The cinema of my dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 43

I’m off to Rome to see a lawyer

…

Before I went to Italy I called in on Anthony and his assistant Alessia and got them to give me a briefing on the mother of the man who had become and died the countess’s husband.

Along with a warning that the mother was not in the brief, and he was reluctant to share what information they had. I left thinking something had happened or changed, and Anthony had been told to respond only to specific questions; Rodby was trying to keep my attention on his orders.

The question burning at the back of my mind: what was Rodby hiding?

I also asked for a copy of the coroner’s report on the death of the count, and even before I got through the first paragraph, there was enough evidence to prove he had been murdered.

Did the countess get a copy of the report, or was that left in the hands of the family? I suspect the latter, because of one statement she made, the Count’s family handled all the ‘detail’s’. I was beginning to think that she was about to become a detail herself and be handled accordingly.

It was also clear that the Count’s mother, a countess herself, was the one who ruled with an iron fist, even before the count was dead. She had run the business. And now he had died, their cosy arrangement was about to be signed away into the hands of a woman who was not going to let the older countess run it.

That was probably for a reason, the old countess was doing stuff that she didn’t want anyone to know about. Had her son discovered the truth and she had him killed. At least I could discount Alessandro and Fabio. They were both the most unlikely assassins and if they had tried, they would have botched it. And I doubt either would have anything to do with killing their brother.

The briefing had a slim folder that contained several sheets of paper that outlined the nature of the Burkehardt businesses. It seemed the companies never made profits, which made it odd as to how the family members could live such extravagant lifestyles.

The old countess’s name was Anna, rather plain, I thought, and had been the daughter of a poor wine grower. His was not a large vineyard, but they were very good grapes and sought after by the bigger winemakers. She had grandiose ideas and had virtually blackmailed the man she married.

Of course, it wasn’t hard to see that the family were also making a few other distilled products. Without telling the government. But if you read between the lines, Anna wasn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen., and she had some very rough-and-tumble acquaintances, not the least of which had ties to the mafia.

I was going to create a splash, on both sides of the channel, when I landed in her drawing room.

My first stop when I arrived in Italy was to go and visit the countess’s private legal representative in Rome. I had asked Cecelia to get the name and address from the countess, and she texted the details as I got off the plane at the airport.

Cecelia also sent me a photo of Anna, at the house in Sorrento, along with both Alessandro and Fabio, who must have taken a flight the previous day. It seems their concern the countess was missing was not a priority.

I hated driving in Rome, so I left the car in a parking garage on the way to Sorrento on the outskirts of the city and took public transport. I had one of those back-of-neck sensations when I collected my bag off the carousel, and it was as I suspected, a man trying very hard to look like a fellow passenger watching me.

He passed me off to someone else after I collected the rental car, and drove to bus terminus out in the suburbs on the way to Sorrento. Whoever was tailing me in the car was very good, and I only saw them twice.

Rodby checking up, or someone else. I didn’t see Alfie, and after the last debacle, he may have been replaced, but whoever that was, they would be less conspicuous than my current minder.

I took the bus but wasn’t joined by anyone, but that didn’t mean they had lost sight of me. I checked and thought I’d made the car following the bus. These people were relentless. And there were a few of them, and whoever their boss was, he had deep pockets. Not Rodby then.

From the bus terminus, it was a short walk to the building that housed many lawyers. In England, they were called chambers. In Italy, they were called camere degli avvocati, or something like that.

I could speak almost fluent Italian because of Violetta, though she used to tease me over some of the word translations, and many a day was spent teaching me the language. Even so, I still didn’t always get it right, but these days I liked pretending I had only schoolboy Italian and see if people helped.

This was going to be one of those occasions, not because I had the time, but I had picked up another tail and they were very good. It added some interest to my day where otherwise it might have been boring. This time it was a woman, not much older than me, but not conspicuous and had I not been looking, would have missed her. She hadn’t entered the building yet, and if I wanted to draw her in, I might have to force her hand.

So I stood there, in front of the board, trying to make head or tail of the names, and descriptions on the board that listed the tenants of the building, and I pretended I was having difficulty. Perhaps looking confused was more of a help than a hindrance because it gave the girl that I assumed was following me the perfect excuse to stop and ask, in almost perfect English, “You are lost perhaps?”

“I am, and not perhaps.” I gave her the piece of paper with the avvocati’s name on it, and after a quick perusal of the board, she pointed him out.

“Fourth floor, I’m going there myself.”

We crossed to the elevator and waited with several other people who definitely looked like lawyers, barristers, or wealthy clients. My impression of the building with ornate marble on the floor and walls, was that only the rich could afford to work her and afford the services of them.

Motive, means, and opportunity – Episode 11

…

The visitors at the Bergman Residence

…

Bryson stood, just out of sight, and heard the door open and heard two voices, one of which was familiar.

Stacy Bergman. The other voice, male, was unfamiliar.

“Like I said,” she was saying, “the bastard had those photographs somewhere, and leaving this address lying around was his second mistake.”

“The first,” her companion asked?

“Cheating on me. But I should have realized he’s never given up that floozie from school, the one he said had got away. The one, he also said, he was not having an affair with.”

“What about the other six I found?”

“Well, what can I say. The man was a fool. You go upstairs, I’ll look around her, then we’ll both tackle the basement. What is that smell?”

“Treachery?”

That was greeted with silence, followed by steps trudging upstairs.

Bryson stepped out from behind the wall, gun pointed at Stacy Bergman, and said, “Conducting a little breaking and entering, are we?”

Predictably, she screamed.

Her companion came pounding back down the stairs and stopped when he saw Bryson with the gun. “You really don’t want to use that. We are not doing anything wrong here.”

“And you are?”

“Jim Davidson, Private Detective. I’m assisting Ms Hollingworth in an investigation into her husband’s activities.”

Stacy found her voice, “This is the detective I was telling you about. Be careful what you say.”

“Why would he have to be careful Mrs. Bergman? Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“No.”

“You mentioned some photographs when you came in. What photographs were they?”

He watched her look change from surprise to puzzlement to wary as she realized what she had said, not knowing he had been there. Now, it was a race to come up with an excuse that didn’t match the reality. Bergman had something on her too.

A few seconds of silence, and then she said, “He was supposed to be importing some crockery from England and was supposed to show me the supplier photographs. It’s a present for a friend for her wedding, and like always, he doesn’t follow through.”

“How do you know about this place?”

“I know everything about him.”

“Via the private detective? How long have you had him investigating Bergman?” He glared at Davison, who in turn looked at Mrs Bergman.

Bryson looked at Mrs Bergman, and said, “If you are considering telling me a lie, mars Bergman, I will have my assistant get a warrant from a judge to view all of the PI’s documents relating to your case. As it is,” he looked at Davidson, “I’m going to add you to the list of suspects, and my assistant will be interviewing you, sooner rather than later.”

“I had nothing to do with his demise.”

“That remains to be seen.” Back to Mrs Bergman, “Now, a truthful answer.”

“About a year.”

“That’s a long and expensive activity for someone who doesn’t have the funds. You do realize we are aware of your husband’s finances?”

“Any further questions will be answered with a lawyer’s presence, Detective.”

“Fine. Don’t leave the city. Unless you can prove that you have legal access to this residence, other than the key you’re holding in your hand, you will be charged with breaking and entering, and if not, for violating a crime scene.”

Bryson saw two uniformed officers arrive and park their car behind Davison’s. When they reached the doorway he said, “Take these two and escort them from the building. After that, make sure no one else comes in until the CSI team arrives. Good day, Mrs. Bergman. I will let you know when you are to report for another interview.

…

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 29

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, 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.

Chasing leads, maybe

Alone in the room, Herman returned. I hadn’t seen him leave, but he was a cat, and cats were adept at slinking around, quietly stalking their quarry. On the edge of that threshold between passage and living room, he was sitting, watching me.

“So, Herman. The stories you could tell, eh?”

It elicited a meow and a deadpan expression. No point in trying to read his mind, I’d probably finish up with a headache.

“Don’t suppose you could tell me where O’Connell’s secret hideout is?”

Another meow.

If he could talk no doubt he was saying that he wouldn’t tell me even if I tried to bribe him. I thought about it, but instead went over to the door and opened it about six inches.

“You can go now. It’s not safe, for man, woman or cat.”

Nothing this time.

“You’d better go before I change my mind.”

We were having a staring match.

Was that a nod? He stood and started walking towards the door. Perhaps he sensed I might close it just before he made it there. Then, in a flash, he was gone.

I shrugged, and followed him out, closing the door behind me.

He was fast. He was nowhere in sight. Places to go no doubt.

Like me.

Only I wasn’t quite sure where it was. I pulled out the piece of paper that was for a flat for sale, with several part words on it, ‘oak’ and underneath it, ‘Brom’.

It had to be part of the street name and a suburb. The ‘Brom was obviously Bromley, the other a part of the street address.

I needed to find an internet café and do some research. I also needed a new cell phone, but that could wait. The main problem was finding an internet café, once just about on every corner, but now, with everyone owning a smartphone, there were very few to be found.

It took an hour before I found one in a back street in an area where there were several low-cost hotels, the sort that backpackers stayed in.

Armed with coffee and a sandwich, I began the search, starting with the realtor, and found the listing was no longer available, that is, not on their internet site. It told me that the flat was taken up, possibly by O’Connell.

Next, I brought up a map application and put in the address, for information on both pieces of paper and ended up with Oakwood Avenue of Bromley Road, nearer to Beckenham than Bromley.

I had the flat number, now all I had to do was check it out.

Another search on the computer gave me the relative times, and a map to follow, by bus, train, and car. I would have to get my car, which would take about half an hour, then drive out to the address which would take a further half-hour.

The flat was on the ground floor, and the realtor’s brochure had the layout of the block, and where the flat was located. That it was on the ground floor and on a corner would make it easier to gain access without causing any trouble.

I would time my arrival for after dark so that I would go relatively unnoticed.

All I wanted was a cup of coffee

How can something so simple become so complicated and complex?

In New York, it seemed impossible to get exactly what you would like. The coffee there is driven by what the machine interprets you want, aside from the language constraints due to the fact that English (or American) comes in a zillion different flavours.

So, what do I like (you notice I don’t say ‘want’)

A double shot Latte with two sugars and half a shot of vanilla. That’s in a large cup.

As we all know coffee can come in a regular, large, or extra-large cup, but, hang on, these cup sizes sometimes have names, and you need to know what these names are.

My efforts of pointing to the cup size in New York often had horrendous consequences, when the cup piles were close together. Sometimes it was a double shot in a regular, and a single shot in an extra-large cup.

One even had the name benti, or bento, or something like that.

Being old and decrepit, my memory for cup sizes isn’t all that great, so using a name in one shop that doesn’t have that size, well, you get it.

It seems not only coffee makers in New York have a problem producing consistent coffee.

Perhaps, then that’s half the charm of drinking it, the fact that no cup is ever the same.

And, when an outlet gets it right, finally, they go and change the coffee bean supplier, and all of a sudden, it’s bitter, or it’s lighter, as coffee shops try to reduce their costs and maximise profits.

Six dollars is a lot of money for a cup of coffee unless of course, you have to feed that addiction in which case, you’ll have a cup at whatever the cost.

I need coffee right now, so its off te the cupboard to see what’s available.

Maccona instant, which is not bad

A Nespresso long black – ok, don’t get me started with Nespresso because they have numbers from 1 to 12, possibly more, recognising strengths, and I usually have a double shot using a 10 and a 12.

And, yes, they fool around with the type of beans they use because there seem to be inconsistencies in potency from time to time.

Then there’s coffee bags, much the same as tea bags, which produces and interestingly flavoured brew which I’m still trying to figure out. It tastes like coffee, but there’s something else there, like … paper?

I opt for an instant.

Yes, I needed a coffee after writing this.

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!

PIWalthJones1

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 was any number of 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 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 which 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, literally, it 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 re-occurrence. 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 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 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 romanticized 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.

…

‘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 there are other issues 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 he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

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, 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, nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 41

Who’s telling the truth?

…

After the three women left, I stretched out in one of the chairs and closed my eyes.

Cecelia had disappeared into one of the bedrooms, I suspect the one with the biggest bed and its own private bathroom, and I tried not to think about her. I tried not to think about Juliet either.

I heard Cecelia flop into the other chair opposite me a few minutes later. “They’re all lying in one way or another.”

I opened my eyes, hoping she hadn’t changed into something more ‘comfortable’, like in the movies.

“Welcome to the real world. I’m glad you played along. It was a bit of a limb we’re out on at the moment, and I’m sure Alfie, after bursting into the flat will be having kittens.”

“Can we trust any of those three?”

“You’d think the countess being a countess would be trustworthy.”

“But…”

“She does come from a class of people who are a law unto themselves. I don’t see her as a master criminal though, but she’s not telling the whole truth, just the parts she thinks we need to hear. It’s the same with everyone in this business. They try to anticipate our requirements.”

“I like the idea of being a bit player.”

“Never tell anyone who you really are. I find it helps to allay their fears and stops them from thinking you can save them from anything. First lesson I learned; I couldn’t save everyone.”

“Noted.”

“So, what do you think after hearing everything.”

“Anthony got some of it right, but his suppositions didn’t meet the facts on the ground.”

“Which is always the case. Sometimes a lot worse for us when we get there. We’re lucky this time we have a familiar face, Juliet. It buys us some credibility.”

“You think it’s the old woman or Alessandro trying to kill them, or someone else, or was that attack staged…”

It was a thought I had in passing too, as real as it appeared. If I thought too much about it, the fact was, just before the shooting started, we were both sitting ducks and he could have shot both of us dead.

A point to be noted and filed for later reference.

“Assuming it wasn’t, we have to get them over to Italy.”

“How?”

“How Larry got there. A small plane flying under the radar. If Rodby put you to work with me for a reason, it was probably to teach you all my tricks of the trade. You accumulate a lot of them as you progress, and don’t get killed. Moving secretly from place to place is a useful tool and you gather assets over time. I know a guy who knows a guy, and tomorrow, with the three women, you will go find him and take yourselves off to Italy. You will have two envelopes, the first the name of the pilot. The second, is an address of a safe house near Sorrento. Once they are safe, you will take up surveillance on the Sorrento Chateau, and the movements of the matriarch. After I’ve dealt with Rodby, I’ll be over to talk to her.”

“Don’t you think that’s dangerous, I mean, Rodby will be very angry.”

“Do you want to go see him?”

“No.”

“Then let me worry about him.”

“You sure he won’t lock you up and throw away the key?

“Not if he wants the countess.”