Over the main, and desert, I told her about Siena and the Palio, painting a vivid picture of horsemanship and rivalry over the course of several hundred years, making it sound so much better than it was.
It the heat, the tight confines of the square, and the large number of people crammed in, it could be quite oppressive.
It wasn’t until after coffee arrived I decided to take a different tack and surprise her.
“You know, back in the old days, when I was working a desk, I used to do research on criminals for task forces. I longed to get out in the field, but back then you had to be a particular sort of bastard to get those jobs. I just didn’t have that mean streak.”
“Any I might know of?”
“One that springs to mind, Larry Pomisor, head of the so-called Waterville gang, though as an organization, is went downhill quickly after Larry’s father died and he took over.”
I’d been watching her carefully, and, yes, no matter how hard people tried to mask their surprise, it never works. I got the hit I was looking for.
“You’re saying he’s not a crime boss?”
“Exactly. He’s little better than a complete moron. Blames me for the death of his brother, failing to understand that he is ultimately responsible. If he hadn’t dragged him into the business, he’d still be alive today.”
“Why would he blame you?”
“He thinks I was at the scene of his brother’s death but whoever told him got their dates mixed up. But Larry is nothing if not pathological in his beliefs no matter how wrong they are.”
I could see she was processing how to deal with this turn of events. Being handed to her on a plate, exactly what Larry wanted me to talk about, I could see she was mid-way between confused and surprised. In other words, off guard.
She now had to come up with questions that were not obvious.
“Not exactly the sort of enemy you want, then.”
“No more than any of the others I’m sure are waiting in line. I was there, yes, but not when his brother was killed, he was alive when I left. It was a meeting his brother called, and we believe he was going to inform on Larry, and Larry had him killed, then pinning the blame on us, and me in particular. His brother never wanted anything to do with Waterville, but Larry never gave him the option.”
“I can’t believe that he would do that, not to his brother. No one would do that to family.”
“Like I said, everything I learned about Larry pointed to the fact he was a moron. His father hated him, and his mother moved to be as far from him as possible. She lives in Sorrento you know. His father was a piece of work, and I first met him on a domestic call-out when their neighbors reported gunshots. She had taken a beating, not the first, and not the last, and I had to say, I’d never seen anyone more relieved when the old man died.”
I wondered what Larry was making of this if he was listening in. He had once told me, in passing, in one of many visits to the parent’s house to intervene, that he would kill his father if he didn’t stop.
But, Larry was all talk and no action and did nothing to stop it. In the end, it was his wife Gabrielle, who finally ended the violence.
When it happened she called me, the most familiar face, and told me what happened. I then told her what to do, and it eventually kept her out of jail. Over the years since our paths rarely crossed, but significantly I was on her Christmas card list.
She had, when she learned I was living in Venice incited Violetta and I over for tea, and we went a few times, but the last was a long time ago.
“He doesn’t blame you for that too foes he?”
“Probably, but Gabrielle can put him straight on that. I should go and see her, it’s been a while.”
“What do you mean? Go see Larry’s mother?”
“Why not? The chances of Larry being there are remote. It’ll have to be after Cecilia goes back home. You want to come, see a bit more of Italy?”
“What?”
The shock of the conversation direction had finally caught up with her. I’d seen her glancing more than one at her phone, and equally wondering what Larry was making of it.
“Go see Larry’s mother. We’re old friends. I’m sure she’d give him a stern talking-to if she knew he wanted me dead, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to see.”
“Of course. Too short notice.”
I gave her one of my winning smiles, just as Cecilia loomed out of the darkness and came over, dropping heavily into the seat next to me, and complaining, “Well, that was a spectacular waste of time and effort.”
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 continued 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 of an 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 mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, 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 Brothers’ 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 it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
I was surprised the alien captain was not getting impatient with the way this matter was dragging on.
If this was back on earth and we were dealing with an alien incursion, there would be a lot of shooting by short-tempered small-minded fools who only knew one way of dealing with seemingly insurmountable problems.
In that regard, these aliens were better than us, and I had to wonder if they were dealing with this problem in a manner we would understand, and if that was the case, what would have happened if my ship had not made a timely, or untimely, arrival.
It also begged the question of how either of us could move forward from this point, because the only logical outcome was to hand back the criminals.
I wonder what Nancy was thinking, the fate of diplomatic relations, if they were possible after this, in her hands.
There was also a question of what the Russian captain had been promised in return for trying to save them. It would have to be significant for him to put his vessel and its crew on the line.
I looked at the Russian Captain, not looking very comfortable, on the end of a weapon he clearly knew could kill him, or worse.
“What did they promise you?”
His mouth moved, an indication to me he was going to say they didn’t, which to me meant that it was not something he wanted to talk about in front of the Aliens.
The alien answered for him. “Technology, perhaps our secret weapons, the criminals are all people who have worked with or worked on some of our most secret projects.”
Which begged the question, what did they do wrong that they were labelled criminals.
Perhaps the alien could read my mind because he added, “and who had used that technology illegally, or tried to sell it to our enemies.”
So, a new piece of information; the alien has enemies. It raised another question, what if we had met their enemies first?
“Sir.” Number one had come back online, hopefully from the location if the so-called criminals.
“What the situation?”
“I’ve spoken to a chap named Midava, who seems to be the spokesperson for a group of seven I can see. Firstly, they are different from the captain of the vessel you are currently on. He tells me, and several of his colleagues are from a different world, as are others, who were recruited to work on advanced technology. It seems their home planets are far more advanced than the captains.”
“OK. Just hold it there for a minute.” I looked over at the Captain. His expression hadn’t changed, but he had been listening intently.
“Would you like to explain your planets existence among what it seems to me, a galaxy of other civilisations.”
“We are just part of a much larger galaxy, yes, though I would question our level of development in their eyes “
“So, these so-called criminals are from different worlds?”
“We do not discriminate, as some others do.”
There was no acrimony or anger in his tone. He was relating information, and answers to my questions, from their perspective. I realized that I could not judge these people in the same terms as I would one of my own people, and that was going to be the hardest problem we were going to have in dealing big with new people
Quite simply, they were not us.
And, equally, we had no right to judge them according to our rules.
“Sir.” Number one again.
“Yes?”
“Midava tells me they are being held against their will simply because they want to go home. Apparently, their hosts do not want their homelands to know their level of technology improvement. I think you can understand the implication.”
I could. “Thank you, number one.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective,” the alien captain said. “Other worlds, like other countries on your planet, group together in what you call blocs. They are more technologically advanced, so they deigned to ignore us, and it has taken a long time for us to become as advanced. Those people came to us and said they wanted to help us, without the knowledge of their leaders, because it was unjust. We willingly accepted it and for years the association was mutually beneficial, they got the recognition they would not get on their homeworlds, and we got the technology. This ship is one of the benefits, along with its weapons. When they wanted to go home, their work, they said, was done, and they wanted to see their families, the high council decided against it, for security reasons, and when they tried to escape, they were detained. You would call it political expediency.”
“But in an enlightened and just society such as yours, don’t you think that is wrong to deny them. I suspect as you might give a bit more thought to the matter, that telling their homeworlds what they’d done would most like condemn them to death, so I’m sure telling anyone anything about their time with you was the last thing on their minds. It’s food for thought. However, since is not my objective to interfere in your sovereign right to dispense justice in accordance with your laws, I will have the prisoners returned to you.”
“You can’t do that,” the Russian captain said.
“I can, and you will. There are far larger implications in play and if necessary, I will enforce our laws upon you, which will, if the Captain desires, hand you over as well. I suggest, to avoid trouble you give the necessary orders to your crew forthwith.”
To the alien captain, “I expected as a courtesy that you, myself, and the leader of these so-called criminals sit down and have a discussion about their options.”
“I will need to deal with the high council.”
“Then do so now, before we make any arrangements. And release my fellow captain. Using force will not give what you want, and sets a bad precedent if you seek to have any sort of relationship with us.”
A nod from the alien captain to his subordinate, and she let him go, and it was hard to tell if she was upset or not.
Both then disappeared, leaving us alone on an empty bridge, if that was what it was.
“You do realize what will happen to them when he gets them back,” the Russian captain said.
“That’s not our problem. If our roles were reversed, would you want them to weigh in on our affairs?”
“That’s not the point “
“That is the point. Were not here to tell others what to do but to hopefully forge new relations with people who have the means to help us find a place in a new galaxy. We’re here to learn and share if that’s what it takes.”
“And if they are the devil instead?”
“I’m sure you will be very well placed to discern whether they are or not, based on your own actions.”
He didn’t seem annoyed at the inference, which to me showed a marked disregard for anyone but themselves, underlying the people who had put him aboard his ship and what their purpose in getting out into the galaxy first was.
The cold war back on earth had just moved out in the galaxy, and if not now, they would eventually be a threat, not only to ourselves but anyone they came across in their travels.
“You’re making a mistake, once they get what they want they will dispense with us.”
It was a possibility, but the problem for the alien people was, we were here, now, and if he did destroy us, they had to know we knew about them and more of our ships would arrive in time, and they would be hostile, especially if we didn’t report back. And if they had been observing life on earth they’d know we would seek retribution
Perhaps that was the reason why he didn’t destroy us in the first instance.
“How long do you think they will be?” Nancy had found her voice, finally.
I’d almost forgotten she was there.
“How long do you think it would take to talk to a high council? If it’s anything like back home, it could take forever. Any ideas on how, if you get the chance, you’re going to approach setting up diplomatic relations?”
“None whatsoever, sir.”
“Good, a clean slate. Start thinking about it.”
She looked around. “You’d think there’d be a chair to at least sit down.”
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.
I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.
The only thing lacking, an idea.
It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.
To be honest, the last thing I needed was a distraction, and, having forgotten to put my cell phone on silent, it starts buzzing, indicating there are new messages, or notifications from all those social media sites like Twitter, Facebook, WordPress, Blogger…
Then the advice from all the so-called marketing gurus starts to swirl around in my head, and instead of writing, I’m now fretting over my social media presence.
The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught.
That’s when I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month.
I move on to the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.
The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvelous 30-page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site.
I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good is not going to help me.
Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.
Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.
What am I missing here?
So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site? These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.
Some time ago I created a website on one of those so-called free sites, but it’s rather basic and not great. Of course, if I want it to be better, all I have to do is hand over a great wad of money I don’t have to make it better. So much for free!
I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m having.
Oh well, back to the book. It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!
The Writer’s Trap: How to Maintain Consistency Across a Book Series (And Why It Makes or Breaks Your Story)
We’ve all been there. You’re deep into the third instalment of a fantasy epic or a cozy mystery series, completely immersed in the narrative. Suddenly, the protagonist’s blue eyes are mentioned as being emerald green, or a hometown that was three days’ ride north in Book One is suddenly a quick afternoon stroll south in Book Three.
Jolt.
Just like that, the fictional spell is broken. You are no longer lost in a magical secondary world or pacing the floor trying to solve a whodunit; you’re an outside observer staring at a blatant editing error.
For authors, maintaining book series consistency is one of the toughest tightrope walks in publishing. As your world expands, your character arcs evolve, and your plotlines thicken across multiple books, the sheer volume of trivial—and vital—details multiplies exponentially.
If you want to keep your readers immersed, turning the page without tripping over your own lore, you need a strategy. Here is why consistency matters so much, where authors usually slip up, and actionable ways to build your own foolproof series “bible.”
Why Continuity Errors Shatter Reader Trust
When writing a standalone novel, keeping track of your details is manageable. But when you write a series, your universe becomes a living, breathing ecosystem.
Readers invest a tremendous amount of time, emotion, and money into book series. In return, they expect the author to respect the world they’ve fallen in love with. When continuity slips, the psychological impact on the reader is profound:
It Breaks Immersion: Continuity errors yank the reader right out of the fictional dream. Instead of feeling tension, they feel confusion.
It Destroys Believability: If you can’t keep track of basic character traits or geographical layouts, the reader begins to subconsciously doubt your competence as a world-builder.
It Alienates Loyal Fans: Modern readers love to dissect series. They share theories online, build wikis, and reread your books before a new release. Die-hard fans will notice if your magic system’s rules shift or if a supporting character’s backstory is retconned without reason.
The Danger Zones: What Slips Through the Cracks?
What are the most common casualties of a multi-book series? Usually, it’s not the overarching plot; it’s the microscopic details.
Character Biographies & Physical Attributes: Eye colours, scars, birthdays, sibling names, allergic reactions, and foundational childhood trauma. These are easy to invent on the fly in Chapter 12 and just as easy to forget by the time you’re writing the sequel two years later.
The Rules of Your World: Magic systems, technology limits, economic systems, and physical laws. If magic requires a physical toll in Book One, it cannot simply become limitless convenience in Book Two unless explicitly earned through character growth.
Geography and Chronology: Travel times, distances between locations, weather patterns, and the timeline of events. If it takes a week to cross the continent in the first book, a character shouldn’t magically cross it overnight in the next unless using established, high-speed transit.
Minor Plot Threads: Unresolved questions, throwaway lines about past events, or historical lore that sets up the world’s foundation.
How to Maintain Consistency: Build Your Series “Bible”
Character growth and dramatic plot developments aside, your administrative workflow needs an upgrade if you want to write a cohesive series. You cannot rely on memory alone. The human brain is notoriously bad at remembering arbitrary details—especially when you are pouring your creative energy into drafting new material.
The best defence against continuity errors is proactive record-keeping. Here is how to build a system that protects your story:
1. Create Living Character Profiles
Don’t just track your characters’ arcs; track their data. Create a master document or database dedicated solely to your cast. For every major and recurring minor character, log:
Personal history: Hometown, family members, key backstories, and pivotal traumas.
Preferences & Quirks: Favourite foods, phobias, speech patterns, or habits.
Pro-tip: Update this file after you finish each book. As characters change, grow, or pick up new scars, record those updates immediately while the manuscript is still fresh in your mind.
2. Maintain a World-Building and Lore Index
If you write fantasy, sci-fi, or historical fiction, your setting is a character in its own right. Keep a centralised wiki or document for your setting’s rules:
Geography (distances, climates, capital cities).
Politics, factions, and social hierarchies.
Magic or technological rules and limitations.
3. Track the Timeline and Plot Threads
Create a chronological timeline for your series. Track what happens on what day, month, or year. This prevents glaring errors like characters aging inconsistently, historical events overlapping incorrectly, or seasonal inconsistencies (e.g., it being mid-winter in chapter one and suddenly harvest season two chapters later without explanation).
4. Consult Before You Write
This is the golden rule: Never open a blank document for the next book in your series without reviewing your notes.
Before you write Chapter One of your sequel, spend an afternoon reviewing your character profiles, world-building notes, and the ending of the previous book. Re-familiarise yourself with the exact voice, constraints, and current status of your universe.
Consistency is the Foundation of Mastery
Writing a compelling book series is an impressive feat of endurance and imagination. But sustaining that magic requires discipline behind the scenes. By treating your continuity with the same passion and care you bring to your plotting and prose, you honour your readers and build an immersive, airtight world they can happily live inside for books to come.
What is the worst continuity error you’ve ever spotted in a famous book series? Let us know in the comments below!
Beyond the Big Five: Warsaw’s Hidden Gems That Will Captivate You (Without the Crowds)
Warsaw is a city that whispers tales of resilience and rebirth, and while the Royal Castle and the Old Town Market Square rightfully draw admirers, there’s a magic to be found in its less-trodden paths. If you’re looking to experience the true soul of the Polish capital without battling a sea of selfie sticks, then this list is for you. Forget the predictable queues; we’re diving into Warsaw’s top five tourist attractions that boast distinctive charm and a serene atmosphere.
Here are five must-visit spots that offer a unique perspective on Warsaw, perfect for the discerning traveller:
1. The Palace of Culture and Science – The Observatory Deck (and beyond!)
Yes, the Palace of Culture and Science is a prominent landmark, but many visitors only see its imposing exterior. The real magic for those seeking fewer crowds lies in its observatory deck on the 30th floor. While it’s a known spot, it rarely experiences the overwhelming throngs of other city viewpoints. The 360-degree panorama of Warsaw from here is breathtaking, particularly at sunset when the city lights begin to twinkle.
Why it’s distinctive: It’s not just the view; it’s the architectural style (a controversial “gift” from the Soviet Union) and the sheer scale of the building that make it a talking point. Venture beyond the deck, and you’ll find cinema complexes, theatres, and museums within its walls, offering a glimpse into Warsaw’s cultural heart without the typical tourist hustle.
2. POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews – Immersive Storytelling
While gaining well-deserved recognition, the POLIN Museum is often overlooked by those solely focused on pre-war history. This isn’t just a museum; it’s an immersive journey through a thousand years of Jewish life in Poland. Through stunning architectural design and innovative exhibits, you’ll walk through recreated historical spaces, interact with multimedia displays, and gain a profound understanding of a community that shaped Polish heritage.
Why it’s distinctive: The sheer scale and ambition of its narrative, covering centuries of history, art, and culture. It’s a space that educates, inspires, and often deeply moves visitors. The building itself is a masterpiece, representing a modern interpretation of Jewish heritage.
3. Łazienki Park – Royal Retreat and Artistic Haven
Łazienki Park is Warsaw’s largest green space, and while it’s a popular spot for locals, it rarely feels overrun by tourists. This 18th-century royal complex is a tranquil oasis, featuring opulent palaces, charming gardens, and an amphitheatre. The iconic Palace on the Isle, perched on a picturesque lake, is a sight to behold. You might even spot some resident peacocks strutting their stuff!
Why it’s distinctive: It’s a harmonious blend of natural beauty and neoclassical architecture. Unlike meticulously manicured gardens, Łazienki Park feels like a truly lived-in royal retreat. The open-air Chopin concerts held here in the summer (check schedules!) are a truly magical experience, usually with plenty of space to spread out.
4. The Neon Museum – A Vibrant Flashback
Step into a world of glowing colours and retro charm at the Neon Museum. This unique institution showcases remnants of the Cold War era’s communist-era neon signs, meticulously restored and displayed within a former factory. It’s a visually striking and surprisingly poignant collection that tells a story of Polish urbanism and design during a specific historical period.
Why it’s distinctive: It’s an unconventional museum dedicated to a specific, visually captivating art form. The sheer density of vibrant, luminous signs creates an unforgettable atmosphere. It’s a photographer’s dream and a fascinating glimpse into a bygone era of Polish advertising and urban character.
5. Praga District – The Authentic “Wild East”
For a truly authentic Warsaw experience, venture across the Vistula River to the Praga district. Once considered the “wild east” of Warsaw, Praga has retained much of its pre-war architectural character, with crumbling facades, hidden courtyards, and a distinct bohemian vibe. It’s a stark contrast to the meticulously reconstructed Old Town and offers a more raw, gritty, and intriguing side of the city.
Why it’s distinctive: It’s a living testament to Warsaw’s pre-war past, defying the city’s narrative of complete destruction and reconstruction. Explore its intricate street art, independent galleries, and charming cafes for a taste of Warsaw’s evolving artistic scene. Take a guided walking tour to truly appreciate the hidden stories etched into its buildings.
So, next time you find yourself in Warsaw, dare to stray from the beaten path. These five attractions offer not just unique sights, but also a chance to connect with the city’s diverse history, vibrant culture, and captivating spirit, all without the overwhelming crowds. Happy exploring!
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
Beyond the Crowds: Riga’s Top 5 Distinctive & Unforgettable Hidden Gems
Riga. The name itself conjures images of cobblestone streets, vibrant Art Nouveau facades, and the bustling energy of its UNESCO-listed Old Town. And while these iconic sights are undoubtedly charming, sometimes the most profound travel experiences are found just a little off the well-trodden path.
For the discerning traveller who yearns for authenticity without the elbow-to-elbow crowds, who seeks distinctive features and stories that resonate long after the trip is over, Riga holds a treasure trove of quieter wonders. So, put down that mainstream guide and join me on a journey to uncover five visitor attractions in Riga that promise unique character and peaceful exploration.
1. The Zanis Lipke Memorial: A Testament to Humanity
More than just a museum, the Zanis Lipke Memorial is a profound architectural and emotional experience. Hidden away on Ķīpsala island, this striking black tarred wooden structure resembles an inverted Noah’s Ark, built directly over the secret bunker where Zanis Lipke, a dockworker, hid and saved over 50 Jews from the Holocaust during WWII.
Distinctive Features: The building itself is an architectural marvel – stark, symbolic, and deeply moving. Inside, a narrow, dark passage leads down into the actual bunker, immersing you in the chilling reality of those hidden. The design perfectly complements the powerful story of courage and sacrifice, creating a space for quiet introspection and remembrance. It’s rarely crowded, allowing you to absorb its sombre beauty and the incredible human spirit it honours at your own pace.
2. The Latvian Ethnographic Open-Air Museum: A Walk Through Time
Escape the city entirely and step into rural Latvia from centuries past at the Latvian Ethnographic Open-Air Museum. Sprawling across a vast, picturesque forest on the shores of Lake Jugla, this is one of Europe’s largest open-air museums. It features nearly 120 traditional Latvian buildings – farmsteads, churches, windmills, and fishing villages – painstakingly moved from various regions of Latvia and reconstructed here.
Distinctive Features: Each building tells a story, showcasing the lifestyle, crafts, and traditions of Latvian peasants, fishermen, and artisans from the 17th to the 20th centuries. You can wander through authentic homes, see traditional tools, and often witness artisans demonstrating ancient crafts. Due to its sheer size and slightly out-of-the-way location (easily reachable by bus), it rarely feels crowded, offering ample space to stroll, reflect, and enjoy the tranquil natural surroundings. It’s a living history book under the open sky.
While parts of Riga are famous for Art Nouveau, the Kalnciema Quarter offers a different, equally captivating architectural experience: beautifully restored wooden buildings. This charming neighbourhood, a bit west of the Old Town, is a vibrant cultural hub, especially on weekends.
Distinctive Features: The cluster of meticulously renovated 19th-century wooden houses, each with intricate carvings and pastel hues, creates an almost fairytale-like atmosphere. Beyond the architecture, the quarter hosts organic food and craft markets, open-air concerts, art exhibitions, and pop-up cafes – all within a relaxed, community-focused setting. While market days bring a lively buzz, it’s a far cry from the tourist throngs, offering a genuine glimpse into Riga’s modern bohemian culture against a stunning historical backdrop.
4. The Corner House (KGB Museum): A Chilling Echo of the Past
For a powerful and sobering experience, visit “The Corner House” (Stūra Māja), the former headquarters of the Soviet KGB in Latvia. This imposing building, now a museum, is a stark reminder of Latvia’s turbulent 20th century.
Distinctive Features: A visit here is not just about exhibits; it’s about walking through history. You can explore the original cells, interrogation rooms, the former waiting rooms, and the chilling exercise yard. The atmosphere is sombre and reflective, offering a raw and unfiltered look at the methods and impact of the Soviet regime. While popular, the nature of the visit (often guided tours through specific areas) means it rarely feels overwhelmingly crowded, allowing for a deeply personal engagement with this poignant piece of history.
5. Miera Iela & The Great Cemetery: Artisanal Charm Meets Serene History
Combine two distinctive, less-trafficked experiences by exploring Miera Iela (Peace Street) and its adjacent Great Cemetery. Miera Iela has earned the nickname “hipster street” for its collection of independent cafes, artisan boutiques, small art galleries, and vintage shops.
Distinctive Features: Miera Iela offers a refreshing contrast to the Old Town, showcasing Riga’s contemporary, creative pulse. Stroll, grab a coffee, browse unique items. Just a stone’s throw away, you’ll find the Great Cemetery (Lielie Kapi). Far from morbid, this historic cemetery is a sprawling, peaceful park adorned with magnificent sculptures, grand mausoleums, and ancient trees. It’s a place of quiet beauty and historical significance, where many notable Latvians are laid to rest, and where you can enjoy a serene walk amidst stunning funerary art and natural tranquillity, almost always in solitude.
Riga is a city that keeps on giving, especially when you’re willing to venture slightly off the beaten path. These five distinctive attractions offer not just sights, but stories, emotions, and a deeper connection to the heart of Latvia, all within the tranquil embrace of fewer crowds.
Have you visited any of these hidden gems in Riga, or found other distinctive, uncrowded spots? Share your experiences in the comments below!
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
