver. I made a start on it before breakfast was served, though it was rather odd calling it breakfast when outside the plane it was nearly six in the afternoon.

In finishing it much later, I think I’ve come up with a different direction to the one I planned, but in truth, I was never happy with where it was going from the start.

That’s why I prefer to plot on the run so that it doesn’t necessarily get bogged down with a certain result in mind. For me, that is the biggest bugbear is writing to a plan. For some, though, I’m sure it works. For me, not so much.

So, what happened to the rest of the team?

Just in case I’d made a mistake, I kept one eye on the target, who seemed to be consumed by the events unfolding, and another taking a wider search of the surrounding area to make doubly sure the team was still in control of the mission.

They were not.

A hundred yards back in the direction I’d first seen the target heading when the explosion took me out of play, I found one of the team, Jack, a relatively new member of the surveillance division, roughly hidden behind a dumpster, dead, a victim of a clean, accurate, and methodical stab wound to the heart. No noise from the weapon, or the victim.

The target knew we were onto him. It also meant that it was likely the other two members of the team were also out of play, I preferred not to think they might be equally dead, and I didn’t think the chances were good that he might not know about me.

It wasn’t a good sign that he had come back to the site of the explosion because I doubted someone of his stature had time to stand around and watch a search and rescue.

And if he was looking for me I had to make sure he didn’t find me. Good thing then it was exactly what I was thinking when he turned and started to scan the outer perimeter, as I had, and just managed to miss his gaze in my direction.

Yes, he was definitely looking for me, so it was a good bet he had tortured one of the others to get the information he needed.

All the more reason for me to take him down.

I moved closer, all the time keeping him under surveillance and avoiding his searching eyes.

Then, satisfied I was not at this location, he started moving to the next, before I’d last seen him in the distance. It was the epicentre of the explosion and the one where there was a high concentration of police and rescue workers.

He stopped. I used the cover of the confusion, and in a way, a very efficient organization, to move closer.

I saw him take another look around, perhaps he suspected I might be near, then again satisfied, moved on.

It was clear I was not going to be able to take him on while we were in the immediate vicinity of the explosion, there were too many witnesses. Perhaps he was hoping that the abundance of cover would aid his mission.

He stopped again, among a smaller group of observers, and checked both sides of the line. From there he had two choices, to consider if I had retraced my steps, or gone ahead thinking I might catch up to him. Obviously, he’d realized I’d not kept up, and it had been due to the explosion.

Just as he was about to see me on another sweep, a minor explosion of sorts came from the main disaster site, what sounded like part of the structure collapsing, which explained dust rising into the air, and when my attention returned to the spot I’d last seen him, he was gone.

Not a good sign. He could be anywhere.

But he wasn’t just anywhere.

“Sam?”

It was an unfamiliar voice, not expected, but I’d been more or less wary from the moment I lost sight of him. And because I had been alert, it saved me from a far worse injury. I felt the knife thrust through the fleshy part of my side and caught him with my elbow to the side of his head which sent him sprawling and knocking the knife out of his hand and sliding into the area where three bystanders were.

The scuffled turned their attention to him first on the ground, and then hastily getting to his feet and running away, leaving the weapon behind and me chasing after him.

No one said a word.

And this time he didn’t have a very big break on me and driven by rage at what he had done to the members of my team, it didn’t take long to catch up, in a place where we were alone.

In those few steps I’d made up my mind, he was not going to walk away from this.

So, is revenge on the menu, or something else?

Writing a book in 365 days – 364

Day 364

Writing exercise

His loneliness bothered him less than the reasons for it.

…

“It happened when I was very young. I wasn’t brought up this way; that was forced on me by people I thought I could trust.”

The psychiatrist had been working for weeks now, trying to get to the nub of the matter, and perhaps if I had decided not to play a game with them, she might have got there.

But when did I ever make anything easy for them?

“So, you have trust issues?” She scribbled a few notes on a page near the end of the book. It was the sum total of my life, according to her.

And the material she would use to write her assessment.

Looking back, that one moment when I finally lost, that one moment of rage that sent me off the metaphorical reservation, there would be consequences.

For her, my last statement could be construed as a major breakthrough, passing through the gate and onto where the grass is greener.

Of course, in reality, it was nothing like that. I simply had another argument with my parents and left, their strict and stifling rules about how we should behave, and live our lives finally too much.

They could have compromised, as they had for my brother, but they didn’t.

I could see that self-satisfied half smile and understood what it meant. The longer this had gone, the quicker she had started disappearing down a rabbit hole.

She worked for the department. She had analysed and buried good people over small mistakes, with what I had told the ivory tower dwellers was a lack of experience or understanding of the nature of our work.

For her, snapping as we sometimes did, was a form of release from doing what no one else would, work that is vital and necessary. It’s just when there’s collateral damage, the bosses are antsy.

Civilians always seemed to find themselves getting in the way, accidentally, and for that, I blamed the mobile phone culture. Take phones off people, and they wouldn’t become zombies, they’d be aware of what’s going on around them, and then I wouldn’t be in this chair in front of a one-person execution squad.

That was the truth of the matter.

She simply said I was shifting blame.

Finished scribbling, she looked up. “Tell me more.”

Pen was poised, expression expectant.

I hesitated for a moment longer before I spoke, an indication of whether she was smart enough to interpret as me taking a moment to work out which lie she would buy.

“My parents simply up and left one night, leaving me alone in the house. Gone, not a word, not an indication, nothing. Just simply gone.”

“And before that, how were they?”

“Normal. Like I said, no indication anything had changed.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

“And what happened next?”

As if she didn’t know what would happen to an abandoned seven-year-old with no other relatives, or none that they looked for, because the child welfare officer at the time was taking children and selling them to the highest bidder.

It had been my second job for the department.

Nasty people came in all shapes and sizes and backgrounds, but this person was a chameleon, someone no one would suspect, which is how she got away with it for so long.

“I was put in the system. You know how that works, and you can guess what happened to me. Not what is on the reports, but I’m not going to spell it out for you. Those memories are buried.”

The nod was acceptance, because my story was the same as many others that came before her. Candidates who came from broken homes, abandoned, or simply maltreated to a point where they had to be removed.

And sent to Joe’s Diner, to have all that hate and rage twisted into an effective tool against those who had harmed them. Tapping into that basic raw instinct of killing, maiming and destroying anything or anyone that put them there.

My story was slightly different. I ended up in jail, framed for something I didn’t do, by a small-town sheriff protecting his son, the real perpetrator. I was minding my own business, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was rescued from one form of torture only to finish up in another, but the end result was the same.

It eventually broke us and brought us here.

…

I knew the mention of buried memories was, for her, manna from heaven. A bone she was going to pick at, because in her teaching and subsequent experience, that’s where the key to our problems lay. In the past.

We had to confront our demons head-on, make the connection ourselves, and start the gradual healing process, somewhere far away and isolated, and preferably to never see another weapon or bad guy again.

I jokingly told the director the only way that would happen was to be put in a pine box six feet under. That’s when the memories would truly be buried.

It was hard to tell if he thought I was joking or not, but it must have weighed on him, the number of cases like mine. Just reading the executive summary of the cases before the briefing began made people physically ill, and those were just words on paper.

“Of course, you know that isn’t going to cut it. You have to be forthcoming in all aspects of this investigation, and it would help your case to remember that.”

Threats no less. Perhaps the director had told her that I was going to be the one she wasn’t going to crack. Just as he was wont to tell anyone who would listen that I was his best agent.

I wasn’t. Not by a long chalk. That was Andreas. Even I was scared of him. He was the best, the best of the best.

Until he wasn’t.

He let his guard down for a fraction of a second. Less than a fraction of a second. An eternity in terms of vulnerability.

Another case of shattered trust.

…

Perhaps somewhere in all of the narrative she had put together over the last six weeks was the truth.

In training, we were told that when interrogated, everyone grounds their stories with elements of truth because when asked over and over and over, it’s too hard to remember all of the lies, particularly after a long and painful torture session.

This was the more subtle form of torture. She was looking for inconsistencies, lies, half-truths, and stories worthy of the best thriller writers.

Our whole life was a collection of stories, our cover identities with back stories to suit the person. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker.

Gambler, billionaire, financier, mercenary, average Joe.

When you wake up in the morning, it takes a moment to remember who you are today, and it’s not Harry Wells, the name I was given the day I was born. He died a long time ago.

Now it was Joshua Bergen. Yes, Joshua.

“Let’s start again, shall we? From the top. Why did you think you’re here?”

Yep, here we go again.

“I believe we’ve covered this ten times, perhaps more, before. If there are inconsistencies, just ask specific questions.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Asking the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is the definition of madness. You do know that?”

Perhaps she didn’t, at least not in this context. Her expression had changed to one of annoyance. She liked to be the one running the session.

“Again.” Short, sharp.

“No. Like Chinese whispers, we both know stories change each time they’re related, otherwise if it was exactly the same, you’d think that it was rehearsed.”

“What I think is irrelevant.”

“It isn’t, though. He needs to know what happened because, like me, there was more going on than he was led to believe; that he was a pawn in someone else’s game.”

“A setup?”

“Someone else is looking for a scapegoat. Either him or me, it doesn’t matter. Just another breach of trust, being told one thing and it turns out to be something else entirely.”

Like that last assignment, a total botch, or so it seemed.

Collateral damage happens, but this time it extended to the wife of a Cabinet minister who was believed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Only I knew the true story, that she was there to hand over her husband’s secrets.

I was there to talk to a high-level public servant who had asked Rawlins for clandestine assistance in a delicate matter. It was not to meet up with the woman; she arrived unexpectedly and in a highly agitated state.

It was clear to me who she was and what was going on between them. Except before a word was exchanged, he shot her, turned the gun on me, and I shot him.

The woman was barely alive when I reached her, but with enough time to say just above a whisper, “he is a Russian spy, and I’m not the only one he is blackmailing.” There was more, but she was out of time and life.

Ten seconds later, the SAS kicked the door in, and I had six guns pointed at me. Given their first impression of the scene before them, I was lucky to still be alive.

“What was your mission?”

“To assist the public servant. Favours owed. Whatever he needed.”

“Did you shoot the woman?”

“No. Ballistics will prove it.”

She shook her head. “No. They won’t. Both shots, man and woman, came from your weapon.”

That was impossible. I only fired one shot. Except as everyone in the department knew, the boffins could manufacture evidence to suit any narrative. Write me out of the script, or in.

“So, as you say, a setup. Someone wants to take Rawlins down.”

“Or you, if you don’t tell me the truth. Why was she there?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“Well, that’s the problem. It is that simple. I know Rawlins doesn’t believe in coincidences, neither do I, for that matter, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Why did you shoot the target?”

“He shot the woman before she went to speak, then turned the gun on me. Reflex action. I can’t tell you why he took that action, but it stopped her from doing or saying anything. I did not shoot the woman; I had no reason to. She just burst into the room, indicating she’d met him before, and expected him to be there.”

There was a knock on the door, and without waiting to be asked, Rawlins came in. A nod in the woman’s direction, she closed the notebook, picked up her bag and left, closing the door behind her.

I knew Rawlins had been watching, and I suspected she had an earpiece where he was suggesting what to ask.

He would also be observing and analysing.

He didn’t sit.

“She said something to you, in those last few seconds.”

Why didn’t it surprise me that the target’s room was under surveillance? Rawlins obviously suspected the target had an agenda. That he had waited so long for me to volunteer to tell him was the interesting part.

“Why would you think it would be significant?”

“We suspected she was having an affair. Her husband did and told his head of security. He told us. They weren’t having an affair, were they?”

“From what I saw, it was very definitely an affair.”

“He shot her, without a moment’s thought.”

“Hence, we will never know. If he hadn’t aimed the gun at me, we might have got to find out, but I think now, seeing you here, this whole episode was staged to get rid of two problems, a double agent and a treasonous wife, without having to bear the dirty linen in public.”

Rawlins sat in the recently vacated seat.

“A satisfactory result for an unsatisfactory problem. Two birds with one stone.”

“The minister?”

“Heartbroken, but his personal assistant is helping him get over the crisis.”

“Life goes on?”

“As indeed it always will. I hate feeding you to the dogs, but you know what it’s like in the new age intelligence landscape. Transparency. Access to psychological help to avoid trauma, stress leave, so there’s less room for errors. A week’s leave, I’m afraid. Talk to Mandy, she’ll set it up. So, just what did Melanie say in that last dying breath?”

“Told me to remind her husband to feed Chester, their new cat. I think she thought more of that cat than her husband.”

Rawlins laughed. “Of course, she didn’t say that. We will talk about this again. When you get back.”

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Montevideo

For a road less travelled, explore some of Montevideo’s hidden gems and unique local experiences beyond the main tourist routes:

Unique Local Exploration

Experience Candombe in Palermo or Barrio Sur: Instead of a formal show, witness the authentic candombe music and dance that originates from the descendants of liberated African slaves, recognised by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage. This is often performed in the streets of the Palermo and Barrio Sur neighbourhoods on Sunday evenings.
Winery Day Trip in Canelones: Venture outside the city to the surrounding Canelones region, known for its wineries and vineyards. Explore local, family-owned bodegas like Bodega Spinoglio or Pizzorno Family Estates for a tour and tasting of the local Tannat wine, offering a more intimate experience than city-centre wine bars.
Discover the Castillo Pittamiglio: Explore this unique architectural landmark, also known as the “Alchemist’s Castle”, a building with an eclectic mix of styles (Gothic, Art Nouveau, etc.) built by an eccentric architect. It offers guided tours and a fascinating, slightly mysterious history, distinct from the city’s neoclassical buildings.
Browse the Feria de Tristán Narvaja: Skip the standard souvenir shops and visit this large, vibrant street market on Sunday mornings in the Cordón neighbourhood. You can find everything from antiques and second-hand books to local crafts, fresh produce, and unique oddities, providing a genuine slice of local life.
Visit the Jardín Botánico: For a peaceful natural escape, the Montevideo Botanical Garden in the Prado neighbourhood is a serene urban oasis. It features diverse plant species, walking trails, and a Japanese garden, and is a great spot to enjoy a quiet picnic or read a book, largely frequented by locals.

What I learned about writing – The never say die attitude

Writing Isn’t a Bowl of Cherries – It’s a Marathon, Not a Sprint

If anyone ever told you that a writing career is a “walk in the park,” they were selling a fantasy. The truth is a little messier, a little harder, and a whole lot more rewarding when you finally get it right.

“We accept that writing is not going to be that proverbial bowl of cherries and that it involves stamina, dedication, and commitment.”

In this post we’ll unpack what that really means, why the “never‑say‑die” mindset matters, and how to keep the momentum going even when the world seems indifferent to your manuscript.

1. The Reality Check: Writing Demands Grit, Not Glamour

Myth	Reality
“If you love writing, it will flow effortlessly.”	Even the most passionate writers hit blank pages, endless revisions, and moments of doubt.
“One great story will launch you overnight.”	Most books (and articles, scripts, blogs) crawl to a modest readership before they ever find their niche.
“Rejection is a sign you’re not good enough.”	Rejection is a data point. It tells you what didn’t work, not who you are.

Stamina. – Think of your writing practice as a long‑distance run. You won’t win the race by sprinting for ten minutes and then stopping. You need a sustainable pace: a daily word count, a weekly revision schedule, or a set number of writing sessions per month.

Dedication. – This is the promise you make to yourself that you’ll show up, even when the coffee is cold, the Wi‑Fi is spotty, or life throws another curveball. Dedication is the habit that pulls you out of the “I don’t feel like writing today” mindset.

Commitment. – Commitment is the broader contract with your craft. It’s the decision to finish the manuscript you started, to edit the drafts you hate, and to polish the final product until it shines—no matter how many rounds it takes.

2. Embracing Rejection: The “Never‑Say‑Die” Attitude

“Even when done, and the rejection slips mount up, it will require a never say die attitude.”

Rejection letters are the writer’s version of a gym’s “you missed a rep” notification. They hurt, but they also build muscle. Here’s how to turn each “no” into a stepping stone:

Collect, Don’t Internalise
Keep a simple spreadsheet:
- Title/ProjectDate SentAgency/Publisher/AgentReason (if given)What you learned
Seeing the numbers on a sheet makes the process a business operation rather than a personal affront.
Extract the Gold
Every editorial note contains a nugget of feedback. Strip away the polite fluff and ask: What can I improve? Use it as a concrete action item for your next draft.
Batch Your Submissions
Don’t submit one manuscript at a time and wait three months for a response before moving on. Send several query letters or article pitches in parallel; the odds of a “yes” increase dramatically.
Celebrate Small Wins
A polite “thank you for your submission” is still a win—it means your work reached a professional inbox. Treat each acknowledgment as a milestone.

3. Publication Is Not the Finish Line

“And even when the manuscript is accepted and published and doesn’t become an overnight sensation, you cannot give up.”

Getting the green light is a huge victory, but it’s only the beginning of a longer journey:

a. Post‑Launch Promotion

Micro‑marketing: Share a single paragraph, a character sketch, or a behind‑the‑scenes anecdote on social media each day.
Email List: Offer readers a free short story or a bonus chapter in exchange for their email. A loyal list can boost sales for future projects.
Community Engagement: Join genre‑specific forums, Reddit threads, or Discord servers. Answer questions, give feedback, and let people know you’re an active member of the community.

b. Iterate, Not Stagnate

Your first book may not be a bestseller, but it gives you data:

Which chapters were most downloaded?
Which keywords drove traffic?
What reviews highlighted strengths and weaknesses?

Use that intelligence to fine‑tune your next manuscript, marketing copy, and even cover design.

c. Diversify Your Portfolio

Don’t put all your creative eggs in one basket. Write articles, short stories, or serialized content alongside your novel. Each piece builds credibility, expands your audience, and provides additional revenue streams.

4. Practical Toolbox for Staying the Course

Habit	How to Implement	Time Investment
Morning Pages (Free‑write 10 mins)	Keep a notebook by your bed; write whatever comes to mind.	10 mins
Scheduled Word Count	Set a daily goal (e.g., 800 words) and use a timer.	30–45 mins
Weekly Review	Every Sunday, glance at your rejection spreadsheet and progress chart.	15 mins
Reading Sprint	Read 1–2 chapters of a book in your genre for inspiration.	30 mins
Physical Movement	5‑minute stretch or walk before each writing session to reset brain.	5 mins

Consistency beats intensity. It’s better to write 500 words a day for a year than to crank out 5,000 words once and then go silent for months.

5. A Real‑World Example: From Rejection to Resilience

The author of “The Quiet Harbour” (a fictional but relatable case study) received 27 rejection letters before a small independent press took a chance. The manuscript didn’t skyrocket to the bestseller list; sales were modest, but the author:

Leveraged the press’s newsletter to build a 2,500‑subscriber email list.
Released a free prequel novella that attracted 1,200 new readers.
Used the feedback from the first edition to rewrite the ending, which earned a 4‑star review on a major retailer site.

Six months later, the author secured a contract for a sequel, and the combined sales of both books exceeded the original expectations. The key? Never giving up after the first publication.

Bottom Line: Keep Writing, Keep Trying, Keep Growing

Writing is a marathon of stamina, dedication, and commitment. Rejection letters are inevitable, but they’re not verdicts. Publication is a milestone, not a finish line. As long as you maintain a never‑say‑die attitude, you’ll keep forging ahead—turning each setback into a stepping stone and each modest launch into the foundation for your next breakthrough.

Your next paragraph is waiting. Put pen to paper, hit “send” on that query, and remember: the bowl of cherries may be far away, but the trail you’re blazing today will eventually lead you there.

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Quito

Quito, the capital of Ecuador, is located in the northern Andes Mountains, nestled in a valley on the slopes of the Pichincha volcano, about 25 miles south of the equator, making it one of the world’s highest capital cities at roughly 9,350 feet in elevation.

Region: Sierra (Highlands) of Ecuador, part of the Andes mountain range.
Key Landmark: Situated on the Pichincha volcano‘s eastern slopes.
Equator: Very close to the Equator, with a monument marking the line just outside the city.

Beyond Quito’s major landmarks, there are many unique, local experiences and attractions to explore. These include visiting bohemian neighbourhoods, a renowned pre-Columbian art museum, and local food markets.

Alternative Cultural Experiences

Explore La Floresta: This bohemian neighbourhood is known for its vibrant street art, independent galleries, and hip cafes and restaurants. A popular spot is the indie cinema, Ocho y Medio, which screens avant-garde and foreign films.
Wander through La Ronda: This charming, narrow cobblestone street in the historic centre truly comes alive at sunset with local art galleries, artisan workshops (like coppersmiths and traditional hat makers), cafes, and live music.
Visit Museo Casa del Alabado: Located in the Old Town, this private museum houses an impressive and well-curated collection of pre-Columbian art and archaeological pieces, providing deep insight into Ecuador’s ancestral heritage.
Check out the street art: The La Floresta and La Mariscal neighbourhoods feature an evolving outdoor gallery of murals and graffiti that reflect contemporary social and political themes.
Experience local markets: For an authentic slice of daily life, visit the Mercado Central or Mercado Artesanal La Mariscal. The Central Market offers inexpensive, traditional Ecuadorian food (try the locro de papa or horno) and fresh juices, while the Artisan Market is perfect for shopping for handicrafts, textiles, and jewellery.

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6^th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

newechocover5rs

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

Category: blogging