The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything: red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

An excerpt from the book:

…

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone, one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much; it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there were several sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and a costly mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt, he would soon find out.

His mother and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time, he couldn’t help himself, and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation that ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days, he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, it literally made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head, trying to prevent a recurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact that his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall, cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile that Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticised trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

The Cinema of my Dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 49

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…

——

SS Standartenfuhrer Wilhelm Schmidt and his men were looking forward to some rest and recreation, after they completed one small but vitally important job for the Reichsfuhrer: retrieve a traitor named Meyer and bring him back to Berlin so an example could be made of him to deter others.

A simple job, several days at best, very much a holiday in itself after several long years in various campaigns.

He always wanted to visit Italy and particularly Tuscany, and they would be staying in a castle, with, he had been told, a very refined wine cellar.

He had also been told there was a possibility that the column might be attacked on its way to the castle, and he had all of his men on high alert. He was almost disappointed nothing happened. He didn’t think it would. Few resistance fighters would hardly go up against the might of a panzer, and his crack troops.

He’d said as much to the castle commander, a double agent by the name of Wallace, known as British to the British and German to the high command. Schmidt had no interest in double agents, or agents of any kind, along with the intelligence services or the Gestapo for that matter. He was here for the traitor and then gone.

They made it without incident, the main gates opened for their arrival, then closed after the panzer and trucks were parked inside.

Wallace was waiting for him.

Salutes, then, “No trouble along the way?”

“No. Should there be? I know we were warned, but all we saw were war-weary Italian women and children, and a few old men.”

“The resistance is out there, led by an Englishman by the name of Atherton. I wouldn’t underestimate him and the few resistance left.”

Schmidt thought Wallace looked rattled, a man at the end of his tether. He’d seen quite a few like him, too long at the front, jumping at shadows.

“It won’t be a problem. I’ll send out a squad of 10 and they’ll mop up anyone left. They’re probably hiding in the woods, or, if they saw the tank, shaking in their boots. Chances are they will have left if they had any sense.”

Wallace hated arrogance, and Schmidt had it in spades. There would be little point telling him that this wasn’t a battlefield, but guerilla warfare against an enemy on their home ground. The fact Jackerby had not come back, or Fernando and his men told him Atherton was picking them off, one by one, if they left the castle.

If Schmidt wanted to go wandering around outside, that was his choice. Wallace was staying inside and waiting until they mounted an attack. Or for them to realise it was going to be a stalemate. He was now no longer interested in Meyer, that was Schmidt’s problem.

Schmidt selected 9 soldiers and put his second in command in charge of them with very specific orders. If anything, other than one of their men moved, shoot it. He did not want prisoners.

The rest of the men were sent to the makeshift barracks, a building that was used as a chapel not far from where the tank and trucks were parked. The rest of the castle’s men were also there, except for those on guard duty on the ramparts, and in the cellars where there were entrances from outside.

Not that anyone could get through the iron gates that were currently locked. Atherton and whomever he had with him would not be gaining entrance to the castle from below, and those on the ramparts would pick them off long before they reached the main gate, or the walls.

At strategic points on the rampart, machine guns had been set up, and a box or two of hand grenades were available. Wallace was fairly confident there was nowhere where Atherton could gain access, despite his clandestine exploration of the castle when he first arrived.

Wallace personally checked the sentry points and alertness of the guards.

Then he went down to the cellar and the gate where the soldiers involved in what was now called ‘operation mop-up’ were waiting for darkness to fall before leaving.

Wallace came down to see them leave, not surprised by the buoyed spirits and camaraderie of men who had been working together for a long time. He envied them. With the sort of work he and the few members of his team did, there was no time for any bonding, and each lived with the fact that they could not really trust anyone, even those they worked with.

Then, in a matter of minutes, in almost silence, they were gone, and the gate was locked. With any luck, the area would be cleared of resistance and locked down in preparation for the arrival of Meyer. His handler would be captured and would inform them of the pipeline further up the chain of command, and then he could put an end to the traitors escaping.

With any luck, he might still get back to Germany as a hero.

——-

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself, as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters, Harry and Alison, other issues are driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact that he has a beautiful and desirable wife, his belief that she is the object of other men’s desires, and, in particular, his immediate superior’s.

Between observation, the less-than-honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, and she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, is that nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 50

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.

…

The afternoon and evening passed quickly, once again I found myself having to sift through a pile of outstanding orders that had finished up in the too hard basket for my morning shift counterpart.

There was no use complaining because it would fall on deaf ears and going over Alex’s head would only bring a pile of unwanted scorn on my head. At least it kept me busy, so the time passed quickly.

And in the midst of rummaging around at the back of the shelving in an older part of the warehouse, I’d unearthed an old laptop computer that was probably running a very old version of Windows, or perhaps not even that. It would keep until my next shift, so I buried it where no one else would accidentally find it, and clocked off.

Once again, I wasn’t going straight home. I rang my mother earlier when I knew she would be home before dinner to tell her I would not be home until late. In the end, I had decided to tell her a version of the truth, that I’d met a girl and was in the throes of trying to get to know her. I gave her the name Bethany, not one she would know, and said as much when she asked if she might know her.

I promised I’d bring her home if I thought things were moving in the right direction. She knew my track record with girls so didn’t proverbially hold her breath.

This time, leaving the warehouse I was on full alert, looking for the check shirt man, though I was not expecting him to be wearing the same clothes. I did assume that he knew I worked for the Benderby’s, and where, so he had that advantage.

So began a game of cat and mouse.

It took about an hour to cover the same distance it usually took fifteen minutes, but when I reached the straight stretch of road into the town from the factory site, he had to show himself, and once he did, it was a simple but lengthy task timewise, to lose him. In fact, my route was so convoluted, I nearly got lost myself.

Nadia was waiting, opening the door to the room that was shrouded in darkness. Both of us were dressed in black, I had changed into dark clothes when I came home at lunchtime. Once inside she only used a small light beside the bed, and we looked rather like shadows casting even more sinister shadows.

“I assume we’re going to the mall for something other than just a guided tour?”

I’d been thinking about it off and on, and I wasn’t really interested in looking at stuff she had found poking around in the wreckage as an alternative to being bored.

“I told you, I reckon there’s a torture chamber down there somewhere. The archaeologist is not the only chap the Benderby’s have shaken down.”

“A Cossatino or two?”

“There is a rumor, but that uncle won’t say for sure, otherwise he might find himself in hot water spilling his guts to the Benderby’s. We know someone did.”

“You do realize that it makes me think there’s a morbid side to you.”

“There’s more than that if you want to find out.”

There was something about her, in those close-fitting black clothes she was wearing, accentuating curves in places where they were normally lost in some mindless creation called Haute couture. I wondered, if only for a minute or so, whether she was deliberately trying to catch my attention.

“Perhaps later. I’m not sure whether getting too close to you might be bad for my health.”

Vince was always uppermost in my mind when I was with her. Even though I was a lot older and not the skinny weakling I had been in school, I didn’t think I could take him in a fight and win. Besides, Vince was the sort who always traveled with friends. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him alone. He, like Alex, was the typical bully.

She took a step closer and I could feel the warmth emanating from her.

“You’re close to me now.”

We were standing eye to eye, and it was hard to divert my eyes.

“You can’t tell me we don’t have a little chemistry going here,” she said, smiling.

A cat who ate the canary sort of smile.

“Don’t forget you’re a Cossatino, and a bad, bad girl. I could never take you home to my mother.”

“It‘s not your mother I would be trying to impress.”

Alright, enough. My heart had skipped a beat just thinking about what I could never have. It was wrong on so many levels.

“Are we going to talk, or are we going to get moving?” A tone that broke the moment. She could also have used the name Smidge to have exactly the same effect.

She sighed.

“Let’s go then before I change my mind.”

Interesting. The room had a back door. I wondered if she knew I was being followed.

…

What I Learned About Writing – From First Draft to Focused Masterpiece

From First Draft to Focused Masterpiece

Crossing the finish line of your first draft is a triumph. The blank page is no more, and your ideas are finally spilling out. Yet, beneath that satisfaction often lingers an unspoken truth: the work isn’t done. Now comes the equally critical (and often underrated) task: narrowing the target. This phase transforms an amorphous draft into a sharp, impactful piece that resonates deeply with its audience. Think of it as sculpting the raw marble of your thoughts into a statue with purpose. Let’s explore how to do this with intention and clarity.

The Power of the First Draft

Before diving into refinement, it’s important to honour the messy beauty of your first draft. It’s a “get it out” stage—where creativity flows unfiltered, and every idea, no matter how half-baked, is welcomed. But here’s the thing: first drafts are not meant to be final products. They’re blueprints, prototypes, or even “vessels of possibility.” The magic happens next, when you take a step back and ask, “What is this really trying to say?”

Step 1: Identify Your Core Message

The first step in narrowing your target is distilling your work down to its essence. Ask yourself:

What is the single most important takeaway?
What changes do I want the reader to experience?

Write this down in a single sentence. If your draft aims to persuade, what’s the one action you want your reader to take? If it’s a story, what’s the central theme or emotion you want to evoke? This core message becomes your compass during the editing phase.

Example:

Vague: “Climate change is a problem that affects us all, and we need to do something about it.”
Narrowed: “Rising ocean temperatures are accelerating coastal erosion—here’s how you can advocate for immediate policy change in your community.”

The narrowed version focuses on a specific cause (ocean temperatures), effect (coastal erosion), and a clear call to action (advocacy and policy).

Step 2: Cut What Doesn’t Serve the Core

Once you have clarity on your message, ruthlessly edit out anything that doesn’t amplify it. This includes:

Tangential anecdotes: A personal story might have been fun to write, but if it doesn’t tie back to your point, it’s a detour.
Jargon or fluff: Replace vague phrases like “a lot of people” with specific data or terms.
Redundant sections: Are two paragraphs exploring the same idea? Consolidate.

Pro Tip: Use the “kill your darlings” mantra, but with a twist. If a line makes you cringe but still feels essential, it might belong. The goal isn’t to erase creativity—it’s to eliminate clutter.

Step 3: Refine Your Audience Focus

Know your reader’s face. The more specific you are about your audience’s needs, the sharper your focus. Ask:

Who is most likely to engage with this?
What do they need to know, feel, or do?

If your draft is for a niche audience (e.g., organic farmers, tech startups, grieving parents), tailor your language, examples, and structure to speak directly to them. Narrowing your audience isn’t about exclusion—it’s about connection.

Example:
A post about healthy eating for adolescent athletes versus busy working parents will require fundamentally different angles, even if the topic is the same.

Step 4: Use Feedback to Sharpen the Edge

Once you’ve narrowed your draft, seek feedback. Ask your beta readers or editors:

“Is the main point clear?”
“Did anything feel off-topic or confusing?”
“Where did I lose you?”

Their honest responses will highlight where your focus is strong and areas that need tightening.

Conclusion: From Broad to Bold

Narrowing your target isn’t about stifling creativity—it’s about amplifying it. By focusing on one core message, one audience, and one action, you create writing that’s not just heard but felt. So, after your first draft, give yourself permission to dig deeper. Prune, polish, and focus until your work becomes a beacon of clarity.

Your Turn: Grab a pen and write your core message in one sentence. If you can’t sum up your draft in a tweet, keep refining.

Final Thought: A narrow target may seem limiting, but it’s the very thing that turns a sea of words into a sea change.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 204

Day 204 – The truth about imagination

…

The Paradox of Creativity: Why Truth is the Ultimate Source of Imagination

We’ve all heard the compliment—or perhaps received it ourselves: “Your imagination is incredible. How do you come up with this stuff?”

It’s usually said with a sense of awe, as if you’ve just pulled a rabbit out of an empty hat, or channelled a world entirely detached from reality. But as a writer, creator, or storyteller, that praise often lands with a strange, paradoxical weight.

Why? Because you know the secret: you didn’t make most of it up.

Every fantastical world, every eccentric character arc, and every gripping plot twist was tethered to something real. You didn’t invent the emotion; you observed it. You didn’t conjure the setting from thin air; you cobbled it together from the texture of a memory, a snippet of overheard dialogue on the subway, or a raw truth you lived through five years ago.

So, how can it be that you are praised for your imagination, when every line you write is based on a truth?

Let’s explore the beautiful, messy alchemy of writing, where reality transforms into myth, and why telling the truth is the secret superpower behind all great fiction.

1. The Misunderstanding of “Imagination”

To understand the paradox, we first have to redefine imagination. Culturally, we tend to view imagination as a purely generative force—the ability to conjure something ex nihilo (out of nothing). We think of it as pure fantasy, magic, or delusion.

However, the true root of imaginative writing isn’t invention; it’s synthesis.

As the acclaimed fantasy author Neil Gaiman once noted, writers take two things that have never been put together before and glue them together. But those “two things” are almost always harvested from lived experience.

You didn’t invent grief; you simply mapped it onto a dragon rider losing their companion.
You didn’t invent awkward first-date anxiety; you just gave that nervous tic to an interstellar diplomat.

When readers praise your “imagination,” they aren’t applauding your ability to hallucinate a universe from a vacuum. They are applauding your ability to perceive the world deeply enough to rearrange its pieces into a new mosaic.

2. Emotional Truth Beats Factual Accuracy

In creative writing, there is a massive difference between fact and truth.

Facts are rigid. They are the exact coordinates, dates, and objective sequences of events.
Truths are fluid, resonant, and universally felt.

You can write a story about a spaceship navigating a black hole (pure science fiction/imagination), but if the protagonist is paralysed by the fear of being unloved, every reader in the audience suddenly relates. The spaceship is made up; the terror of rejection is a biological and emotional truth.

Readers praise your imagination because the outer shell of your story is fantastical. But they stay, and they feel moved, because the engine running underneath is fueled by undeniable human truth. You used a lie (a made-up world) to tell the truth (how it feels to be human).

3. The Filter of Subjectivity: Why It Still Belongs to You

If every line is based on a truth, why doesn’t everyone write the same story? Why is your book unique while mine is different?

The answer lies in the prism of subjectivity.

No two people experience the same truth in the exact same way. Memory is notoriously unreliable; it is colored by our traumas, our biases, our joys, and our desires. When you take a real-life argument, a genuine heartbreak, or a flash of beauty you witnessed at a park, it passes through the unique lens of who you are.

By the time that truth makes it from your nervous system, through your subconscious, and onto the page, it has been refracted into something entirely new. You didn’t invent the clay, but you are the only sculptor who could have shaped it quite like that. The praise for your “imagination” is actually praise for your perspective.

4. Observation: The Writer’s Real Job

Great writers are rarely geniuses locked in ivory towers; they are professional eavesdroppers and relentless watchers.

To base every line on a truth requires you to pay attention to the mundane world. It means noticing:

The specific way a grieving person’s hands shake when they try to hold a coffee cup.
The defensive cadence in someone’s voice when they are lying.
The sudden, heavy silence that falls over a room when a secret is revealed.

When you translate these minute, authentic observations into your writing, readers are startled by how “accurate” your creations feel. They say, “How did you imagine characters so complex?” But the truth is, you didn’t imagine them—you simply paid closer attention to real people than most are willing to do.

Embracing the Paradox

So, the next time someone marvels at your boundless imagination, don’t rush to correct them and explain that your protagonist’s emotional breakdown was ripped straight from your Tuesday afternoon panic attack.

Accept the compliment.

Understand that what they are really saying is: “Thank you for taking the messy, confusing, often painful truths of our shared existence, wrapping them in wonder, and handing them back to me in a way I could finally understand.”

Imagination isn’t the opposite of truth; it is truth’s translator. And as a writer, your job is simply to keep your eyes open, tell the truth, and let the magic take care of itself.

What truth are you turning into a story today? Let us know in the comments below!

…

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from the eye socket to the mouth, and he was wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologised as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognise later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side, and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I went towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tyres.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high-powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed, and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.

Next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realised I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6^th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger was a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long, cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave through the back door if there were one.

Just in case.

…

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:

And the story:

…

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discreet distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road we were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places, just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three-thousand-foot fall down the mountainside.

Good thing then, I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner, we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication of where he had gone.

Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up. Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him. It’s just a matter of time.”

…

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”, available soon.