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

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’.

Read an extract tomorrow.

An Invitation to Dinner

…

I did not go back to the hotel, but instead went home from the airport, half expecting to find Cecilia still there.

She wasn’t, but the lingering scent of her perfume hung in the air as a reminder.  I entered if it might stir up Violetta’s ghost because more than once I thought I heard her moving about the house.

It was, of course, my imagination, but just the same it was a slim possibility.  I guess talking to her even though she was not there didn’t help.

I had no intention of seeing or talking to Juliet lest she alerted Larry to my visit.  It needed to stay anonymous for it to be effective.

A shower, a change of clothes and into the anonymous car that looked like a million others on the road.

Oh, and a little deft driving to lose the car that followed me away from the garage.  The Frenchman was persistent, I’ll give him that.

Larry’s mother lived in a mansion overlooking the Mediterranean, and I’d spent a few afternoons on the patio sampling the energy and cheese of a country that knew how to excel in both.

When Violetta first got sick, we had been invited to stay for a few months and she had loved it.  It had made her feel better, but in the end, there was no beating cancer that was very aggressively attacking her.

Perhaps it was fitting she took her last breath in the place she loved so much.

I hadn’t been back since, and passing through the gates brought back a flood of sad memories and a tear or two.

Not enough to blur my sight, and take down the two guards Larry had lurking near the gate, supposedly in hiding, with a tranquilizer gun.

I dragged the bodies deeper into the hedgerow.  They wouldn’t be waking up for at least 12 hours, time enough to do what I had to.

It was a pleasant but invigoration walk up the hill keeping to the cover the garden provided until I stepped out just in front of the patio, and beyond the open doors the dining room where five people were seated.

“What, not waiting for the guest of honor?” I said, stepping out into full view of the diners.

Two men on the door turned swiftly and both were tranquilized before they could take a step.  I turned and looked over my shoulder at the site I thought Cecilia would take, then turned back to see both Larry and his mother out of their seats.

First observation, I didn’t know Larry had three children only two.  The son was a replica of him, the girls, both more than ten, were identical twins and like their mother.  Once again, I had to wonder why a woman like Brenda would be interested in a man like him.

“What are you doing here?” Larry growled, stopping short of approaching me, eyes on the tranquilizing gun.

The thought crossed my mind that I should just put him to sleep, taken away, to have a less civilized conversation, something he would understand.

“I invited him to dinner.  He is an old friend, and you know him as well as I do.”

Her eyes were on the bodyguards on the ground, and Larry, waiting for his reaction.  She came over and hugged me.  “So nice to see you again.”

“You were in London,” he said tonelessly.  It was a statement, not a question.

“Marvels of modern transport.  You should stop using leaking rowboats to come and go and embrace the jet age.  Sit down Larry, you’re making a scene in front of your family.”

“Who is he dear,” his wife asked as he threw himself back in the chair next to her.  The three children looked me over like they would a new toy, the son in particular, with a trademark scowl on his face.

“A policeman of sorts.”

“I didn’t know you were working with the police.”

It was an interesting statement, and if I didn’t know better, it seemed to me she was pushing a button.  The look she gave him was priceless.

“Perhaps you and the children should leave the table and let me sort this small problem out.”

“No dear.  I want to hear what he has to say.”

He turned to glare at her, a particularly dark expression, whether it was the result of my unexpected arrival or her defiance which I thought was brave under the circumstances, whatever the reason, it showed her to be vastly different from the description of her in the department’s files.

“I told you…”

“You do not raise your voice at me, or anyone, at the dinner table.  You also apparently have some explaining to do because when I asked you what happened to your brother, Trevor, you told me the police killed him.  I’m assuming that by police you mean in the form of our dining companion who just arrived.”

He looked surprised, no I would say that he was shocked.  “You seem remarkably well-informed about something you really know nothing about.”  He was showing remarkable restraint because I knew if it was anyone else, they’d be all but dead.

“I know that Trevor told you several times he wanted nothing to do with the business.  We used to spend time talking about what he wanted to do with his life and lament the fact you wouldn’t let him.  I know you coerced him into running that errand for you because he rang and told me, no asked me, to intervene on his behalf.  It seems he knew that there was a traitor in your organization, that he told you his suspicions, but you said it couldn’t possibly be that person.  Then when it all went, as he said, to hell in a handbasket, he called me to tell me what happened, and then called your mother, at the behest of your so-called police assassin, and she was talking to her when you arrived.  So, Larry, the key question here is, what did you do that took a brother who was alive when you arrived, to dead on arrival at the hospital?  You were there, so only you know what happened.”

“I did nothing.  He was alive when I put him in the ambulance.”

“Who went with him to the hospital?”

“Jimmy.”

“The person he told you was the traitor.  The person you said couldn’t possibly be one.  He didn’t go with Trevor to the drop-off, so how did he get there?”

I’ll be honest, I was fascinated, if not hanging on every word.  One nuance I did pick up on, was the way she spoke about Trevor told me they had more than just conversations.  Had Larry known that also?

“He was not a traitor.”

“And yet you have no explanation as to why he disappeared shortly after Trevor died.  Convenient, don’t you think?”

She sat there, face to face, with the man she had married twenty years before, then a relatively naive young woman who knew who he was, but not what he was to become.  She didn’t rate highly in the files simply because she purposely stayed out of the limelight, and distanced herself from the business, and Larry’s business associates.  I suspected it was to shield her children from the uglier side of the criminal world.  Now, I got the impression Larry was trying to induct his son into the business, although only 16, and she was not happy with it or with him.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”  Less bluster, it was odd to see Larry in a situation where he wasn’t in charge.

“You mean, for once in your life, you don’t have the lies at your fingertips.  Let’s leave that for the moment and move on to Jaime Meyers.”

Now he was truly shocked, like a man who just received an umpteen-volt jolt.

“How do you know…”  He turned and glared at me.

“Don’t look at me, Larry.  I haven’t told anyone about our conversation in London, as per the agreement I made with her.  I think you might want to consider the possibility that your wife is not the dumb blonde you tell your friends she is.”

A cat among the pigeons’ statement drew a very dark look from her.  “Trevor told me you called me a dumb blonde and I didn’t want to think that was true, but when Elaine told me she overheard Lorenzo talking to his friends using those exact words, I was disappointed.”

That was when Cecilia crashed the party.

© Charles Heath 2022

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes in is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the news reader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, murder of woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at that I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until an another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peep hole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff had identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near death experience, I thought I saw my mother, and thinking what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021