Looking for something to suit my mood.
I’ve been reading the headlines and it seems that nothing else is going on except Trump, so a plane crash, and residual fallout from the explosion in Beirut, if there was one, would be good.
All bad news unfortunately, so I need to find something uplifting.
There’s nothing like a walk in the park on a bright sunny day.
Is there?
What could possible happen?
Category: Thriller
‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
…
Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow
…
The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 23
What’s the Opera got to do with it?
…
I had hoped never to see Rodby again, and yet here I was in that oppressively warm wood polish-smelling office of his, sitting uncomfortably opposite him, a very large and clear desk between us.
In all the time I’d known him, and those visits to his office, there had never been anything on it. Not even a phone.
The last time I was in this position, to inform him of my retirement, I’d been reluctant to put the resignation envelope on the pristine surface.
Significantly, it was a month to the day after I left Larry’s mother’s house in Sorrento.
The day after I went with Cecilia to her audition, and she smashed it, getting the role from a rather astonished casting director, and director. He was calling it a possible break-out performance, in a whole different language that I didn’t understand.
That same night I found Juliet dining alone in the hotel restaurant and told her the good news, but her brother had already called her. We had dinner, and it could have been more, but there was that Cecilia thing in the back of her mind so we parted as friends.
And at a loose end, Venice no longer hold any significance for me, I moved back to London.
I should have gone to Paris. There, it would have been harder for Alfie to find me.
He had been giving me the ‘come back’ look, one that I had taken a long time to learn how to ignore.
Seeing he wasn’t making any impact, he said, “They found Larry.”
An enigmatic statement. Who found Larry?
“The Italian police recovered the body, in a little-used area of Lake Como. No signs of physical damage, not shot or stabbed, but apparently, he died of natural causes. We’re still waiting for a definitive coroner’s report. You never really elaborated on what happened at his mother’s house.”
My report was short and lacked detail, more notable for what I didn’t say rather than what I did.
“Nothing to tell. Brenda just told him his days of running the organization were over, she and Jaime Meyers had collaboratively taken over, and things would be different. I notice several other hard-line criminals have been taken off the streets since, so Inspector Crowley’s arrangement with her is working. A win-win situation. And you don’t have to deal with Larry anymore.”
“That’s the problem. If something is too good to be true, it generally is. I have to wonder what has replaced him.”
“I’m retired sir. No longer interested. Why am I here?”
I could see he had more, possibly to pique my interest, but just shrugged.
“Nothing of any importance. I thought you might want to know what happened to Larry. And Martha wants me to go to the opera tonight and she specifically asked me to ask you, and as you know she does not take no for an answer.”
I shrugged. He was right about his wife, a force of nature to be reckoned with. I had met her several times, and she had been intrigued with Violetta and had been devastated when she learned of her death.
“Then I guess I’d better dust off the monkey suit.”
“Good. I’ll text you where and when and send a driver to pick you up.”
© Charles Heath 2022
The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 25
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
Jan hailed a taxi and had it drop us off a block from her building. It was agreed that we would not just arrive out the front and trust to luck that everything would be fine.
I had a feeling that Nobbin would have come to the same conclusion I had, that it was possible the USB might be in the neighbor’s flat. I’m sure Josephine hadn’t thought of that possibility. Severin had, but I suspect he might not know of the cat.
Nor would Nobbin.
We did a circuit of the building before going in. There were no suspicious cars, nr anyone lurking in the shadows. If we had surveillance, it was really good, or there was none. I preferred to think the latter option was right. After all, neither Nobbin nor Severin knew exactly where I was.
Jan unlicked the front door and we went into the brightly lit foyer.
During the day there was a concierge sitting at the desk. At night, it was empty. The building manager couldn’t afford 24-hour security, beyond the bright lights, and camera in each quadrant recording the comings and goings of residents. I’m not sure how Josephine got in, but I would have like to have the time to go through the old footage to check on O’Connell in the past, and Josephine, if she came through the front door, recently.
I glanced at the monitor, at present on screen saver mode, then followed Jan to the elevator lobby.
She pressed the button to go up, and the doors to the left-hand elevator opened. We stepped in, she pressed the floor button, the doors closed, and we slowly went up.
It hesitated at the floor, jerked up about an inch or two, then a click signified it was level and the doors opened.
I could see her door from the elevator. As we got closer, I could see it was open, ajar by about half an inch. There was no tell-tale strip of light behind the opening so it could mean someone was in her flat searching by torchlight, or there was no one there.
After a minute waiting to see if there was a moving light somewhere in the flat, it remained dark.
Standing behind me, I could see she had pulled a gun out of her handbag and had it in one hand ready to use. She could have used it any time since we first met, but she hadn’t.
I pushed the door open slowly, and thankfully it didn’t make a creaking sound. Wide enough to walk in, I took a few tentative steps into the first room. There was little light, and my eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness.
I could feel her going past me, further into the room, and with the gun raised and in two hands to steady the shot. She took more steps, slowly towards the passage leading to her bedroom, I assumed, as it was a reverse copy of that next door, O’Connell’s.
There was no one in this part of the flat, and she had disappeared up the corridor and into her room. Nothing there either.
“Clear,” she called out.
I stepped back to close and lock the door. At the same time, she switched on the main room light and for a second it was almost blinding.
When my sight cleared, I could see the signs of a search, furniture tipped over, books dragged from the shelves, other items tossed on the floor, one of which was a vase, now broken into a number of pieces.
“Looks like they were in a hurry,” she said.
“Or frustrated.” I could see clear marks of an item that had been thrown against the wall and dented the plasterwork. The broken shards of the ornament were on the ground beneath the indentation.
I heard her sigh when she saw the broken pieces.
“Not the best way to treat a genuine Wedgewood antique.”
She disappeared into the bedroom again, and I could hear her calling the cat, Tibbles. Interesting name for a cat.
I didn’t hear it answer back. It was probably traumatized after the breaking and the smashing of crockery.
I had a quick look in places I thought the cat might hide, but it was not in any of them. And, oddly enough, no traces of cat hair. Usually, cats left fur wherever they lay down. At least one cat I knew did that.
She came back empty-handed.
“I think it’s done a runner,” she said. “He’s not in the usual place he hides, nor under the bed, or under the covers, as he sometimes does, usually when I’m trying to sleep.”
“Well, it was a good idea. We might have to search outside. The cat was allowed to go outside?”
“He’d escape, yes, but no. O’Connell thought if he got out, he’d get run over. It’s a reasonably busy road outside.”
“Better out there than in here, though. Open windows?”
She did a quick check, but none were open.
“Did O’Connell ever come in here?”
“Once or twice, but he only dropped in if he was going away to ask if I would look after the cat, or when he came back. Never further than the front door.”
“Knowing who is was, now, do you think he might have come in and hidden the USB in here?”
“He might, but there isn’t anywhere I could think he could put it.”
“But that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”
Both of us heard the scratching sound at the front door, not the sort made by a cat trying to get in, but by someone using a tool to unlock the door.
Someone was trying to break in.
© Charles Heath 2019-2020
A photograph from the inspirational bin – 20
Suburbia, yes, reddish sky at night, yes, but what else might it be?
For just a moment, close your eyes, toss away everything you might accept as normal, and then, after a minute, open them again, and look at the photo with a new perspective.
Imagine…
It took two days for the dust to settle, figuratively and literally.
We heard screaming jet fighters overhead, followed by multiple explosions, then nothing but smoke and ash. We assumed one of the jets had crashed.
Two days the media was saying it was an unfortunate accident.
On the third day, we discovered it was the result of multiple missile strikes on our power stations and oil refineries. The jets had arrived too late to stop the attack.
And we only found out because an Army officer who lived in our street came home to collect his family and told us to leave, go anywhere but stay in the city.
The ash in the air was going to get worse, the sun was going to disappear altogether, and, well, he didn’t stay long enough to tell us the rest, but already the air was almost unbreathable.
But the leaving was easy, just take what we could in the car. The problem was, everyone had the same idea, and by the time we reached the highway, it was a virtual carpark.
By then, it was day four.
That’s when the bombs started to fall.
It might not be an exact match for the photo, but that was the idea that came from it.
I’m sure there could be a far simpler and more pleasant story to be told.
I’d like to write a political thriller
But, I don’t understand politics.
The question is, do you really have to?
I mean all you have to do is read the papers and read between the lines. It doesn’t take much imagination to find something worth writing about
For instance,
How could it possibly happen that a leader of a very powerful country become a spy for another?
It doesn’t seem plausible, but is it possible?
It depends I’m guessing, on power and wealth, well, perhaps not so much the power, but it is true that money and wealth are great motivators.
How could it happen when the leader is in the public eye nearly all of the time? And even if that leader has closed-door conversations, which is doubtful he would be on his own, the red not really be an opportunity to sell out to the other side.
Even an exchange of gifts, like apartments or a dacha, wouldn’t be enough of an incentive, well, not for me anyway. But a clear path to investment in a rival country, maybe.
Perhaps then rather than becoming a spy, the leader could adopt a policy of appeasement.
We have history to tell us how well that works, and the fact giving concessions to another county only emboldens it to take advantage of apparent weakness, and then, hey presto, we have another war.
So…
What do we really have?
A lot of speculation and conjecture. It’s easy to construe what might be the truth from a set of circumstances and behavioral patterns of the individuals involved.
It could be likened to two cats circling each other in a cage before the fight begins.
The waters can be muddied by a constant stream of incendiary tweets which fire the readers’ imagination, all intended as a smoke screen, or feelers to see which was the wind is blowing.
Is that leader masterful and clever or is he a naive fool?
My political thriller might have a working title of,
‘Which Way Does The Wind Blow’
I don’t usually have a title for any of the books until after the first draft, or sometimes something might spring out as it’s being written.
But, for now, let’s sit back and see which way the wind is blowing.
But, I don’t understand politics.
The question is, do you really have to?
I mean all you have to do is read the papers and read between the lines. It doesn’t take much imagination to find something worth writing about
For instance,
How could it possibly happen that a leader of a very powerful country become a spy for another?
It doesn’t seem plausible, but is it possible?
It depends I’m guessing, on power and wealth, well, perhaps not so much the power, but it is true that money and wealth are great motivators.
How could it happen when the leader is in the public eye nearly all of the time? And even if that leader has closed-door conversations, which is doubtful he would be on his own, the red not really be an opportunity to sell out to the other side.
Even an exchange of gifts, like apartments or a dacha, wouldn’t be enough of an incentive, well, not for me anyway. But a clear path to investment in a rival country, maybe.
Perhaps then rather than becoming a spy, the leader could adopt a policy of appeasement.
We have history to tell us how well that works, and the fact giving concessions to another county only emboldens it to take advantage of apparent weakness, and then, hey presto, we have another war.
So…
What do we really have?
A lot of speculation and conjecture. It’s easy to construe what might be the truth from a set of circumstances and behavioral patterns of the individuals involved.
It could be likened to two cats circling each other in a cage before the fight begins.
The waters can be muddied by a constant stream of incendiary tweets which fire the readers’ imagination, all intended as a smoke screen, or feelers to see which was the wind is blowing.
Is that leader masterful and clever or is he a naive fool?
My political thriller might have a working title of,
‘Which Way Does The Wind Blow’
I don’t usually have a title for any of the books until after the first draft, or sometimes something might spring out as it’s being written.
But, for now, let’s sit back and see which way the wind is blowing.
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…
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
Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers
A story called “Mistaken Identity”
…
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
And a great idea for a story.
That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.
“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!
Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow
…
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 22
A very interesting dinner party
…
Larry saw them first, and from his stance, and expression, it looked to me like he had seen a ghost.
It was not a ghost, but two women, one easily identified as Cecilia in a khaki soldier uniform, with the sniper rifle over her shoulder, and another, and perhaps the more interesting of the two, Jaime.
I heard Larry mutter under his breath, “What the fuck is she doing here.”
Whilst I would not have used the same words, I did wonder why she was here.
They both stopped at the threshold of the patio. Curiously, the only two people not fazed by either presence seemed to be Brenda and Larry’s mother.
“I see the gang’s all here.” Jaime had a smile on her face like it was a party and she was late. She looked at me. “You can still surprise me. It was a good thing I turned up late otherwise you’re friend here might have had a problem.”
“I had them covered,” Cecilia said, a little defiant.
A close inspection showed Cecilia was rather disheveled and sporting a few abrasions. The question was who she had been scrapping with.
As I swiveled towards Larry, Jaime said, “the rest of your crew are feeling somewhat sorry for themselves, and, last I saw, are being taken away by the local police.”
Cecilia came over to stand next to me.
Larry asked, “What were you going to do with that weapon?”
“Shoot you if all else failed. I had the shot.”
“Let me guess. Jaime convinced you not to.”
“Only because she wants to do it herself. Fine with me, because I hate shooting people. Even scum like you.”
I was not sure if Larry was upset over being labeled scum, or if she had been prepared to shoot him. I was still trying to understand what was happening.
Brenda looked in the mother’s direction, “Can you take the children into the other room. We need some grownup time.”
Whilst none of them wanted to leave the room, curious at the turn of events, especially the son, they reluctantly joined the mother and went out of the room.
It took a minute, maybe a little longer to finally figure out the dynamic in the room. There had been several, I wouldn’t call them furtive but knowing, looks between Brenda and Jaime, not as if they were foes, but friends. The same could be said for Larry’s mother, and putting the pieces together I realized I had been used as a pawn in a plan to isolate Larry.
Although I didn’t think it was likely, it seemed to me that Jaime had made overtures to Larry rather than the other way around, gained his trust, got him to put his stuff in her warehouse, informed on him, and gotten herself raided so she had a degree of plausible deniability. That would give her the opportunity to shift the blame to Larry, earning him a place on the most wanted list, and being out of the country at the time was a bonus. Before all this, either Brenda or his mother had arranged for him to come and see her, thus effectively isolating him from his organization, and coincidentally more guilty.
So, what was the reason for me attending the interview, other than to reinforce Larry’s criminality, and use Rodby to fire up the local police? How could she know about Rodby … unless, of course, she had been speaking to Larry’s mother to whom I let slip was interested in her son.
Then the timing of all this happening was of interest because they could all have moved on this ten years ago right after Trevor’s untimely death, but, I guess, they had to wait until the inheritance came due. The death of Larry’s brother, and the upcoming distribution of his father’s assets, seemed to be the catalyst for what now appeared to be a bloodless coup.
And with Larry out of the way, it would all go the Brenda, or perhaps the mother. The terms of the will would make very interesting reading.
The next question was whether Jaime was taking over, with the consent of both the mother and daughter-in-law? Or was the daughter-in-law taking over from the incompetent son? Or would they all be running the operation together?
The questions were piling up.
“I can see this situation is somewhat perplexing for both you and Larry,” Brenda said to me.
“I’ve just been reading between the lines, and if it is what I think it is, then it’s well played.”
“You have nothing to fear from us,” Jaime said. “You, too, had a problem, and Christina wanted to do something for you after you helped her out of a tricky situation. Things will be different from now on, and you might be interested to know I made arrangements with the Detective Inspector as you suggested.”
I was watching Larry the whole time and he was definitely at a loss, not quite comprehending what was happening simply because to him it would be incomprehensible that women were capable of doing anything.
Brenda added, “Larry has been staggering from disaster to disaster, but there is only so much one can put up with before something had to be done. Jaime came to see me about a year ago and proposed a mutually advantageous merger, and that she would take care of Larry. We let him think he was running things but really, he hasn’t had a say in the business for about six months now. The old ways are no longer useful, violence only brings attention to our business, the attention we don’t need or want. Sorry Larry, but you are surplus to requirements.”
Larry had, over the course of the last few minutes looked both astonished, angry, about to unleash a torrent of abuse, and appearing to think twice about it. To be honest, I could not imagine what he was thinking.
But it did make his obsession of wanting to wreak vengeance on me a rather sorry footnote to a long and useless career in crime. I could almost want to believe his wife had sidelined him out of pity, but a practical person would say it was out of self-preservation. How he managed to keep out of jail was a minor miracle.
But it was true, he had been leading them down a very dangerous path, bringing unwanted attention to his own organization, and now, in the case of Jaime Meyers, others too. What I saw now was a new brand of criminality, and it was going to be a lot harder to deal with.
“This is a joke, of course,” he finally said. “Who put you up to it, tell me who it is, and I make him regret the day he was born.”
It was still inconceivable to him that Brenda could be smarter than him.
“And that, Larry, is exactly the reason you have to go.” It was a statement delivered by Jaime in a manner that sent shivers down my spine.
To me, she said, “as much as I would like you to stay and get to know you better, I think it’s time you and your friend left. The less you know about what happens next, the better for you. Just be happy in the knowledge that your problem will be dealt with, swiftly and permanently.”
“Then I can go back to retirement?”
“Definitely. I am sorry to hear about your recent loss. You can tell Juliet when you see her that her brother has been released, and she is no longer obligated to Larry. Tell her very few people get a second chance.”
“Indeed.” I looked at Cecilia.
“Let’s go. I’ve got an audition for that mercenary role tomorrow, and I think I know exactly how I’m going to play it.”
“Then until we meet again,” I said to Jaime.
“That is not very likely.”
“In my experience, never say never.”
© Charles Heath 2022
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 