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

I’m off to Rome to see a lawyer

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: It’s dark, it’s late, it’s raining…

Yes, it’s dark and late at night on this side of the world, and I’m guessing where you are, it’s probably winter, the sun’s disappeared, the day is freezing cold, and you’re having a hard time keeping warm.

Here, in the so-called land down under, which surprisingly a lot of people from the other side of the world do not know about, it is wet and cool, where it should be sunny and hot as well as humid.

Now, hang on, that can’t be true; others don’t know about us, because we all know the world is round and there has to be something or somewhere opposite.  I know that north we have China, and Europe, and further away, the United States.

Been to China, Europe and the United States, so I know you’re all there, somewhere.

And, as you can see, the rain and the cold have amped up the boredom factor and pushed me to do anything other than writing.  I have three jobs I’m supposed to be doing,

  1. Editing the second Walthenson PI, a Private Detective novel
  2. Writing two episodes of a serial story about surveillance going wrong, and
  3. Finishing off some new travel blog posts

None of them is appealing to me at the moment.

Instead, I find myself looking at what is shown on Winter TV in the US, one of which is reruns of Snowpiercer and is suitably cold.  It’s also complicated, and sometimes a little hard to follow, which means it takes two viewings to understand what’s going on.  It will be interesting to see where series three leads us … and I’m hoping Melanie will be back

Fascinating.

Then there are several of my favourites, FBI, The Rookie, a show called The Equaliser, a new version of an old TV show I used to watch many years ago.  Another will be the next series of Bridgerton, which was odd but interesting since we like those Jane Austen-like programs.  Now, hopefully, there will be another series of Miss Scarlett and the Duke, set in Victorian England.

And as for the blacklist, since Liz left, it had gone downhill … let’s hope they find something to lift it, like Liz’s evil twin sister!  Perhaps wisely, they wrapped it up, and it’s over.

There’s more, but I’d better get back to work.

What I learned about writing – Watching everyday life pass by

My writing needs that outside world that is rich in characters, scenery, objects, and language. To sit at a table in an ordinary coffee shop is to observe the tapestries of life unfold before you.

…

Just the other night, I was sitting in a restaurant, rather pricey too, and it was packed. Had I not been a guest, would I have gone? Possibly, but at the prices for the menu items, as amazing as they sounded, it would have used up six months of my allowance for dining out.

It’s not the first time I have been to such a place, and I’ll be honest, I love these sorts of dining establishments, and the food, by and large, is absolutely delicious.

But there is another reason why these places hold such an interest for me. It’s the people who also go there, from those who can afford it to those who cannot, for those who want to impress, and for those who want to show they belong there, even though in a sense they do not.

In a sense, I did not belong, but in another, I know what is good and what is not, I know what goes with what, and I know that you don’t go there and look at the prices. You know there is not going to be any change out of a thousand dollars, and that’s before you look at a half-decent Cabernet.

But I can spot the people who don’t belong. I can see the people who do, but are not graceful with it, and I see the people who belong and are graceful and polite.

And then there are the people who pretend they belong and are just plain horrible. These are the people one often sees overseas who believe they are superior to those who live there. It’s something I can never understand.

But I digress…

Quite a few characters are born out of my dining companions. Like the other night. The table across from me was attended by six university types, who looked to be lecturers, tutors, and family. There was the Queen Bee, the convenor, the one who sat while others deferred to her, and the hierarchy was very clear. She smiled, everyone relaxed, she perused the menu, everyone paused and deferred, the wine was her selection, where a suggestion was not to be debated, but a nod with ‘good choice’ was the response.

It simply made me glad I never have much to do with university types.

The table on the right side had three people who studied the menu intently. it was a dead giveaway that the cheap[est selections, which were not cheap, were the means by which they could say they dined there, and take the kudos from it.

They were polite, spoke quietly, enjoyed the food and the atmosphere, and were polite and accepted the very discreet assistance from the wait staff.

I suspect the wait staff have experienced all manner of diners, and we were lucky the more brash and annoying were not there that night.

Our waitress was French, with a voice that could melt ice, and had I been in a more flippant mood, I would have asked her to recite the menu in her native language. Naughty and probably annoying, I resisted the temptation. But I did ask questions about the food.

On the other side, there was a table of four, a birthday, which culminated in a very bad rendition of Happy Birthday, and the birthday girl looked somewhat embarrassed. It could have been a less enthusiastic rendition, but who does that on a birthday treat?

As it is an inner city restaurant, some of the clientele were people who lived in the nearby apartments, and a study of the menu meant that instead of spending a fortune in the supermarket, dining out could be affordable, and not have to cook every night. It was not the only restaurant in the precinct, and I guess there were enough that you could have a different type of meal every night for a month before you had to start again.

Certainly, by the time I left, I had at least another six character profiles I was going to use later in my stories. As well as the dining options, the wait staff, the wine types, and a few ideas about what I was going to try another time.

And the conversation? It’s always quite different when you’re eating and drinking in an expensive restaurant, as distinct from when you go to McDonald’s. If you deign to go to McDonald’s.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 18

More about my second novel

…

But, here’s the thing.

John and Zoe are nowhere near Vienna, Zoe having gone to Bucharest and then Zurich on her way back to see John, who was going to pick her up from the airport, and then both of them were going to Lucerne for a few days.

A reminiscing cruise on Lake Geneva had been on the cards, but there might not be time.

First, they had to do some work on charting who was trying to kill her, because she had finally come to the realisation that there is more than one.  Her visit to Bucharest yielded another name, quite possibly the person who was masquerading as Komarov.

Second, John was intending to introduce her to the new members of their team, the team he hadn’t quite got around to telling her about, who will be dedicated to research, investigation, and, via Isobel and the dark web, organising the hits.

John had decided that she should not out there be distracted by finding work, just doing the work.  He was going to take care of the rest.

Perhaps a good time would be over dinner?

Meanwhile, Sebastian and Rupert are on surveillance duties while Isobel is tracking down which hotel the lovebirds are staying in. As soon as she has the information, Rupert is on the job.

She then moved to track John, knowing Zoe would be with him because she had seen the passenger lists for flights from Bucharest to anywhere.

Both are thankful that neither John nor Zoe was in Vienna, which then makes it a priority that neither Worthington nor Arabella should leave, except to go back home.  Although they hadn’t established it was the reason Worthington was in Vienna, it was too close to the bungled attempt on their lives for them not to draw the appropriate conclusion.

Sebastian has a plan B that no one was going to like, not even himself.

Plan A was yet to be formulated.

Searching for locations: West Lake, Hangzhou, China

West Lake is a freshwater lake in Hangzhou, China. It is divided into five sections by three causeways. There are numerous temples, pagodas, gardens, and artificial islands within the lake.

Measuring 3.2 kilometres (2 miles) in length, 2.8 kilometres (1.7 miles) in width, and 2.3 meters (7.5 feet) in average depth, the lake spreads itself in an area totalling 6.5 square kilometres (2.5 square miles).

The earliest recorded name for West Lake was “Wu Forest River,” but over time, it came to be known by two distinct names.  One is “Qiantang Lake” because Hangzhou was called “Qiantang” in ancient times.  The other, “West Lake”, is due to the lake being west of the city

It’s about to get busy, with some activities planned, and the warmth of the day is starting to make an impact.

The tour starts in the car park about a kilometre away, but the moment we left the car park we were getting a taste of the park, walking along a tree-lined avenue.

When we cross the road, once again dicing with death with the silent assassins on motor scooters.

We are in the park proper, and it is magnificent, with flowers, mostly at the start hydrangeas and then any number of other trees and shrubs, some carved into other flower shapes like a lotus.

Then there was the lake and the backdrop of bridges and walkways.

.

And if you can tune out the background white noise the place would be great for serenity and relaxation.

That, in fact, was how the boat ride panned out, about half an hour or more gliding across the lake in an almost silent boat, by an open window, with the air and the majestic scenery.

No, not that boat, which would be great to have lunch on while cruising, but the boat below:

Not quite in the same class, but all the same, very easy to tune out and soak it in.

It was peaceful, amazingly quiet, on a summery day

A pagoda in the hazy distance, an island we were about to circumnavigate.

Of all the legends, the most touching one is the love story between Bai Suzhen and Xu Xi’an. Bai Suzhen was a white snake spirit and Xu Xi’an was a mortal man.

They fell in love when they first met on a boat on the West Lake, and got married very soon after.

However, the evil monk Fa Hai attempted to separate the couple by imprisoning Xu Xi’an. Bai Suzhen fought against Fa Hai and tried her best to rescue her husband, but she failed and was imprisoned under the Leifeng Pagoda by the lake.

Years later the couple was rescued by Xiao Qing, the sister of Baisuzhen, and from then on, Bai Suzhen and Xu Xi’an lived together happily.

The retelling of the story varied between tour guides, and on the cruise boat, we had two.  Our guide kept to the legend, the other tour guide had a different ending.

Suffice to say it had relevance to the two pagodas on the far side of the lake.

There was a cafe or restaurant on the island, but that was not our lunch destination.

Nor were the buildings further along from where we disembarked.

All in all the whole cruise took about 45 minutes and was an interesting break from the hectic nature of the tour.

Oh yes, and the boat captain had postcards for sale.  We didn’t buy any.

Lunch

At the disembarkation point there was a mall that sold souvenirs and had a few ‘fast food’ shops, and a KFC, not exactly what we came to China for, but it seemed like the only place in town a food cautious Australian could eat at.

And when tried to get in the door, that’s where at least 3 busloads were, if they were not in the local Starbucks.  Apparently, these were the places of first choice wherever we went.

The chicken supply by the time we got to the head of the line amounted to pieces at 22.5 RMB a piece and nuggets.  Everything else had run out, and for me, there were only 5 pieces left.  Good thing there were chips.

And Starbucks with coffee and cheesecake.

At least the setting for what could have been a picnic lunch was idyllic.

In a word: Clip

It was in the news, and seemed odd to me, that a word such as clip would have any significance beyond that of having a haircut, but apparently, it does.

Maybe they’re referring to the clip of ammunition for a gun?

But for us, a clip can be part of a haircut, letting the scissors loose.

And for those children who had a father who was a hard taskmaster, you would be familiar with a clip around the ears.  It can just as easily be used, say when a car clips another car when the driver loses control.

There’s a horse that runs at a fast clip, and can be anything for that matter that moves quickly.

It can be a spring-loaded device that holds all your papers together.  Or just about anything else for that matter.

You can clip an item from a newspaper, aptly known as a news clipping.

it can be a portion of a larger film or television programme, but to me, sometimes, when a series has a clip show, an episode where someone reminisces and we see clips from previous episodes.

And last but not least, clip the wings of those so-called high flyers at the office.

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

Searching for locations: The canals of Suzhou, China

This morning is a boat ride that will take us along a small portion of the main canal, and we head through a number of back streets, to a landing where there are a number of boats all vying with each other to get us passengers on boats.

But…

These boats don’t have a wharf to tie up to and then put out a stable gangplank.  No.  They just more into a concrete step and you take your life in your hands getting on.  One wrong step and you’re in the canal.  And not a very clean one at that.

That’s if another boat doesn’t come along and bumps you, knocking you off balance.  We managed not to lose anyone in boarding the vessel.

This is where we get on the boat

We go along what appears to be downstream towards another larger canal, past tree-lined streets until the canal narrows and we’re looking at the backs of houses, which look very dilapidated.

And the canals?  Well, it’s not quite like it is in Venice

Though some parts of the canal look better than others

What doesn’t bear thinking about is the electrical wiring which is a nightmarish spider web of cables going off in all directions.  How anyone could troubleshoot problems is beyond me.

We pass under a number of bridges, and then, about 30 minutes after leaving, we reach a larger canal and do a 180-degree turn, and head back to a drop off point the will enable us to walk through a typical everyday Chinese market for food and the other items.

This drop off point is much the same as the starting point, a concrete step which is as hazardous as the first.  At least we don’t have to compete with other boats for the landing spot.

We take a leisurely stroll down a small section of Pingjiang Road with small shops on either side, selling all manner of goods

but my interest is in the food and the prices, which at times seem quite expensive for so-called local people, so maybe because the tourists go down this street every day, the prices have been inflated accordingly.

I find it rather disappointing.

We walk to the bridge, go under to the other side crossing the canal and find the coffee shop which is also the meeting place.

So…

When is a coffee shop not a coffee shop, when it takes an eternity to make a cup of coffee, we waited 25 minutes?

We also ordered beef black pepper rice and it took 20 minutes before it arrived, but it was well worth the wait.  Strands of perfectly cooked beef with onion, carrot, and capsicum, with a very peppery and spicy sauce, with a side of boiled rice.

A pizza was ordered too but it did not arrive at all before we left.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 18

More about my second novel

…

But, here’s the thing.

John and Zoe are nowhere near Vienna, Zoe having gone to Bucharest and then Zurich on her way back to see John, who was going to pick her up from the airport, and then both of them were going to Lucerne for a few days.

A reminiscing cruise on Lake Geneva had been on the cards, but there might not be time.

First, they had to do some work on charting who was trying to kill her, because she had finally come to the realisation that there is more than one.  Her visit to Bucharest yielded another name, quite possibly the person who was masquerading as Komarov.

Second, John was intending to introduce her to the new members of their team, the team he hadn’t quite got around to telling her about, who will be dedicated to research, investigation, and, via Isobel and the dark web, organising the hits.

John had decided that she should not out there be distracted by finding work, just doing the work.  He was going to take care of the rest.

Perhaps a good time would be over dinner?

Meanwhile, Sebastian and Rupert are on surveillance duties while Isobel is tracking down which hotel the lovebirds are staying in. As soon as she has the information, Rupert is on the job.

She then moved to track John, knowing Zoe would be with him because she had seen the passenger lists for flights from Bucharest to anywhere.

Both are thankful that neither John nor Zoe was in Vienna, which then makes it a priority that neither Worthington nor Arabella should leave, except to go back home.  Although they hadn’t established it was the reason Worthington was in Vienna, it was too close to the bungled attempt on their lives for them not to draw the appropriate conclusion.

Sebastian has a plan B that no one was going to like, not even himself.

Plan A was yet to be formulated.