‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 22

More about my story

Sometimes it’s not so much about the main characters, it’s the extras, any one of which could steal the show…

In every story, TV series, and movie, there is always a character who sometimes inadvertently steals the show, or at the very least, every scene he or she is in.

It could be a cute dog.  I’ve seen a few of those.

I had a cat, his name was Chester, and he was a proverbial pain in the butt.  I still write him into stories because his antics were high jinks.  He could look at you, and you would swear you knew exactly what he was thinking, and it wasn’t complimentary.

Every now and then, I get the chance to add a character, generally someone I knew or saw, a cameo.

In this story, it’s the woman in white, though she gets to play a genuine role in the end, all the way through, she crops up at the least expected time to add a little humour and distraction for the main protagonist.

Just like the Inspector, Delacrat.  He doesn’t need to be there all the time; he just needs to be on the mind of the protagonist, making sure that he keeps his mind on the job.  A few mind games along the way help.

Then there’s Fitzherbert, an aver the top politician, not a man who has the refinement and learning of a university student, but a rough and tumble ex-union organiser who is more at home making noise rather than using diplomacy.

We have, in Australia, a comedian who died recently, but had created as one of the many caricatures of gregarious quintessential Australian characters, named Sir Les Patterson.  He was, to my mind, horrible, but he was more life-like than anyone could imagine.  That was Fitzherbert.

There are others, and they might get a mention later on.

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Sunday In New York

Holiday? What holiday?

There’s a reason why I can’t have a holiday.

You might think it’s because of the COVID 19 virus, and, probably that’s a good reason because it hasn’t gone away just yet, but I could just move into the motel down the road for a few days.

You know, a change is as good as a holiday!

But the real reason is right in front of me.

I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by any number of scraps of paper with more storylines, written excerpts, parts of stories, and a number of chapters of a work in progress.

Does this happen to anyone else?

The business of writing requires a talent to keep focused on one project, and silence all the other screaming voices in your head, pouring out their side of the story.

But it’s not working.

I try to be determined in my efforts to edit my current completed novel, after letting it ‘rest’ in my head for a few months.

I planned to have some time off, but all of those prisoners in my head started clamouring for attention.

On top of all of that, a story I started some time ago needs revising, another story I wrote this year of NANOWRIMO has come back to haunt me, and characters, well, they’re out in the waiting room, pacing up and down, ready to tell me their life stories.

And the real reason, that cursed A to Z story thing.  26 stories in 30 days, OMG!  Why did I choose to write stories and not another simple 26 word definitions?

Just as well I don’t have a day job, or nothing would get done.

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 57

What story does it inspire?

There is always a place for a romantic walk along the beach on a hot summer night.

At least we all like to think that. Usually, we are competing with hundreds of others and their dogs, some of whom seem to snarl at you, the dogs I mean, not their owners.

Hardly romantic, as it is in the movies. After all, they get the beach cleared of everyone and then it feels like you have the place to yourself.

But, is the beach the place for such a stroll. At night perhaps, or early morning.

I would prefer to go for a stroll in a park, like Central Park in New York, just large enough that you can get enough space to yourself, as well as walk for a long distance, and have a hope that you might see a movie star walking their dog, or just taking in the sunshine.

Unlike, if you were in London, hoping it would not be raining, or snowing, or both, or just simply freezing cold. That, of course, might be Hyde Park, a stroll around the Serpentine, but to be honest I would prefer going to Kew Gardens.

That’s the notion from seeing that photo of dusk at the beach, so many ideas, and not all of them about the sand, the sea, people, dogs, or conversation.

Then, perhaps there is another thought … a sea-based invasion, and just happening to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Just a thought…

Writing a book in 365 days – 164

Day 164

Writing exercise – who, what, where, when, and why?

There’s the hell of it. When the planets line up, it’s easy, but like mathematical equations, when you’re missing one basic element, a solution can be as far away as the moon, or, in this case, Pluto.

It was how this story stacked up, in the end, because it was not so much the clues, but those interpreting the clues and a very clever criminal that no one would ever have picked on first sight.

So much so that even when the perpetrator confessed, nobody believed them.

But…

I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day started like any other, sitting in the middle of the bull pen with twenty other journalists looking for that story that was going to win them a Pulitzer prize.

Of course, my chances were less than zero.  I’d let the story of the century slip through my fingers because I took a humanitarian stand to save the victim.  Someone else broke the story, and it was given a lecture and one more chance.

Then…

Like all investigations, great or small, it starts with the boss coming out of his office and yelling out a name.

“Curruthers?”

It was usually a raised voice so it could pierce through the hubbub of the pit, sometimes quiet because of the lack of participants, but today it was a full house, making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Today, he yelled, and instantly, the noise stopped.

Someone was for it, and that someone was Curruthers.

That someone was me.

I stood, but being five feet, something didn’t make much difference.

“Sir?”

“My office, now.”

Never keep an angry man waiting.  Since the boss was always angry, I all but ran.

“Shut the door.”

There was a difference between it and really for it.  The closed door…

I waited for the bollocking. I could see he was trying to find the words…

“The Spenser Building, a body in the penthouse, found by the Russian maid, stabbed a dozen, maybe more times, cops haven’t ruled out the lover, still there, blood on his hands, fresh, she was still alive when the maid found her, now deceased.  This has got sensation written all over it.  Daniels is the detective. You and her…get on it now.”

“Sir.”

I was going to say Detective Louisa Daniels and I had split up a year ago, but that would have ensured someone else got the story.  This was too good to pass up.

I was out the door before he could change his mind.

I arrived breathlessly at the front entrance to the Spenser Building at the same time as Detective Louisa Daniels, with her usual partner in crime, Detective Burns.  He had a first name, Oliver, but no one used it.

She was walking towards the front entrance where Gary, the front doorman, was stationed.  Ropes had been erected, and the police were there keeping the public back.

I was the public, in that moment, until Gary saw me arguing with a police officer and came over.  It stopped Louisa, who also turned to see what the commotion was about.

“He lives here, officer.”

The officer let it go and went back to his station.

I thanked him, and we headed back to the door.  Louisa stepped in front of me.  “Joseph.  I forgot you live here.”

“You’re here for the Eleanor Spencer murder.”

“Yes.”

Detective Burns came over. “Joseph? What are you doing here?”

“The editor sent me over to cover the story.”

“There’s nothing to cover.  We just got here,” he said.

“You can’t be here, Joe,” Louisa said.  “I thought you were covering the obits.  You certainly added a bit of life to their stories.”

She never did give me much credit as a journalist, even when I did as she’d asked and all but ruined my career.  It was basically the reason we broke up.

“I can help with this case.”

Detective Burns didn’t like me.  He had never liked me and had warned Louisa that I would betray her confidence.  I didn’t, but I suspected he had to another reporter, a rival reporter working for another newspaper.  He glared at me, “You’re a hack, Bateman.”

I wondered if Louisa remembered what I had told her about why I was living in the Spenser Building.  It was a long time ago, and she had always been preoccupied with becoming the best detective in the police department.

A measure of that was proved by her assignment to such a high-profile case.

She turned to Burns, “You go up and find out where forensics are, and if the medical examiner is on site.”

“You don’t think this fool knows anything?”

“Go.  I’ll be there directly.”  Back to me, she said, as we watched him go through the front entrance, “He thinks you told another reporter, but I knew Jaimie was playing him.  I think you did, too, but I didn’t believe for a minute it was you. There was nothing I could do.  I’m sorry.  In more ways than one.  Walk with me.”

We went into the building, heading for the elevator lobby.

If I remember correctly, and it was a moment when we were both a lot tipsy, a woman came to the front door, invited you to a gallery showing or some such, and when I asked who it was, you said it was your mother.”

“I might have said something silly like that.”

“I also remember seeing her in a magazine a week later with you in the background, and it was our victim, Mrs Spenser.  I also dismissed what you said because your name was Bateman, not Spenser.”

“That is true.”

“If you are who you say you are, then how did you get the name Bateman?”

“My adoptive parents, the Batemans.

“But if you are her child, how?”

“Born to a mother who got pregnant a year before her first marriage, out of wedlock, and sent to a foster home.  She is my mother.  Later, she spent a fortune to find me, then kept our secret.  However, that’s just grist to the mill.  You need to know that I was one of three people to see her alive.  There was a dinner party with eight guests, and when I left, there was only one other person, the lover.  I have information and want to help.”

“Is your apartment the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will look at the crime scene and then come and see you.  It will be strictly off the record.  OK. Oh, and if you killed her, you will feel the full weight of my wrath.”

“Fine.”

©  Charles Heath  2025

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 60

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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

Three a.m. is meant to be so quiet; you could hear your heart beating.

Ten to, all hell had broken loose when one of the conveyor belts broke, and a replacement was needed, and the engineers were on the clock.

Ten past, the hullabaloo had died down, and back at the desk, I was contemplating a long scotch to calm the nerves.  Drinking on the job was not condoned, but not unheard of.  I opened the drawer and looked at the bottle, then thought the better of it.

And, when I looked up, Nadia was standing in front of the desk.

She was as quiet as a ninja, and just as dangerous.

“Never a dull moment,” she said, dragging a chair over and sitting down.  “I got here a half hour ago and all hell was breaking loose.”

“Conveyor broke.  No one wants to see production stop or slide.  Too many questions.”

“Fixed?”

“Of course.”  I made a note to order a replacement.  Better to have two in store, just in case.

“How did you get in?”

Security was tight, not like it used to be, especially after what happened to me.

“I know the guards, they know I’m not a threat.”

I could beg to differ, but I was glad to see her.  “Did you know Alex was a caver?”

“A what?”

“One of those people who go scrambling through caves.”

“I doubt it.”

“He used the word spelunking.”

“Which is?”

“Exploring caves.”

“He’s no explorer, I bet he’s looking for the treasure.”

“And so has a million others before him.  I seriously doubt the treasure will be in a cave in the hills, which is where all the known caves are.  Of course, that doesn’t necessarily include the so-called underground river under the mall, but apparently isn’t.”

“You heard?”

“That the flooding was not necessarily the result of a flood of water from the mountains, yes.  A problem with the foundations, it has been suggested.”

“A fact Benderby is working overtime to cover up.”

Nadia seemed well informed.  I was guessing the Cossatino’s could see an opportunity to blackmail Benderby, if they had proof.  I wouldn’t put anything past them.

“You know something I don’t?”

“We always know something others don’t.”

“Have I got a dark secret?”

“That depends.” 

She smiled, and it worried me.

“Your mother and Joshua Benderby used to be very good friends when they were at school.”

Old news, well, not so old news, but if I hadn’t seen the flowers…

“What are you insinuating?”

“They had a fling before your mother realized what sort of a man he really was and picked your father instead.  But, from what I’m told, they were close, and there wasn’t a lot of time between the breakup and you coming along.”

Odd, but that was just the thought that entered my mind at the exact instant she said it.

“But, I look nothing like the Benderby’s.”

“Benderby didn’t look anything like his parents either, it’s a generational thing, so you might want to find a photo of his father and mother, you know, just to settle the nerves.  Or a DNA test.”

It was the last thing on my mind.  Imagine being a stepbrother to Alex.  Wouldn’t that get his nose out of joint, going from the only son and heir to sharing the mantle?  I was older than him, too, which gave me more of a claim on the fortune.

No.  Not a chance in the world.  There wouldn’t be enough money to assuage the horrors of that family.  It would be bad enough if they got together now, which wasn’t as unlikely as it sounded.  His wife had died, and he hadn’t remarried, or, for that matter, found someone else.  Yet.

“Have you come with any other news?”

“No.  Just a picnic basket.  I thought you might want a late, late supper.”

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Writing a book in 365 days – 164

Day 164

Writing exercise – who, what, where, when, and why?

There’s the hell of it. When the planets line up, it’s easy, but like mathematical equations, when you’re missing one basic element, a solution can be as far away as the moon, or, in this case, Pluto.

It was how this story stacked up, in the end, because it was not so much the clues, but those interpreting the clues and a very clever criminal that no one would ever have picked on first sight.

So much so that even when the perpetrator confessed, nobody believed them.

But…

I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day started like any other, sitting in the middle of the bull pen with twenty other journalists looking for that story that was going to win them a Pulitzer prize.

Of course, my chances were less than zero.  I’d let the story of the century slip through my fingers because I took a humanitarian stand to save the victim.  Someone else broke the story, and it was given a lecture and one more chance.

Then…

Like all investigations, great or small, it starts with the boss coming out of his office and yelling out a name.

“Curruthers?”

It was usually a raised voice so it could pierce through the hubbub of the pit, sometimes quiet because of the lack of participants, but today it was a full house, making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Today, he yelled, and instantly, the noise stopped.

Someone was for it, and that someone was Curruthers.

That someone was me.

I stood, but being five feet, something didn’t make much difference.

“Sir?”

“My office, now.”

Never keep an angry man waiting.  Since the boss was always angry, I all but ran.

“Shut the door.”

There was a difference between it and really for it.  The closed door…

I waited for the bollocking. I could see he was trying to find the words…

“The Spenser Building, a body in the penthouse, found by the Russian maid, stabbed a dozen, maybe more times, cops haven’t ruled out the lover, still there, blood on his hands, fresh, she was still alive when the maid found her, now deceased.  This has got sensation written all over it.  Daniels is the detective. You and her…get on it now.”

“Sir.”

I was going to say Detective Louisa Daniels and I had split up a year ago, but that would have ensured someone else got the story.  This was too good to pass up.

I was out the door before he could change his mind.

I arrived breathlessly at the front entrance to the Spenser Building at the same time as Detective Louisa Daniels, with her usual partner in crime, Detective Burns.  He had a first name, Oliver, but no one used it.

She was walking towards the front entrance where Gary, the front doorman, was stationed.  Ropes had been erected, and the police were there keeping the public back.

I was the public, in that moment, until Gary saw me arguing with a police officer and came over.  It stopped Louisa, who also turned to see what the commotion was about.

“He lives here, officer.”

The officer let it go and went back to his station.

I thanked him, and we headed back to the door.  Louisa stepped in front of me.  “Joseph.  I forgot you live here.”

“You’re here for the Eleanor Spencer murder.”

“Yes.”

Detective Burns came over. “Joseph? What are you doing here?”

“The editor sent me over to cover the story.”

“There’s nothing to cover.  We just got here,” he said.

“You can’t be here, Joe,” Louisa said.  “I thought you were covering the obits.  You certainly added a bit of life to their stories.”

She never did give me much credit as a journalist, even when I did as she’d asked and all but ruined my career.  It was basically the reason we broke up.

“I can help with this case.”

Detective Burns didn’t like me.  He had never liked me and had warned Louisa that I would betray her confidence.  I didn’t, but I suspected he had to another reporter, a rival reporter working for another newspaper.  He glared at me, “You’re a hack, Bateman.”

I wondered if Louisa remembered what I had told her about why I was living in the Spenser Building.  It was a long time ago, and she had always been preoccupied with becoming the best detective in the police department.

A measure of that was proved by her assignment to such a high-profile case.

She turned to Burns, “You go up and find out where forensics are, and if the medical examiner is on site.”

“You don’t think this fool knows anything?”

“Go.  I’ll be there directly.”  Back to me, she said, as we watched him go through the front entrance, “He thinks you told another reporter, but I knew Jaimie was playing him.  I think you did, too, but I didn’t believe for a minute it was you. There was nothing I could do.  I’m sorry.  In more ways than one.  Walk with me.”

We went into the building, heading for the elevator lobby.

If I remember correctly, and it was a moment when we were both a lot tipsy, a woman came to the front door, invited you to a gallery showing or some such, and when I asked who it was, you said it was your mother.”

“I might have said something silly like that.”

“I also remember seeing her in a magazine a week later with you in the background, and it was our victim, Mrs Spenser.  I also dismissed what you said because your name was Bateman, not Spenser.”

“That is true.”

“If you are who you say you are, then how did you get the name Bateman?”

“My adoptive parents, the Batemans.

“But if you are her child, how?”

“Born to a mother who got pregnant a year before her first marriage, out of wedlock, and sent to a foster home.  She is my mother.  Later, she spent a fortune to find me, then kept our secret.  However, that’s just grist to the mill.  You need to know that I was one of three people to see her alive.  There was a dinner party with eight guests, and when I left, there was only one other person, the lover.  I have information and want to help.”

“Is your apartment the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will look at the crime scene and then come and see you.  It will be strictly off the record.  OK. Oh, and if you killed her, you will feel the full weight of my wrath.”

“Fine.”

©  Charles Heath  2025

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

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John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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