This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
…
So, what happened really happened to Worthington?
Did John get reunited with his mother in the hospital?
What of Rupert and Isobel? Did she get to meet the elusive and enigmatic Tsar?
These are all questions that will be answered in due course.
There is also the matter of what happens when John and Zoe/Irina finally meet up after he learns that she regarded him as expendable, and knowing her as he did, didn’t doubt for a minute she meant it.
Is it the folly of falling in love with an assassin?
Once again we end up at the grandmother’s residence in Sorrento, languishing sans Zoe, contemplating the future, a future that might not have Zoe in it.
His idea of setting up an investigation bureau is alive and well, run by Rupert, staffed by people who have the skills but not the confidence of others who had employed them. Rupert is the master of picking lame ducks and turning them into swans.
Isobel, on the other hand, does not improve with age or being in a somewhat iffy, long-range, possible romance, thing.
Does Zoe return, does she call, can she drag herself away from her recently rediscovered father?
Again, you’ll have to read the book.
…
There’s no word count at the moment because everything is in outline awaiting writing. That will happen, I hope, tomorrow.
I started off thinking that murder was pretty straight forward, you know, someone pulls out a gun and shoots someone else: murder. Of course, there are any other means of doing the same crime, by knife, poison, strangulation, or suffocation.
Or, by endless inane conversation. Much less chance of going to jail with that one.
Its the stuff that keeps crime writers going, fictional detectives detecting and crime scene investigators analysing.
Still the fact someone might be getting away with murder, means they’ve successfully found a way to have their cake and eat it.
Come to think of it how many times have we used that word in vain, like when a child drives you to distraction, red-faced and you say with a great deal of conviction ‘you do that again I’ll murder you’.
Just make sure it doesn’t actually happen, or those words will come back to haunt you.
But this is only one aspect of using the word.
You could, if you want, scream blue murder, which is literally impossible. In fact, what the does that really mean?
It can also refer to an onerous task or experience, hence the possibility that listening to that discussion about hot water bottles was absolute murder.
For one thing, it probably murdered an hour or two of my time.
It could also describe a comprehensive defeat, that we murdered the other side 86 to nothing. Come to think of it, I never got to participate in such a game, so that might account for why I’d never heard it used before.
And, lastly…
Did you know it can refer to a flock of a particular type of bird, I think crows.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
Yes, I was one of those nervous fliers, professing more than once that if God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings.
You can imagine the response that got after repeated quotations on just how safe flying was. I agree. Based on statistics, flying was safer than driving, and I didn’t fear driving.
Go figure?
So, for years, I avoided planes, and took trains, and ships. I was wealthy enough and had the time to take ships when I wanted to travel to other countries. It was a more serene method of travel, but these days, everyone was in a hurry.
Everyone.
Now, it seemed I had to be as well. It was a day I knew would come one day.
I had avoided the idea of getting married for a long time, telling myself I would never find someone who would understand the foibles I carried as baggage. Most could not believe a grown man could be so afraid of something like travelling in an aeroplane.
Annabel was different. She was not in a hurry either. She loved travelling in ships, taking our time to go anywhere and everywhere. It was her idea that we should have our own ship. We were working on it.
But, truth be told, she did not fear flying and travelled frequently for business. I preferred the train.
Annabel originally came from Italy and had left her family behind when she came to America to work, and then live. She hadn’t expected to meet me or anyone else, let alone get married. And because I wanted to please her, I agreed that it should happen in her hometown in Italy.
What was the problem, you ask.
Well, to start with, there wasn’t. There was plenty of time to get there before the wedding, travelling in the usual manner. Then her father got sick and sicker until it was discovered he had stage four cancer.
Wedding plans had to be moved up so that, as a final deathbed request, he would be able to walk his only daughter down the aisle.
All we had to do was fly over.
Simple.
I had a plan. It was a simple one. Fly first class, take a sedative that would put me to sleep and hopefully wake up on the ground on the other side.
After all, I would do anything for Annabel.
The day arrived. I was nervous, yes, but not overly worried. We boarded the plane, had a glass of champagne, and just as the plane was taxiing to the runway, I closed my eyes, and everything faded into black
My last memory was of Annabel holding my hand and telling me she would see me in Italy.
When I woke, it was uncharacteristically cold. There was a loud whooshing sound coming from behind us just about drowned out by a screaming sound of metal on metal.
For a moment, I thought I was in an SUV driving over a very rough road, such was the pronounced jerking movements.
I looked sideways, and first, I noticed Annabel, unquestionably terrified. Second, I realised we were on the aeroplane, almost in darkness, and something had gone horribly wrong.
It was only seconds before Annabel realised, I was awake, and she turned to me. She had been crying and tears were in her eyes.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
“What happened?”
She looked quizzically at me, and I realised I would have to speak louder.
I leaned closer. “What happened?”
“Of all the flights, on any day, we had to take on board a hijacker.”
“Hijacker?”
I thought that measures had been taken to prevent this from happening.
“He said he had a bomb, and if the pilot didn’t redirect the plane to some obscure place in Africa, he would detonate it. The pilot refused, and we’re now in the middle of a nightmare.”
It didn’t take much to realize what happened. The pilot called his bluff, he exploded the bomb, and at 30,000 feet, the result was almost catastrophic. I looked back and could see a hole in the side of the plane, and through the windows, smoke pouring from one of the engines.
Given the jerkiness of the flight path, there was damage to the controls, and the pilot was using the engines to fly as straight as possible, slowly because of the stress on the frame and the damaged engine. Another glance showed we were not far from the water, so the plane was down low enough not to need pressurisation.
I did a mental calculation for time elapsed, and I was expecting to wake up eight and a half hours after dropping off to sleep. I was awake, and we were not there.
“How long have we been like this?”
“Six hours. We’re flying at about 160 knots, and the last advice from the pilot was that we were heading to Vigo in Spain and,” she looked at her watch, “we have about six hours before we get there.”
There was no chance I could go back to sleep and wake up on the ground. What was surprising was how calm I felt.
I had nothing to say, and perhaps she had mistaken my silence for anger or annoyance at her insistence we fly and assurances of how safe it was.
I wasn’t annoyed or angry. Perhaps it was fate.
“Say something, anything.”
I smiled, though it was hard to project confidence that everything would be fine. Perhaps, if I did, she might get the wrong idea that I had simply given up. The truth was I had no control over what happened, and there was no point getting upset over what you couldn’t do anything about.
“It’s not your fault.”
“If I hadn’t…”
I squeezed her hand. “You’re here, now with me, and if anything happens, we will go through it together. I believe the pilot doesn’t want to die any more than any of us on this plane, and he will do everything he can to make sure we survive.”
I leaned back in the seat. With the blanket, it was still reasonably cold, but at least we were not moving through a storm. That would have been a lot harder to weather. As it was, the noise was bad enough. I was still tired from the sedative, and listening to Annabel telling me what we were going to do when we got off the plane, lulled me back to sleep.
My last thought was that I’d had the life I had never expected to have. Annabel had always been the one, but I never dared to ask her out. Instead, I watched from afar as her life took many twists and turns until I accidentally ran into her.
I smiled at the thought. If only I’d seen what was in front of me. I finally did.
I opened my eyes just as the wheels hit the runways, slightly harder than I expected for such a large aircraft. I’d heard that one couldn’t feel the take-off or the landing.
Annabel was smiling.
“We made it?”
“Of course, we did.”
It was then I realised that there was no noise, and looking around, no hole.
“No hijacker. Or a bomb going off?”
“What are you talking about?”
I sighed. “A bad dream.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry. We’re on solid ground, and nothing happened. Thank you for doing this.”
“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. You know that.”
“Of course.”
She leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek, and a second later, there was a huge explosion.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice 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…
This is Chester. He has reminded me that it’s Groundhog Day.
So I had to ask, where on earth did you get that from?
Everybody knows it’s Groundhog Day. He sits there with this knowing look in his face, and it dawns on me, he’s been looking up stuff on the computer again.
I am going to have to remember to turn it off.
In Canada and America maybe, but we don’t have it here because we don’t have the cold and snow like they do.
We have cold because you light the fire. I’m sure there’s been snow.
Now I know he’s finally losing it.
It’s 35 degrees Celcius outside, and even when it is cold it’s still 16 degrees Celcius, not Fahrenheit.
Look, get with the program here. We need something to celebrate.
Why? And a second later realizing I should not ask.
It’s been a bit dull, no mice, no treats, all bad news on the internet. Oh and by the way, since cats only get cat flu, you want to be careful not to get that new coronavirus going around.
I shake my head.
Now I’m definitely turning off the computer at night.
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 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
I ordered breakfast to be brought to my room, then sat back and read the paper, culminating in a second cup of coffee and a half-hearted attempt at the crossword.
My mind was not sufficiently clear of all the implications of what I’d seen last night, and before that.
The first task was to go back to the office and get onto the computer to track down the address the car was registered to. It was not the flat. My guess that it was a sort of safe house. He may not have had reservations about Jan, or who she worked for, not until he became the prey.
Then it occurred to me that if Jan didn’t know where the USB was, then she had to realize he might have rumbled her perfidy. Maybe he was not as easily fooled as I first thought.
But it didn’t explain why Nobbin was in the dark over the USB’s whereabouts, as he had told me to give Nobbin a message. Perhaps there’s been a secret message behind that message.
Now, my mind was spinning out of control.
Like O’Connell/Quinley, and in accordance with more lessons on tradecraft, I too, had what I would like to have called a safe house, a small flat on the outskirts of Wimbledon.
I also had an off-site parking space that was a reasonable distance from the flat, so that if I was being hunted, the car would not lead them to my hiding spot.
There I had a shower, changed, and headed for the underground.
I took the train to Charing Cross, getting there around nine, to take the short walk to the hotel.
Not expecting to find her in the room, I used my key to let myself in.
I was wrong.
She was in bed, still asleep. Or was until I let the door slam shut.
She didn’t exactly come out from under the covers with a gun pointing at me, but I would be willing to be there was one under her pillow and her hand was on it.
“Sam?” It was uttered sleepily, the sort that would normally send a shiver down my spine. Not now.
“I hope you’re not intending to shoot me?”
“No.”
I could see her hand moving slowly withdrawing, and then watched her sit up and swing her legs over the side.
Still in basic clothes. Obviously, no time to go and get some pyjamas then.
“What happened to you?”
“Got side-tracked on what I thought might be a lead, and it wasn’t. Just a waste of time and a long night. Thought I’d come here and get some shuteye. Perhaps not. Are you going to order breakfast?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll have a pot of coffee and a paper, preferably one with a crossword.”
She rang down a breakfast order, full English, then said she was having a quick shower. I heard the water running and wondered if she was giving Severin a short report. Old trick, running water hides conversations.
Breakfast arrived at the same time as she came out of the bathroom, hair up in a towel, and in one of the hotel dressing gowns. My imagination got a five-second workout before I grabbed the paper and the coffee and sat in the corner.
She could have the desk.
“Do we know where Maury is?” I asked suddenly.
“Who?”
She hesitated before answering, a moment to give herself time to process the question, and if there were any hidden meanings.
“You know? You dropped a tracker on him.”
“Oh, him. He must have found and dumped it. It was pinging about 100 yards from the flat.”
Of course. There probably wasn’t one in the first place.
“Pity. I’d like to turn up unannounced, give him a bit of a scare.”
I went back to the crossword, keeping an eye on her, noticing every now and then giving me a sideways glance.
“Did you go anywhere after the flat?” Again sudden, out of left field.
“No. Just come straight back here. Do you want to keep the room for a few days? See what happens.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Look, I have to run an errand this morning, unfortunately, it’s not a work matter, so I’ll give you a call on my way back. You must want to talk to your people and let them know what’s happening if you haven’t already.”
I finished the coffee, folded the paper, and stood.
“At the very least,” I added, “I have to go back into the office and report to Nobbin. I’m sure he’ll be impressed with the lack of progress.”
“Won’t you run into that other fellow, what’s his name?”
“Severin?”
“Him, yes.”
“I don’t think so. His name will probably be very high on the ‘we’d like to talk to you’ list if he shows his face. Anyway, I’ve got your number.”
I deliberately waved the phone where she could see it, and the implication she could probably use it to track my movements. That might have been the case if there was a sim card in it, and it was similar to the phone she last saw me with.
It was not.
Where I was going, no one was going to follow me or find me.
This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
…
It’s the final battle.
Never trust anyone else to do the job you should have done yourself in the first place.
It’s an interesting premise, but somehow encapsulates the ethos of this story.
Who is Romanov? Zoe, Irina, whatever you want to call her, he’s her father.
But…
The notion that anonymously putting out a finder’s fee on his daughter’s head, coupled with the ire of Olga over the death of her son, sent everyone from the Minister in the Kremlin down into a tailspin.
The first effort, had the kidnappers just followed the rules, would have got an enormous payday, and everything would have been resolved there and then, in Marseilles.
No, people got greedy.
So did all the others, getting wind of what was at stake, enough to retire, or continue to retire in style.
Dominica, Yuri, and even Olga had she been smart.
She was not.
People didn’t have to die. Zoe could have been spared a killing spree, and John some maybe quality time with Olga. It’s a mistake Olga won’t make again.
And John, now with a father-in-law, well it’s just another surprise in a long list of surprises.
Located at the bottom of Lake Taupo, in New Zealand, staying here would make more sense if you were here for the fishing, and, well, the skiing or the hiking, or just a relaxing half hour in the thermal pools.
I saw a sign somewhere that said that Taurangi was New Zealand’s premier fishing spot. I might have got the wrong, but it seems to me they’re right. On the other side of town, heading towards Taupo, there’s a lodge that puts up fly fishermen, and where you can see a number of them in an adjacent river trying their luck.
It’s what I would be doing if I had the patience.
But Taurangi is a rather central place to stay, located at the southernmost point of the lake. From there it is not far from the snowfields of Whakapapa and Turoa. Equally, at different times of the year, those ski fields become walking or hiking tracks, and the opportunity to look into a dormant volcano, Ruapehu.
It is basically surrounded by hills and mountains on three sides and a lake on the other. Most mornings, and certainly everyone is different, there is a remarkable sunrise, particularly from where we were staying on the lake, where it could be cloudy, clear, or just cold and refreshing, with a kaleidoscope of colors from the rising sun.
I don’t think I’ve been there to see two days the same.
However, Taurangi, on most days we’ve visited, is even more desolate than Taupo, both on the main street and the central mall. The same couldn’t be said for the precinct where New World, the local supermarket, a Z petrol station can be found. There it is somewhat more lively. The fact there’s a few more shops and a restaurant might help traffic flow.
There is also a mini golf course, and in the middle of winter, it is a bleak place to be, especially in the threatening rain, and the wind. It had also seen better days and in parts, in need of a spruce up, but it’s winter, and there are no crowds, so I guess it will wait till the Spring.
In the mall, there’s the expected bank, newsagent, gift shop and post office combined, and a number of other gift shops/galleries. But the best place is the café which I’ve never seen empty and has an extended range of pies pastries and cakes, along with the fast food staples of chips and chicken. Oh, and you can also get a decent cup of coffee there.
There are two other coffee shops but we found this one the first time we came, we were given a warm welcome and assistance, and have never thought to go anywhere else, despite two known change of owners.
But despite all these reasons why someone might want to stay there, we don’t.
We have a timeshare, and there’s a timeshare in Pukaki called Oreti Village. That’s where we stay.
We’re unravelling the mystery behind the slow deterioration of our main character.
When did this mysterious malady first manifest itself?
The point here is that there is always a starting point or a catalyst. It might not always be pinpointed by the person but by someone else who can look from the outside and assess all of the evidence.
And it’s not always an easy task when you don’t really know when it first began because it creeps up on you without you realising it.
Until one morning, you can’t get out of bed.
Of course, there are convenient answers to Amy’s question, and in moments of extreme paranoia, only one name will come to the fore, the name of the person you hate the most at the time.
And then it’s not difficult to attach the reasons to that name, correctly or not. In her debilitated state, it was easy. Whether she could prove it, was the hard part.
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.
But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.
I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021. It even has a cover.
