Category: Mystery

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta readers view

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

…

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

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.

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

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

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 61

Evan and Juliet are a team

…

It didn’t take long to sort out what we were going to do next.  Alfie, Francesca, and Cecelia were going to look at the remaining properties and find out where the Countess and Mrs Rodby were being held.  Once found, surveillance until I’d done my part.

I didn’t have to tell Cecelia what to do if Francesca caused any problems, but Alfie muttered under his breath, which I took to mean he didn’t like the idea of being a nursemaid.

I had my own problems to deal with.

Juliet and I were going to see Dicostini.  I was not sure how I was going to approach him, but I was hoping the fake countess would be there.

Alfie was surprised that I would take Juliet with me given her history, and the trouble she had caused us in Venice, but I had to admit that a lot of the trouble she got into wasn’t necessarily her fault.

Larry had used her brother as leverage so she would do his bidding.

Vittoria concocted a story that I almost believed myself, so why wouldn’t she want to believe her father might have been a count and not a footman or gardener.

After consulting with the briefing team back in London, they had a set of targets to investigate and left.

While we had been discussing tactics Juliet had gone to have a shower, clean the wound on her head properly and change into clean clothes.  If she hadn’t been the person I knew, and it was for the first time, she would have warranted a second look.

Not that I was interested in having second looks at any woman, including Cecelia, because I had to get my mind back in the game.

“I was listening, you know,” she said after the others had gone.

She picked up the notepad computer with the file of Dicostini and read it.  After five minutes she looked over at me, and said, “This guy is a five-star loser you know.  And five-star losers, when desperate, are very unpredictable.”

“That’s your psychoanalysis of him, is it?”

“It was one of the fields I studied in med school.  And,” she sighed, “that feels like an eternity ago.  Life was so much simpler then, eighteen hours shifts, no sleep, get legless drunk, turn up the next day for more of the same.”

“No shagging in the storeroom?”

“You’ve been watching too many TV shows.  I was not the promiscuous sort, that was the purview of some nurses.  By and large despite the insanity, people behaved.

“No crush on another doctor?”

“Again, TV stereotype, Evan.  And despite what you might think, not with the patients either.  Especially not with the patients because you can’t get emotionally invested and still do your job.  You were an exception, but as you are aware, I broke it off quickly before it got too far.  I’m sorry, but it should not have started in the first place.”

“Was that the start of your spiral?”

“No.  That came later, when one of my patients died, and I was blamed for it.  It wasn’t me.  I got another doctor to cover, but she didn’t stay for the full shift.  Then she lied and got one of the other interns to back her story.  I got suspended, and then it all went to hell in a handbasket.”

“What happened to her?”

“She killed three others before they decided enough was enough.  The truth eventually came out, but they didn’t reinstate me, or offer an apology.  Bastards.”

I could see why anything other than the life she had been handed would be better, but it seemed it just didn’t get any better.

“You don’t have any other dirty secrets waiting to come out of the woodwork, do you?”

“Not today.”

I don’t know whether that was good or bad, whether she was joking or not.

I drove to the Dicostini farm and went back to the surveillance position that Cecelia had set up previously.  I’d brought the sniper rifle and high-powered binoculars.  I gave the binoculars to Juliet.  It would not surprise me if she knew how to use the rifle.

“What are we doing?”

“Watching and waiting.  I want to see if the fake countess is in there, and I suspect this might take a while.  I’d get settled in for a long session.”

“Is this one of those famed stakeouts?  Where are the snacks and coffee?”

“TV stereotype.  There’s water in the bag.”

We took turns to watch the residents, Dicostini, his wife, his children, farm hands, people helping out in the house, and visitors, but not fake countess.

“You think she might have gone to where they’re holding the real one?”  Juliet asked the question I’d been asking myself.

“It’s possible.  It’s also possible she won’t show herself in daylight.”

We both heard the rustling at the same time, and she shrunk back further into the undergrowth.  Someone was coming, whether they were looking for us, or just taking a short cut to the road, or simply patrolling just in case.  I was surprised no one came to check that spot Cecelia had taken.  It was one of two places that had a clear view of the house, without anyone in the house being able to see us.

I got us, and moved silently to a position behind two trees and waited.  If the knew about this spot then they would have to walk past me.

A minute later a man appeared, one I hadn’t seen before.

He was trying not to disturb the undergrowth and was moving stealthily.  On the edge of the cleared patch, he spotted the rifle, and said, to himself, “I thought I saw a flash.”

Just as he raised his radio, I hit him as hard as I could with the gun, and thankfully he went down and didn’t move.

I quickly got the tape for a gag and rope to tie him before he regained consciousness.  He was big and would be hard to tackle in a fair fight.  Juliet came out to see what was happening.

“Put some tape over his mouth, but not his nose.”

“After hitting that hard, why would you care?”

She ripped off a length of tape and put it over his mouth.

“I don’t.  I didn’t want to upset you, being a doctor and everything.”

“Do I look like a doctor?”

“You will be one for as long as you live Juliet, whether they let you practise or not.”

She glared at me.

“And get eyes back on that house.  It’s getting dark soon and we don’t want to miss her if she’s there.

I tied him to the tree so he couldn’t escape, and reapplied the gag so he couldn’t make much noise.  If he told anyone what he was doing, it wouldn’t be long before someone came looking for him.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 62

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Things are about to get complicated…

I was straight back to the scenario where O’Connell was expendable after performing his role, and that Anna was cleaning up before leaving, or she had already gone.

O’Connell had no doubt told her about the Peasdale address, and the fact he’d told me, and she might have assumed that there would be a window of opportunity to get some belongings at her flat.

Would she be there?

I switched off the light, backtracked to the door, and then went back outside into the passage.  Jennifer appeared beside me.

“O’Connell’s in there, dead.  Shot in the head.”

“Your friend?”

I’m not sure how she came up with the designation, ‘Your Friend’, but after the shortened version of my time with Josephine, and the fact we had a hotel room together, could have inspired such a thought.

I went to her flat and listened at the door.

Nothing.  There was no light showing under the door, so this could be a fruitless exercise.  The same operation as before, Jennifer waited outside, and I would go in.  It didn’t take as long to pick her lock.  Practise.

I opened the door, the gun in hand, and went slowly into the room.

There was a glow from what might be a night light coming from the end of the passage where the bedroom was.

She was in, or she forgot to turn off the light.

It was also not so dark in this flat, with several pilot lights casting red, blue or green hues over the furniture and floor.  It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.

“Drop the gun, Sam.”

Josephine, now just discernible across the room, a gun of her own aimed at me.

I shot her.  Without hesitation.

She was taken utterly by surprise, dropping her own weapon and spinning sideways into the arm of the chair, lost balance and crashed down to the floor.

Jennifer was in the door and had it closed behind her, and switched on the light.  We were both blinded for a second, enough time for Josephine to reach for her weapon which hadn’t fallen very far from her and for Jennifer to shoot her gun hand.

I remembered in that instant, that Jennifer scored the highest in gun training.  She would be ‘deadly’ Maury had said.

“OK, enough, what the hell was that for?” Jo said, stretching out on the floor and holding the hand that Jennifer shot.

“You played me, Anna.”

“Operation necessity.  I had to know what you were up to.  O’Connell said you were going to be a problem.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Me?  No.  He was dead when I got here.  We were here just to get our away bags.  How did you guess?”

“Lucky.  I was going to the other flat, but I figured it was too new for O’Connell to probably tell you.  He may have been planning to double-cross you too.  It seems the way of things in this op.  Where are the USBs?”

“What makes you think I have them?”

“The fact you just said them, when all we knew for sure was there was only one. I assume you have one each for safety’s sake, and coming back here, one or other of you was going to pull a double cross.”

“Until someone else got another idea.  Right now, you have a window of opportunity, Sam.  A big payday, for the two of you.”

“Tempting, but no.  I’m not in this for the money.”

“Then you’re a fool.  No one does anything except line their own pockets.  If you give the USBs to your chief, what do you think they’re going to do?  O’Connell got five million, the person who gave him the money will get ten at the very least.  They’re not interested in saving the world, Sam.”

She was probably right.

I looked at Jennifer.  “Are you in this for the money, Jennifer?”

“I just want my old life back.”

“Then keep an eye on the door, we’ll be having visitors very soon.  Anyone who comes through it using a key, disarm them.  Don’t hesitate.”

Back to Anna.  “Where are they?  Bear in mind I have no qualms about shooting you until you do tell me, so make it easy on yourself, because the next thing I shoot at is your knees.”

A moment’s thought, and a shot into the wall that just missed her head, decided the matter.

“In the backpack pocket.”

She nodded her head in the direction of the backpack sitting on the kitchen bench.

I went over and in the third pocket I opened there were two USBs in a plastic bag.

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Destroy them.  The world doesn’t need any more pandemics any time soon.”  I went over to the microwave oven and put them in and set it running.

“You’re only delaying the inevitable.”

“We’ve got company,” Jennifer said.

“You know what to do.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 59

What story does it inspire?

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There’s nothing like a mass of ice to start thinking about the Titanic.

Come to think of it, there are so many sayings that use the Titanic as an expression of disaster, it’s impossible to imagine that an icescape could be a thing of beauty.

Of course, being stuck on the ice is probably the worst thing that could happen to you.

Firstly, if you were to fall overboard on a cruise in icy water you probably wouldn’t have much time before you froze to death.

If you were flying over the ice and the plane came down, and if you are that lucky you survived the plane crash, being exposed to the cold outside without adequate clothing will have the same effect.

If you decide that doing a stint as a scientist at one of the Antarctica scientific stations is something you would consider, perhaps a little practice in icy conditions and freezing cold would be required.

We visited the replica of the Mawson hut that was on Antarctica, when we were in Hobart last year, and it was interesting. Although rather primitive, it had a recording of the sounds of the wind and snow in the background and that would have driven me nuts after a day.

And yet, it must be interesting working down there.

Story wise though, Alistair McLean wrote the definitive story, Ice Station Zebra, one I suggest you read.

Going to church on Sunday

This is my least favored option for spending a Sunday morning, but having married a Catholic and agreeing to adopt Catholicism, it’s one of those things that has to be done on rare occasions, usually a child’s milestone.

Yes, we went through our children’s moments like baptism, first communion, and confirmation, or these days in a somewhat different order.  Then it came to the turn of our grandchildren and today the last child is making her first communion, and there will end our involvement till the last rites.

Hopefully.

Church to me doesn’t hold any real significance.  It doesn’t mean that I would debunk the idea of religion and I firmly believe that if anyone believes in God, then that’s their right.

And it seems there are a lot of believers.  I’m sitting in the church now and it is packed.  It might be that it’s a captive audience given that it’s a first communion for grade three students and others. but given the enthusiasm of the children involved, I’d say the church was about to get over a hundred new followers.

Of course, a lot depends on the enthusiasm and devoutness of the parents who may wish to spend their Sundays in a different manner, but I suspect there are many here who will continue their devoutness in some form or other.

As for me, sadly, I will continue to use the only day of the week it’s possible to sleep in.

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

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Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

In a word: will

Now that I’ve hit the age of 65, I now have to give some consideration to creating a will.

You know, that document that specifies which child gets what, or if you think any or all of them don’t deserve what’s left of the hard-earned millions, which cat or dog will inherit a fortune.

A will is both a reason for siblings or beneficiaries to kill to get a reward or the fact you have to make one so that the state doesn’t inherit your fortune.

This is only one use of the word.

Another might be that it’s possible to have something like the will to carry on.

Carry on what?

Life, a marriage, a business relationship.

Does it require will power, or is it a matter of where there’s a will there’s a way?

I will come over. I will turn up tomorrow.

In this sense, it is promoting futility.

Of course, seeing is believing.

And as a bit of self-serving advertising, I’m going to promote a new story, actually titled, The Will.

Inheritance can resolve monetary problems, and not only that, set one of the siblings up financially for life. All they have to do is wrest the family home from the dying fingers of a mother who had seen it all.

Into the mix comes the grandson, a man who sometimes is a son but mostly a grandson, someone who doesn’t fit in, who doesn’t want to follow family tradition, and who prefers to go to his grandmothers rather than going home to his family.

He is constantly appalled at his mother’s lack of respect for her mother and suddenly finds himself in the middle of a battle between his grandmother and her daughter, his mother, over the family estate.

Who will win?

That’s a question that will be answered when you read the book.