We were in London in Summer, it was a fine afternoon, going into the evening and we decided to get on the London Eye. As you can see from the clock it was near 7:00 pm.
This photo was taken as we were coming down.
Those long evenings were quite remarkable, not in the least going to a pub and sinking a few pints! There was one such pub not far from Charing Cross Station
The pub was called ‘The Princess of Wales’
And still be light enough to find your way home.
You have this incredible fully working scale model of an Airbus A380 coming into land…
This plane is over a meter long and has actually flown as a model aircraft, complete with a remote control.
The thrust from the four engines was enough to almost blow the lounge room curtains off their hooks from 40 feet away … and it was a struggle to hold the plane down.
Now I can simulate tornados.
And, I have to say it’s rather awe-inspiring to look at it.
For those who like the technical details:
The A380 is the largest EPO model you will ever see and with a wingspan of 1520mm and 4 x 56mm ducted fans it is sure to make an impression at any airfield!
Despite it’s size, the A380 is very light and economical to fly, only requiring a 3000mAh 3S battery.
This huge A380 (EPO) model aircraft comes 95% pre-built and includes a powerful 4 x 25A brushless EDF system and steerable nose wheel, just include your own Tx/Rx and battery.
Specs:
Length: 1410mm (55.51in)
Wing span: 1520mm (59.84in)
Flying weight: 1800g
Motor: 2826 Brushless outrunner (3200KV)
ESC: 4 x 25A
Servo: 9g * 5pcs
Battery: 3000~5000mAh 3S1P 45C~65C Lipoly Pack (Required)
EDF Diameter: 4 x 56mm
In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.
In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.
Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.
Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.
She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.
Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.
All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.
Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”
Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!
“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.
He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.
“Good.” Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.
“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.
“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.
Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”
They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.
Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.
His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying? There was a tinge of redness.
Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.
No. That wasn’t possible.
Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later she realized she’d spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.
It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.
“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”
At least we agree on that, she thought.
It was obvious he was running away from something as well.
Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.
After getting through this evening first.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”
A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.
Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”
Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.
She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”
She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.
Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.
Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.
Was that what she was expecting?
Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.
Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.
On discreet observance, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.
This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.
Rebellion was written all over him.
The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.
“Mr. Henshaw?”
He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.
“Then my name is Michelle.”
Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.
“Staying long?” she asked.
“About three weeks. Yourself?”
“About the same.”
The conversation dried up.
Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.
Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.
“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”
Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”
“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”
You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.
“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.
“Yes, so do I.”
Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.
It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.
Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”
“By car.”
“Did you drive yourself?”
And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.
“After a fashion.”
He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.
And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.
“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.
“Whatever for?”
“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”
“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.
“Do you drive?”
“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”
The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.
“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.
“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.
“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.
“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.
He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.
“I’m a purser.”
“A what?”
“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“And you?”
“I was a model.”
“Was?”
“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.
As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.
“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”
“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”
Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.
Dinner over, they separated.
Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.
But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.
Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.
She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.
…
© Charles Heath 2015-2024
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.
© Charles Heath 2018-2020
Behind the Green Door
…
Michael can not quite believe he is still alive.
He wakes up in the same bed he went to sleep in, with Miranda beside him, exactly as it was before the nightmare began.
She has no memory of what happened only up to when they were abducted.
But…
Michael time left before the adjudication has gone from 3 days to 1.
She is still asking questions on behalf of management, and he still keeps dodging and weadving.
It’s time to get Elsie’s story from Miranda.
And discover there’s still a lot about her that he didn’t know.
However…
Management has given up the one last secret it has, the secret service, and if anyone was to ask Michael, it was one of the last necessities required if there was ever going to be a peaceful settlement between management and the people.
He could now relax, and go on to the next promise of his life knowing he had done all he could.
Tomorrow!
…
Word written today 1,406, making a total of 43,368 words
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 been told there’s a sequel in the works.
Bring it on!
…
The book can be purchased here: http://amzn.to/2Eryfth
…
Of course, it is a colour, one used for traffic lights, grass, and a lot of different shades.
It’s made up of blue and yellow, adjusting the amounts of each to get the shade you want.
I once had a dark green suit.
I don’t have any green emeralds.
When you get a green light, it means to go ahead, or just go, in traffic, or for the starting of a project
And a green run on the ski fields denotes the easiest run – just about my level!
Green with envy, yes, though I’m not sure why they picked green for envy
In England especially, green is a patch of grassy land, usually in the middle of a village
A green worker is one that is new to the job, and usually gets all the rotten jobs
Then there is the biggest money-spinner of all time: going green, which means eco-friendly.
I have only one question, why is it to go ‘green’ is to charge far more than normal
Oh, and by the way, political parties that are eco-centric are usually called the greens
And, these are the same people who chain themselves to trees, deterring bulldozers
The blue sea is really green, believe it or not!
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.
Here’s the thing…
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
Mrs Boggs has a gun and will use it
…
The sheriff was looking at me.
“Don’t you have a negotiator?”
“Tried. We have fifteen minutes before she starts shooting them.”
“Given the circumstances, surely there is a more simple solution.”
“She’s not in a position where we could neutralize the problem.”
I could see the scene in my mind. Benderby’s passion for privacy was going to be his undoing.
“Why me?”
“She wants the truth about her son’s death.”
“I wasn’t there when he was killed.”
“You were when they confessed.”
“So were you?”
“The recording was inadmissible evidence, a confession gained under duress.”
“Then it doesn’t matter what I say, the same argument applies.”
“Just tell her what she wants to hear and get the gun. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“And if she shoots Sam in the process?” Finally, my mother decided to speak.
“I don’t think she will, but we will take precautions.”
“I’m not going to change her mind, but if it saves her life, I’ll try.”
I didn’t see how the bulletproof vest was going to help if her aim was off, a very genuine possibility. It made me feel like I was overweight, and it restricted movement.
A large crowd had formed outside the venue, and it was hard to tell what they were thinking, other than this was yet another random act of gun violence.
The deputies cleared a path, and we went into the large room that was usually full of diners. People within a six-table radius had moved away, leaving Benderby, and Alex, sitting somewhat stultified, glancing in the direction where Elsie Boggs was.
She was not visible from where we were standing, yet it appeared she could see us.
“That’s far enough, Sheriff. Just send Sam here, and back off.
As the sheriff backed away, I walked slowly towards the table where I could now clearly see Benderby and Alex, and then I felt a shiver. His first wife, rarely seen in public, and daughter, Alex’s younger sister were also at the table. She had left him long before Benderby had embarked on his questionable ventures.
Wrong place, wrong time, and possible collateral damage.
I stopped about fifteen feet from both Elsie Boggs and the Benderby’s. The two women were visibly terrified.
Elsie Boggs said nothing, which surprised me after asking for me.
“If you want justice for your son, this is not going to achieve it. At least consider letting some of these people leave. They have nothing to do with this.”
“No. They’re witnesses.”
“To what exactly?”
“Alex’s confession.”
“It isn’t a confession if it’s under duress. It won’t be admissible in a court of law, and you know as well as I do that Alex would confess to anything if he believed it would save himself.”
“It’s not him he’s going to save.”
I heard once the effective range of a handgun was about twenty feet, and in the hands of an amateur far less. I was not sure if Mrs. Boggs knew how to use it, but she was certainly holding it steady, using both hands, like I’d seen on TV.
I suspect the weapon was Rico’s, because Boggs had shown me a gun he had found hidden away in the closet in the spare bedroom where Rico had been staying before being arrested.
I remembered it had a safety lock, but I couldn’t see it from where I was standing.
But the threat was real, she was aiming the gun at Alex’s sister. That was not going to help her case when this was over. It also brought into focus her state of mind, which was more than likely all over the place after losing her son.
I had to try, and talk her out of this course of action.
“This is not the way to get things done. It’s a matter for the police, and I’m sure they will investigate any claims you make.”
She shook her head. “The sheriff is in Benderby’s pocket. There will be no investigation. Their minds are already made up.”
She was right of course, and without any real assurances the sheriff was going to do anything, regret seemed little point to stop her.
“Look…”
She raised the gun towards the roof, over the heads of the Benderby’s, and shot a round into the ornate plasterwork, breaking it and showering them with plaster dust and normal dust.
It caused three of them to cough.
Two distinct points were resolved at that moment, the safety was off, and she could shoot. Would distance be the only factor?
“You’re running out of time, Alex.”
I saw a slight movement in what would have been her peripheral vision, more armed police moving into several more accessible places, one improving the firing line for a marksman to eliminate the problem.
Unfortunately, she saw it too, and shot another round in that direction, hitting a female police officer who was one of three with weapons drawn.
Mrs. Boggs situation just went from bad to worse.
“I told you all to leave,” she yelled, “so whatever happens now is on you.”
The other two officers had to hold their fire because returning fire might hit one of the Benderby’s. I hadn’t realized until then that she had also positioned herself so the Benderby’s became shields.
And if she shot at me, she would have to take the Benderby’s out of her sights, which might give a quick-thinking, or quick moving officer a chance of a shot.
This was where I should come up with some calming words, but it was clear that the last foray by the sheriff’s people had rattled her. The gun was getting more unsteady in her hands.
“Alex,” she said, a tinge of hysteria on her tone, and an edge that indicated time was running out for someone at that table, “You’ve got five seconds.”
Alex was not the bravest of souls, but, sitting at that table with his father, maybe he feared being a failure in front of him, than losing a sister.
He turned towards her, and said, “Go to hell.”
Five seconds later it was over.
Mrs. Boggs changed the target and shot Alex in the head, changed aim, and shot Benderby, and before either body hit the floor, three officers shot Mrs. Boggs.
The moment Alex spoke his words, I dropped to the floor, only registering what had happened after the five shots, and watching Mrs. Boggs collapse to the floor. No husband, no son, Rico in jail, she had nothing left to live for.
…
© Charles Heath 2020-2022
The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.
It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.
And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.
For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.
But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.
The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.
I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.
Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.
Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.
Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.
It was fear.
My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.
And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?
…
I was the archetypal nobody.
I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.
They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.
I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.
Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.
This conference was about countering that trend.
The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.
She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.
I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.
Then came the shot.
Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.
Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.
I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.
I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.
If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.
On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.
It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.
That was the good news.
On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.
Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.
I think death would have been preferable.
…
Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.
She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.
“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”
“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”
“What happens now?”
“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”
I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.
…
My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service. He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.
The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.
My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.
For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me. But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you. So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.
I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.” I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.
“It’s not. They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here. There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”
“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”
“That is why you have another visitor. I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first. I have come, basically to ask you for a favour. This situation has afforded us with an opportunity. We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”
Curious. What sort of opportunity was he talking about? Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that. “What sort of opportunity?”
“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do. They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country. I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him. I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were. And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done. But. There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”
I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal. I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”
His expression didn’t change. “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can. They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel. I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home. What do you say?”
There was only one thing I could say. Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?
“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex. Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”
“Good man.”
…
After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.
The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”
That was a relief.
While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.
She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.
The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”
“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”
She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.
“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”
She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”
I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.
But I was annoyed.
“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.
“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”
“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.
She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”
“Well, it was overkill.”
“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”
“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”
Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.
“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”
She nodded.
“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”
“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”
“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”
I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.
“You don’t think it was one of my men?”
“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”
“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”
I could see their dilemma.
“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”
That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”
She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.
I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.
“We need a signature on this document,” she said.
“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”
“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”
They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.
“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.
“I am unfortunately unavailable.”
I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”
She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”
“Then I’ll pencil you in?”
She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”
“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”
A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”
…
© Charles Heath 2015-2021
