After leaving the hotel in Zhengzhou, which was once one of the eight ancient capitals of China, we are going to Dengfeng city, the home of China’s most famous martial art – Shaolin Kung Fu.
The Shaolin Temple nearby is the origin of Chinese Zen Buddhism, and the Songyang Academy, called “the Centre of Heaven and Earth” is located 87 Km from Zhengzhou, or, as we were advised, a 2-hour drive. It will be scenic because we are heading towards the mountains.
As one of the four ancient Song Dynasty Academies, Songyang Academy is one of many schools in the province. It is both on a large scale, is quite spectacular, and is a comprehensive Wushu training base where students are trained to spread the Shaolin Wushu Kung fu style at home and abroad.
There is a 500-seat demonstration hall where you are able to observe 30 minutes of various martial arts in shows starting on the hour.
Outside there is a specific area that generally has about 600 trainees learning kung fu elements during the day but can hold 5,000 people when outdoor performances are required.
The kung fu school
The thing you notice most about the kung fu school is its size and then the number of buses which tells you that it is a popular tourist stop.
And with that size comes long distances between the car park and the venues we need to go to, the first of which is about half a km, and that’s just to get to the ticket plaza.
But, it is pleasantly set out and is quite a large number of shops for both souvenirs and food
We pass by some of the students going through their paces
From there it’s another long, long walk to the show arena, where we’re supposed to see various kung fu elements on display. We watched this for a few minutes, then headed off towards the hall for a more intense demonstration of kung fu, and because there is limited seating we have to start lining up at the head of the queue to get a seat.
But…
Everyone else has the same idea and we join the throng which then becomes a ride, and true to the Chinese they start finding ways to push in, even using the imaginary friend somewhere ahead in the queue.
The doors open and then it’s open slather, with the hoards pushing from behind and sliding up the side to get in first. We go with the tide, and manage to get in and find a seat though we were separated from three of our group.
It was an interesting show even though not one word of English was spoken, which from our point of view was a disappointment because we had no idea what was going on.
However…
It wasn’t hard to follow
What the performers were doing was relatively self-explanatory, and quite fascinating, especially the guy who broke a sword over his head, and the guy who stopped two spears penetrating the neck, both examples of very disciplined men.
Boys gave a demonstration of kung fu moves, and intensity and age increased as this progressed to the end.
Next, we were taken in hand by an instructor in Tai chi or an equivalent, I was not quite sure what it was called, and went through the twelve or maybe more moves that constituted a morning or afternoon exercise session or it could be just for relaxation. I lasted the first session but it was a little difficult to do with my sore limbs and a bad back.
Not that I could remember any of it now other than hands overhead, hands in front, bent knees, and a few gentle kung fu hand moves.
Perhaps when I get home I might seek out someone to show me the moves.
Whilst the others were following their training instructor, I wandered about, finding a large statue
And some smaller statues
Lunch in the Zen Restaurant
After all that exercise it was time to have lunch purportedly the same food as the king fu masters. It’s in the Zen restaurant, aptly named, and the food when it came, came thick and fast, but some of it wasn’t very nice, meat with bones, tofu, a tasteless soup, but some good dishes like the vegetables and noodles with meat, without bones.
The only problem was nothing to drink except a pot of hot water. No tea, no cold water, and if you wanted a cold drink you had to pay for it. After paying 550 yuan why should we have to pay more for a drink when we have not had to so far.
But no cold water? That was just not on, and when we brought this to the attention of the tour guide she just simply ignored us. We just didn’t get anything.
That basically tainted the whole experience.
After lunch, there was the Shaolin Temple and the Pogoda Forest to visit.
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
Write a piece and then edit it by reducing its size by 20 percent.
…
First draft:
Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.
My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.
He was mean.
Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.
She was charming and polite.
Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.
I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.
My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.
My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.
Then there was me.
I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.
Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.
My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.
My sister was not quite so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.
Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.
I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.
It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.
It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.
She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
“What do you want?”
“Help.”
My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”
The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.
She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …
602 words long
…
After editing:
My parents were very wealthy, with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard. My sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother he was a politician.
I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.
You see, I was the black sheep of the family. I dropped out of college when it all became too much and drifted. Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman.
At least now I had a uniform and a gun and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind. They might be gone, but I guess I will never forget them. I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.
It was 3 a.m., and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole. I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow coming. A white Christmas? That’s all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.
“Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.
I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed? Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”
I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression. Perhaps I had been a little harsh. Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”
My help? Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”
Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.
My first thought was that she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.
And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind. Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.
There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
I’ve had the ubiquitous pleasure of being called one, and that is, a bore.
Probably because I spend so much time telling people about the joys and woes of being a writer.
You can be a tedious bore, cooking could be a bore, and then you could bore someone to death, and then you will bore the responsibility of, yes, doing just that.
Would it be murder or manslaughter?
But, of course, there are other meanings of the word, such as, on my farm I have a bore.
No, we’re not talking about the farmhand, but where artesian water is brought to the surface, in what would otherwise be very arid land.
Or, could be the size of a drill hole, and in a specific instance the measurement of the circular space that piston goes up and down. And if you increase the size of the bore, the more powerful the engine.
Or it could refer to the size of a gun barrel, for all of you who are crime fiction writers.
But, let’s not after all of that, confuse it with another interpretation of the word, boar, which is basically a male pig.
It could also just as easily describe certain men.
Then there is another interpretation, boor, which is an extremely rude person, or a peasant, a country bumpkin or a yokel.
I’ve only seen the latter in old American movies.
There is one more, rather obscure interpretation, and that is boer, which is a Dutch South African, who at the turn of the last century found themselves embroiled in a war with the British.
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.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.
I had to wonder if Lallo had already called the number on the phone he had handed Jacobi, and then considered, if that was the case, there would be no need for Jacobi to call anyone. Or Lallo had got an answer, just not the answer he was expecting.
Jacobi looked at the phone, and I got the impression he was weighing his options. The first was how long Lallo would hold him in custody. That I think we could both assumed to be forever if necessary. There was, no doubt, a cell at a black site with his name on it already. The second, if he did call his contact, would that contact co-operate, though it was hard what it was Lallo was expecting Jacobi’s co-operation for.
But there was no doubt Lallo had a plan.
Jacobi took a moment to consider any further options I hadn’t thought of, and then made the call. We were only going to get one side of the call.
A raised eyebrow indicated Jacobi had an answer on the other end.
“It’s me.”
Why did everyone say it’s me when asked to identify themselves, or as in the case announce themselves?
“No. An unfortunate set of circumstances, and a gross breach of our agreement. I am supposed to have autonomy of operations at home. These bumbling idiots may have blown my cover.”
Somehow, the fact he was sitting in a small room told me his cover was more than likely a myth. If this was our supposed point man in the failed operation I’d been on, then I could see why it cost a lot of good men their lives.
He had been playing both sides of the fence and sold us out.
“You would have to ask them.”
A moment later he handed the phone to Lallo. “Prepare to die,” was all Jacobi said.
It didn’t move Lallo in the slightest,
He took the phone and asked, “Whom am I speaking to?”
The expression change told me that it was most likely none of his business.
“This man is responsible for the deaths of a good many men.” A minute’s silence, then, “I doubt that would be the case considering the number of phones and their credentials. He had been playing you, and perhaps many others.”
The silence was a lot longer, but the expressions changing by the minute told me that Lallo was not going to get what he wanted.
“No, that is not going to happen, not in the circumstances you describe. I will be sending him back, yes, but for another mission. I think it’s time you realized he’s been feeding you false intel for some time.” Silence again, then, “By the time you do, he will no longer be here, there. I’m sorry.”
He disconnected the call and put the phone back in the plastic evidence bag.
Then he sat, and gave Jacobi a long, hard stare.
No effect.
“What is happening,” Jacobi finally asked.
“You’re going home.”
“Good. I expect once I get back there you will leave me alone.”
“On the contrary, Mr Jacobi, you will not be going back alone. In fact, I’m sending you back with my team, and we are going to extract the same people you were supposed to help us extract the last time.”
“I had nothing to do with that. It was simply your incompetence.”
“Be that as it may, you will do as I ask.”
“You are a fool. Why would I do anything for you, and especially since they are both probably dead now, or, if not, past the point of saving.”
“You will then want to hope that isn’t the case, simply because if they are, then three members of your family will be executed. You can say goodbye to them before you leave, or tell them you will see them again, it’s your choice.”
Lallo, it seems, was no fool, and had ensured he had the necessary leverage. There was no mistaking the shock on Jacobi’s face.
“You lie.”
Lallo got up from his seat and knocked on the door. It opened and two men brought in a large screen connected to a computer on a trolley. They moved it to the vacant wall and left. Lallo pressed several keys and a picture came up on the screen. A woman and two small children, and judging from the expression on Jacobi’s face, exactly who he was hoping he would not see.
There were two hooded soldiers either side with guns loosely pointing in their direction.
“One word from me, and they will be shot. Considering the treachery you have perpetrated, it’s taking a great deal of restraint for me not to give the order to kill them.”
He took a few seconds to regain his composure. “This serves no purpose,” Jacobi said in a rising pitch, “your people are most likely dead. It has been a long time.”
“I don’t think so. We have word from a different source, a more reliable source, that they are still alive. Barely, but alive, serving a life sentence for treason. And helping the General with information. All you need to do is get a small team of mine in and assist them to effect an escape. They come home alive and, well, your family lives. They don’t come back alive, well, I don’t think that’s an option, is it?”
Jacobi was in an invidious position of being damned if he did help us, or damned if he didn’t. Either way, it didn’t guarantee his co-operation or assistance. Painted into a corner, sometimes people like Jacobi chose the easy road, sacrificing everything to stay alive. No doubt, until this predicament, he was well in favour with Bahti, and from what I’d heard, Bahti was not a man to cross. There was a graveyard in the prison that was full of the remains of his enemies. And people who were once his friends.
I knew firsthand what it was like to be between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and unfortunately, there was no upside. No doubt the team leader of this new folly would have orders to shoot Jacobi once his work was done. Lallo would not be able to leave a man in his position alive because of what he knew.
And from my perspective, I felt sorry for the team Lallo had selected to go on what could quite possibly be another suicide mission.
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 with 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…
They reached a point a few kilometers from what was known as Brenner Pass at four in the morning, having navigated their way through patchy snow, icy roads, and bitter cold.
Progress at times was slow and the roads were difficult, the driver, at times, nearly losing control of the car.
The checkpoint appeared almost when they were on top of it, one that hadn’t been marked on the map, so they had not been prepared for it. Too late to turn back, they had to stop.
Once again the soldier that came out of the hut beside the boom was an army Unteroffizier who was more concerned about the cold than those in the car.
The Standartenfuhrer once again explained the nature of their business, and again the sentry went back to his hut and made a call.
While he was there the driver was checking the number of other soldiers were in attendance and had pulled his weapon out from under the seat and had it ready to use.
The Standartenfuhrer had done the same, also having checked the extent of the staffing of the post.
Then the driver said, “This looks like one of several. I think we may have walked into a hornet’s nest. The Brenner Pass is very important to the Germans for supplies from Germany to its soldiers in Italy.”
“You think our luck has finally run out?”
They had both seen the guard change expression, from the languid guard worrying more about the cold than a lone car at night, to a soldier who looked like he was about to attend a Nazi rally.
“I think they’ve finally discovered that our friend Mayer is missing.”
“Which means we’re about to get a small platoon of soldiers down on us. OK. You keep them off as long as you can so Mayer and I can get into the woods.”
The Standartenfuhrer turned to Mayer. “This is it, then end of the line for driving. We’re about to get a lot of unwanted visitors.”
He thrust the folder of plans into Mayer’s hands along with a coat.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?” Mayer was almost panic-stricken. The situation was deteriorating with each passing second. He, like the others, could see six men jogging towards them.
Their only advantage was the lack of illumination.
The driver said, “See you on the other side.”
The Standartenfuhrer leaned over, opened the door, and said, forcefully, “Get out, now.”
Mayer tumbled out almost slipping on the icy surface, and the sudden cold hitting him hard.
The Standartenfuher was right behind him, closing the door, and then literally dragging him off the side of the road and towards the tree line about 50 meters away, just barely visible again the dark sky. Thankfully there was no moon peeking through the clouds. But light snow just began to fall, and it would hide them behind an artificial white wall.
They made it to the edge of the forest just as the soldiers reached the car.
Mayer turned to look and could see the sentry now with a torch, probably checking the car which was now barely visible to them. He had seen three people before, now there was only one.
No time to see the inevitable, the Standartenfuhrer dragged him away with, “We have to go before they bring out the dogs.”
Further into the trees, and moving as quickly as they could through the trees and undergrowth, and at times slipping and sliding on both snow and ice, it was five minutes before they heard six shots in rapid succession, followed by the sound of a machine gun.
“Let’s hope he killed at least six of them before he died.”
The problem was, Mayer thought, there was probably another hundred others waiting to take their place.
Mayer had come totally unprepared for the snow, and the cold. At least he had a coat.
Another problem was that he was hungry and that only added to his discomfort. And now they had no means of transport, it was going to take a lot longer to get to Florence, or anywhere for that matter.
An hour passed as they worked their way steadily through the trees, and cover. The dreaded dogs had not been unleashed on them, but they had to assume that someone at the border checkpoint would raise the alarm that there were fugitives in the area, and probably wait until morning before looking for them,
They could calculate how far they had walked and sent in search teams from there.
Or not.
Four hours after they’d left the car, they stumbled upon a cabin. It was not much, having been abandoned quite some time ago and left for the forest to reclaim, but it was shelter and a place to rest. It was not long before first light, and then they could assess their situation.
It was also time for the Standartenfuhrer to give Mayer all the information he needed once he got to Gaiole because at some point they were going to have to split up and Mayer would have to go alone.
F is for — Fishing for information. Without sounding like you are fishing
…
What does it feel like when you answer all of their questions, and they don’t believe you?
Like I felt now.
In a very bad place, because no matter what I said, it didn’t fit their narrative.
The main interrogator, Jake, no surnames provided, had a story. He told me that story, over the last three days, a story that painted me guilty of a crime that I didn’t commit, couldn’t commit, wouldn’t commit.
My problem?
I could not prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was where I was at the time with someone who could never be named.
Ever.
So my guilt was circumstantial, and it would not be the first or the last person to spend a lifetime in jail for a crime they did not commit.
I guess that was the penalty for a stolen night with the woman I could never be with, never be seen with, and never spend the rest of my life with.
I was glad that this country did not partake in torturing confessions out of their suspects, but then, even if they did, I would die long before I said one word. I’d been there before and had only just survived that interrogation.
I wondered if Jake knew that.
He had been pacing around the small room like a caged tiger. We’d been at it for six hours. While he looked thoroughly exhausted, I had remained cool and collected despite the exaggeratedly warm room.
It was their version of sweating answers out of you.
I was denied cold water, and water to a thirsty man was like gold to a fossicker. He knew I needed a drink.
He stopped pacing, turned, and glared at me.
“Let’s go over this again.”
Of course, keep repeating the same story over and over until it becomes fact, until you give a nuance that gives that story credibility, that first chink in the armour that can be exploited.
When you’re tired, when you try not to give in, to waver, to give an expression that can be construed as a confession or agreement.
“The timeline tells us you were at your office until 3 pm. We have CCTV footage of your departure by the front foyer. You take an Uber to the Cyber Cafe, getting there at 3:54 pm. There you stay until 6:17 pm where you take another Uber to the Hotel Jackson, arriving at 7:24 pm. Your cell phone confirms these times, along with CCTV evidence. Why did you go to the hotel?”
Here’s the tricky part. Firstly, the hotel is a special hotel in that there is no CCTV surveillance anywhere inside or out. They could only confirm my presence there by my phone’s GPS. Secondly, they could not get confirmation of any guest within that hotel because the government used it to house ‘special’ guests. Thirdly, by using the hotel, I was bound to an NDA to never divulge why I was there.
It didn’t stop Jake from fishing.
“You know I can’t tell you that. And you are fully aware of the reasons.”
“It’s not helping your alibi.”
“Keep going. So far, you have my movements.”
“You claim you stayed the night at the hotel, going to your room and staying there until 8:03 am the next morning.”
“That is correct.”
Except it wasn’t, technically. I was in the hotel, on the same floor, but in an adjoining room from 8:00 pm to 7:00 am. It didn’t matter, I didn’t leave the hotel.
However…
Jake contends that it was ten minutes if I hurried down a back alley under cover and out of sight of any CCTV coverage to another hotel where someone that looked like me was caught on tape going in the back entrance of a seedy hotel, carefully avoiding looking at any camera, both inside and outside, up to a room on the fourth floor by the rear stairs, murdered a man named Joseph Flines and then returned just as expeditiously being caught on CCTV on the way out not ten minutes later.
That was inconclusive, but there was a kicker…
I had an argument with an unnamed man outside my work building several hours before I left, at times heated, and where Flines had a swing and a miss, after screaming he was going to kill me, adding that the world needed to know what kind of heinous criminal I was. He said quite loudly and openly that my reputation and livelihood would be over once everyone knew the truth.
I had no idea who he was, and I was even more mystified at why he believed I was a heinous criminal. It was the last time I saw him until the police arrested me. All I could think of was that he had mistaken me for someone else.
“How do you explain the confrontation outside your workplace earlier?”
“He has confused me with someone else. I had never seen him before.”
“And yet he knows you by name.”
“I’m not exactly anonymous in this city. A lot of people who know who I am, and can recognise me. It’s not the first time some stranger had walked up to me to have words, sometimes disparaging. I’m sure you have found these instances and realised that I have nothing to do with them either. My job is not exactly one people see eye to eye with, so there’s bound to be some dissenters.”
A lot, perhaps, because it was left to me to make the hard decisions because those who were supposed to didn’t and hid behind me and blamed me when the media was looking for a scapegoat.
I was not sure how Flines was affected by any decision I’d made, but it was a possible link. Jake hadn’t made that connection yet. Neither had I.
“So you admit…”
“Nothing, and it would serve you well not to start jumping to conclusions without a shred of evidence.”
“We’re close, very close. People like you have the ability to hide in plain sight, but not this time.”
Smug, the first time he let any emotion into his tone. That told me a great deal. There was a connection. It would have to be obscure, very obscure, one that I’d never guess existed.
He took a drink from his water bottle and glared at me, daring me to ask for a sip so he could deny it. Yes, he looked like the man who held all the cards.
“How long has it been since your fiance died?”
What did that have to do with anything? I said as much.
“Just answer the question.”
If this was court, my lawyer would be asking for relevance.
“Three years.”
“Her killer was never found.”
“I was in Hong Kong at the time if that’s what you are implying.”
Yes, they did try to pin that on me as well, but there was sufficient evidence to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt I didn’t do it or have anything to do with it.
“I was not. But, can you explain why your wife met with the victim, Joseph Flines, several times, about weeks before she died.”
Could I? No. Did I know? I did not. Did I know exactly what she did? Other than that, she was a corporate lawyer charged with keeping high flying executives out of jail when they committed so-called human errors in their business transactions.
Smoothing the waters, she said. She never passed moral judgments, just found loopholes. Did she care about those who were unjustly wronged? No. Not her problem. If they hired good lawyers, her job would be so much harder.
I loved her, not her job. I wanted to investigate her death. I was not allowed to. Orders from above.
But as for Flines…
“If you say so. I know nothing about her business or anyone she dealt with.”
“Three years you were together. Very close. And you claim…”
Fishing again. Pushing buttons. Get a reaction, and then run with it.
“It’s a situation you would have no understanding of. After all, you haven’t had a relationship last longer than nine months, and one that had you suspended for three months. There are lines that you do not cross, and both Margret and I knew where those lines were. Clearly, you don’t.”
There was a pounding on the door, not unexpected. It was only a matter of time before Jake crossed a line. The door opened a fraction, a whispered conversation, heated, then, “This isn’t over.”
He then left, closing the door loudly behind him.
I had time to think about what sort of relationship Margaret may have had with Flines. From what I knew of him, he had more enemies than friends, the result of a background check after he confronted me.
A seedy private investigator that swam down in the sewer of nasty divorce cases, there were upwards of fifty disgruntled husbands he had outed, and yet Jake and his team could not find one eligible perpetrator from that list.
I’d found ten, and that was just at first glance.
What would Margaret want with the likes of him when she had one of the best teams of investigators in the country at her disposal?
I didn’t have time to come to any sort of conclusion before the door opened, and an elderly woman came in and, after closing the door, leaned against it
She reminded me of the librarian at high school, the same severe expression, severe hairdo, and severe suit.
“You are going to be a proper pain in the proverbial backside, Mr Jones. I know who you are, I know what you do, and I know that damnfool head of department you work for. I apologise for Jake. The man doesn’t understand discretion or when to keep information to himself.”
“Flines association with Margaret. I didn’t kill the man, no matter how you try to stitch a timeline together.”
“Sadly, I have to agree. I so wanted to wrap this up, but you don’t always get what you want. You tell Jimmy hello from Betsy. He’ll know who it is. Oh, and by the way. Anything you hear in this room stays in the room. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very good. You may go.”
Jake had overstepped his brief. It would not be the first time someone in his position made a mistake in disclosing information that could queer a case.
But that was always a risk when you had to go on a fishing expedition. What staggered me was the connection between Flines and Margaret, which on the surface could have circumstantially sealed my fate.
It still didn’t tell me why Flines had come after me, unless he thought I was working in concert with Margaret, and at a guess, she had caused him grief over a case. Maybe he was not working for her, but for someone opposed to her, and she had to discredit him.
I hadn’t been able to investigate and still couldn’t, so perhaps I’d never find out. And there was that one other small problem. I was not supposed to know about my wife and Flines’s connection.
His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked. He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.
Threats are delivered; she stays. In her own room of course.
As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little. This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.
I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers. This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write. If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker. They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.
What plan ever goes by the book?
In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.
Then there is the leader of the rebels.
In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out. It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 