Category: Thriller

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the kindle version on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

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

The Cinema of my Dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 48

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…

——

One of the sentries came running into the church, out of breath and clearly agitated.

Blinky looked at him.  “What is it, man?”

“The reinforcements, sir.”

“Theirs or ours?”

“German.  Staff car, a panzer, and two trucks with soldiers.

He looked at me.  “That’s a little over the top, or have you been more of a pest than usual?”  He sighed.  “How many men are in the castle”

“Twenty-plus, but this is not unexpected, just a little sooner than I was told it might happen.  it simply means they know Meyer is coming.”

“This adds what, another twenty or thirty, and a tank.  I mean, seriously, a tank.  Why?”

“I think the target that we’re here to rescue is far more important than we’re being told.  If he’s part of the V2 rocket program or just rockets in general, what does that suggest to you?”

I had an idea, but I hadn’t really thought too much about it.  But somewhere in my subconscious there had been a movie, rather far-fetched when I saw it, Flash Gordon, a man who flies a rocket into outer space.

No one really believed it was possible, that it was akin to a modern-day fairy tale.  Could it be possible that this one man, Meyer, could make that fairy tale become true?

Was Hitler’s eventual plan to send rockets into space?  He had a chap called Von Braun, why would it matter about Meyer?  Perhaps he wasn’t willing to share this fantastic knowledge.

“You’re talking impossible stuff.  I’m guessing he knows where the rocket factories are, so we can bomb them.  I’d want to stop someone with that knowledge, at any cost.  I guess we’re now going to take out a panzer and kill a few more enemy soldiers.  It might be why we came with explosive.”

Why did it not surprise me that someone knew more than they were letting on?

“Where are they headed, Sarge?”

“The castle.”

“Then we’re going to have to move on them before they get out and about.  A panzer can do some serious damage.  They’ll no doubt park it in the castle walls, so we’re going to need a way in, and out.”

“Got just the man.  In the meantime, Sarge, follow them just to make sure they are going to the castle.”

“Sir.”

…

I searched the compound for Carlo but he had gone missing.  It didn’t take much to guess where he had gone.  I didn’t think he believed he could take on the whole German army on his own, but he would have heard about the new arrivals and gone to have a look where they ended up himself.

Since he knew the other entrances to the castle that none of us did. He would have much better access to the inside than any of us, and no doubt without the fear of being caught.

He was nowhere to be found, though one of Blinky’s soldiers said that he had seen Carlo leaving and thought it wise not to ask him where he was going.

It wasn’t until several hours later, as darkness fell, that both he and the soldier sent to follow the new arrivals, returned together.

Blinky called a conference, it was time to make a plan of attack.

The soldier reported the new arrivals had gone to the castle, in the main gate, and where to beyond that he couldn’t tell.  They closed the gate, and he wasn’t following them in.

Carlo had more information because he had managed to get inside.

He’d even drawn a rough map of the castle and surrounding grounds.  There were a series of lines drawn on that map, and it turned out, Carlo said, these were the drainage tunnels under the castle.

I was surprised to see that the tunnel I had tried to escape in however many days ago that was, was part of that drainage system.

As much as I was equally surprised that the drainage tunnels were big enough to have men walking in, and that they were a much more efficient manner to travel within the castle, via under the castle, useful no doubt in times of battles between the warring Italian cities.

The map also showed four underground entrances, three of which I knew about, the other I should have guessed because they would not have left one direction without an exit.  The reason why no one knew about it was because it looked like the tunnel had collapsed and blocked the way.

That, Carlo said, was just an illusion.

That was going t be our way in.

Our force was small, five soldiers, myself, Enrico and Carlo, and two Resistance defectors.  10 against fifty battle-hardened soldiers.  Of course, Carlo being Carlo said that would not be a problem,. A statement I took with a grain of salt until he said, “We have the means to even the odds.”

He had our undivided attention.

“We use the drains to create a diversion.  The fools have parked their tank and trucks over the drains.  You have brought explosives with timers?”  Carlo looked at Blinky.

“We did.  It was an afterthought.  Thompson thought you might find a use for them.”

“Good.  You have an expert?”

One of the soldiers, Corporal Spellman, put his hand up.  “Tell me where to put them and I’ll make them go boom.”

“You come with me now,” Carlo said to Spellman. “We come back in an hour, maybe a little more, so be ready to leave.”

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 31

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

 

Was it too late to admit that I was way in over my head?

Of course, it should not come as a surprise that Jan would know of his alter ego if she was the friend she said she was.  Her name was on that scrap of paper with part of the address, and I should have guessed.

Again, my lack of knowledge and training was letting me down.

Now it seemed I had both Severin and Maury, Nobbin and Josephine, and Jan all working against me.

He had more enemies that I did, which begged the question, what the hell was he in to?  What could he possibly have found that was so damaging?

Perhaps I’d find that out if or when I found the missing USB drive.

In the meantime, I had to get back to the hotel before Jan did and try and keep a straight face.

But just as I started to put the seat belt on, another figure was walking from the road towards the front door.  A man, tall, with a purposeful stride.  

The light was still on so I would get to see who it was once he reached the door.  Then I saw the front door open, and Jan standing in it.  A second later I saw the face, just as he passed through the doorway and the door shut.

Severin.

She had lied.  So, why was it making me so angry?

I should have realized the whole Maury thing was a setup.  She hadn’t called her office, she had called Severin, and he can’t have been far away to get there in the time he had.

So, why didn’t he drag me off?

Easy.  So I would see the need to keep working with Jan, and in doing so, when I found the USB I’d tell her, and the next minute I’d get whacked over the head, and lose it.

Damn.

I was being played like a finely tuned fiddle.

But at least I knew about the car and had removed any evidence and the letters that were left on the ground inside the door.  It was something, and she would not find anything to help her, even if she knew he had a car.  It meant I was one step ahead of her.

After thanking a last look at the block, I left.  Better to find somewhere else to stay, just for tonight, and then go back to the hotel in Charing Cross and see if she returned.

I found a small hotel just off Bromley Road, a short distance down Avondale Road.  Out of the way and unassuming, with car parking that couldn’t be seen from the main road.  The late hour raised an eyebrow, but I used the excuse of getting in late from the airport.  After all, it was 02:30 in the morning and I was surprised there was anyone available on the front counter.

He gave me a room tucked away in a corner where there was only one entrance, and I could see anyone coming.  I wasn’t expecting anything, but just in case I had checked the car for a tracker.

None that I could find.

I needed sleep, but lying there staring at the ceiling, I replayed the arrival of Jan at the flat, followed by Severin.  It was a reminder that I should not believe or trust anyone.

It reminded me of the words of one of the instructors who said, one morning, quite abruptly, that we were about to become the loneliest people in the world.  If we trusted anyone, even if they were from our own side, it could mean one thing and one thing only.  Death.

We could not and should not trust anyone.

We should not believe a word of anything anyone tells us.

We should not recruit anyone from outside the service because unless they could be fully vetted, they could be your undoing.

We could not have friends, and certainly no romantic interests otherwise they would be used as leverage against us.

It was the worse hour lecture we’d been given, and the instructor had told us he had left the best till last.  It was time to decide whether we wanted to go on or bail.  Several had.

I didn’t think, then, it would be a problem.

Now, I was beginning to think otherwise.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

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

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying.  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 47

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…

——

Johannesen went to find Wallace.  He had seen Jackerby leave the castle alone, which couldn’t be a good thing.  He had also noticed most of the Resistance members had gone too and had considered going back to the dungeons,

If he had been picking team members, Jackerby would not have been one of them.  He might act British and speak perfect British English, but he was a Nazi at heart, perhaps more Nazi than the Nazis’

It was not unsurprising.  The file Wallace had on him along with one for all of them, wasn’t exactly describing a life of roses.  His grandparents were German, and the British had killed them during the first world war.  There was no doubting he had based his whole life on one day avenging them, and this war had given him the opportunity.

To be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Johannesen guessed that was an apt description of him.  He was a devoted follower of Mosley and the English Fascists, openly supporting Hitler until it came to choosing a side.  That was easy, become part of a fifth column, Worthing from within.

And when the Reich became the all-powerful country when they won the war, there would be a position for him, a war hero.

Losing the war hadn’t figured in the story, but despite the successes, there were more failures, and tactical errors, like trying to invade Russia, and he could see that it was going to be the reason Germany lost.  Superior weapons were not going to staunch the losses, and it was only a matter of time.

The time he would use to figure out how not to get shot as a spy and somehow get back on the other side.

But, not today.

Wallace was trying a new wine, have the same thirst for wine, but not as swill as those Resistance members like Leonardo, a deep-colored red.

“You should try a glass, Johannes.  It’s an exceptional vintage.”  He picked up the bottle and looked at the label, then cleaning the dust off the label, said, “1907 no less.  Bastards never sold any of this to us to try.  We should liberate the cellar, and share it with our compatriots after the war.  At a price, of course.”

Like all the soldiers he’d met along the way, always looking to make a profit.  Goering and Hitler steal all the paintings, they were talking about the wine.  What did the people finish up with?

“Not really a red man, sir.”

“That’s because you’ve never had one like this.”

“Why not.”

Wallace poured him a glass.

Johannesen sipped it.  Wallace was right, it was better than any other he had tasted, not that he could really remember the last time he had the opportunity.

“It is quite good, sir.”

“It is.  You know Jackerby says you are a double agent, which is pretty rich coming from him.  Strictly speaking, if wouldn’t be a double agent, but a triple agent, if that was the case.  You’re not, are you?”

The smile on Wallace’s face didn’t extend to the eyes.  He was not amused, or annoyed.

Just fishing.

“That’s the problem with our situation.  We’ve been lying to everyone for so long, that it’s hard t tell what is the truth and what isn’t.  At the moment, the British don’t know where my allegiances lie, they think I’m the sleeper in this group, and Atherton, well, he’s not sure if that’s the case or not.  No doubt Jackerby told you about my trip to the dungeons to get the woman to talk.  Jackerby offers the big stick and that isn’t going to work on these people.  She’ll die before she gives up any secrets.  They all will.  And by all accounts that breute Leonardo was executing her compatriots in front of her to make her talk, and all they are is dead, and we’re no closer to anything.  What do you think I am?”

“Clever.  But that isn’t going to be my problem in,” he looked at his watch, “two hours.  We have a new commander, and a few more people arriving to weed out this elusive Atherton and the few resistance that’s left.  People higher than me want Meyer returned to Germany.  Whatever you are, Johannesen, you might have to plead your case to someone else far less understanding.”  He stood.  “Enjoy the wine.  It might be your last.”

Reading between the lines, Johannesen got the impression Wallace no longer cared what happened.  For all of them, it had been a long war, and it was dragging on with no success in sight.

And it was becoming abundantly clear he picked the wrong side.  Now, all that was going to happen was that he would end up in the crossfire.  Perhaps he had known all along that the German notion that no one could ever be trusted, that everyone should be treated as a traitor first, was going to be the death of all of them.

He had no doubt the new arrivals would be Waffen SS, battle-hardened, and sent on this mission as a sort of holiday.  They would find Atherton and the remnants very quickly and snuff out a problem Jackerby couldn’t.

Or, if Jackerby knew the Waffen SS was coming, had he left, knowing his loyalties would be called into question.  Pure German soldiers versus double agents, Johannesen knew who’d he believe first.

For the first time, Johannesen knew he was not going to see the end of this war, or that Germany had any hope of winning.

He needed a plan of escape, and that woman in the dungeons was the only one who could help him.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 30

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

 

Collecting the car was easy because it was not kept near my flat.  I could not afford to park nearby, and couldn’t get a permit to park on the street.  I had cursed my bad luck at the time, but now it was very useful.

I spend a few hours resting in the car, stopping along the way at a park, and then, well past nightfall, I drove to the block in Oakwood Avenue, easily recognizable from the exterior photo also provided by the realtor.

Twice around the block, I stopped around the corner, past the block, and noted that I could walk back and then take cover from the trees and shrubs growing in front of, and around the building.  To reach the right flat, I would have to pass down the inner side towards the rear where, hopefully, there might be a door.

Otherwise, it would have to be the hard way.

At 00:45, I left the car, and walked back to the block, keeping an eye out form people walking, or looking out their windows on either side of the street.  Then, satisfied I hadn’t been seen, I ducked through the trees and quickly walked the distance from the front to the side where I stopped and waited.  After a few minutes, and nothing had stirred, I started down the side of the building.

Several flats had lights on, but the curtains were drawn.  Being the ground floor, I doubted whether those curtains would be open at night.  It didn’t take long to be alongside the flat in question.

It was in total darkness, and the curtains had been drawn.

First problem.  There was no back door.  The traditional entry point would be the front door, and no doubt there was a communal back door as well.  Next, I checked the windows, and those that I could see were complete glass and non-opening.  Worse still they had a metal grilled across them to deter thieves.

Near the corner, leading to the rear of the building was a window, higher up and ajar.  By its location, I guessed this was the bathroom or the toilet.  I was hoping for the former.

It took a few minutes to unlatch the window and several more to scramble up the wall, and it through the window opening, which wasn’t much wider than me.  I had to be careful not to drop any of the bottles on the inner ledge.

Once down of the other side, inside the room, it was a narrow bathroom, without a bath, and almost impossible to see.  I fixed the window and put everything back on the ledge, just in case someone did a circuit of the building at a security measure.

Once inside, and after one in the morning, little stirred.

I could just faintly hear the flat owners above, hardly enough noise to be concerned about, and bringing a thought; shouldn’t they be asleep like everyone else.

It was certainly a quiet neighborhood.

I brought a small torch from the car with me and sparingly used it to find my way around.  When my eyes got used to the semi-darkness, I found that the flow from small lights of appliances adequately lit the rooms.

It had two bedrooms, one empty and being used as a storeroom, a lounge room, a dining area, and the bathroom, and kitchen area.  It was big enough for a couple, or even a couple with one child.

Inside what I assumed was the front door, I found several letters shoved under the door.  They were addressed to Mr. Adam Quinley.

I hoped that I’d not made a mistake and broken into a flat belonging to another person.  O’Connell didn’t see to me to be a Quinley, because it was an unusual name.

The dates on the letters went back a week and told me whoever the flat belonged to, they hadn’t visited it for a while.  I went back to the lounge room and over to a desk.  There were the familiar cords leading to no computer, but there was a printer.  It meant he had a laptop he carried with him.

A laptop that no one had found.  It suggested to me that he had it somewhere near him, perhaps in a car, which may be still parked in a garage, or parking station somewhere.

I searched through the neat pile of documents on the desk, and in a folder marked ‘Accounts’ and found one for the car registration, in the name of Quigley.  I noted the registration and type of car, and just in case I forgot it, folded the piece of paper and put it in my pocket.  It would be the subject of my next search if nothing showed up.

The next half hour I made a thorough search of the flat and found nothing of use.  I checked for all the spots he might have hidden the USB, but it was not there.  He had kept it somewhere else.

Done, I left the flat by the front door, and for good measure, checked his mailbox, outside, and found a number of letters.  I took them and would look at them back in the car.  Just as I made the tree line to walk back, a car stopped outside the building.

The door opened and I watched the driver get out of the car, stop and look up and down the street, then walk towards the front door,

By chance, the occupant of the flat above the door switched on a light in the room which, uncurtained, spilled out to shed light on the person now at the front entrance.

I recognized her immediately, just before the light was switched off and darkness took over.

It was Jan.

 

© Charles Heath 2020