The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 174

Day 174 – Writing Exercise

I saw the motion to be quiet, but it was neither the time nor the place.

…

In a company where promotions came slowly and were hard earned, the ‘lecture’ from the head of Human Resources was the highlight.

The company was built on tradition. Its executives were quiet, unassuming men who took the time to consider all aspects before making decisions.

Being brash and openly enthusiastic at Executive meetings was frowned upon. There was an agenda, required reading (sometimes a lot of pages), and matters were dealt with calmly and dispassionately.

From the purchasing of stationery to a multi-million-dollar overhaul of the production line.

Or as it happened, the decision to close the doors and make every one of the three thousand employees, nationwide, and particularly in my town, redundant.

A situation that would be utterly devastating.

…

As I walked out of the head of HR’s office, my first question was, “Why me?” There were at least two far more viable candidates in terms of age and experience ahead of me.

It was a question I candidly tossed out at the morning tea table where half a dozen of us want-to-be managers sat lamenting our lack of opportunity.

“Why me?”

Lorraine, perhaps the brightest of us, said, “They’re looking for a sacrificial lamb,” with the sort of candour that was scary as well as plausible.

Walter, the sort of person who could be in plain sight but completely invisible, laughed, but it was not a pleasant or amiable one.

It was like Frankenstein’s monster had sat in his seat and had been watching us all like prey.

“Nothing like a beheading at sunrise.”

Perpetually nervous Larry shrank back in his seat. Experience told him bad news was coming. He asked, softly, “What do you know that we don’t?”

Larry looked at Bill. Bill shrugged. “They called off critical repairs to the machine shop. Without those repairs, we’re on borrowed time.”

It had been a topic of conversation for the last four weeks. Delays, funding approvals being revised, rumoured order cancellations, and a shipment lost in transit due to an unfortunate accident.

Information that was known only to us six and, of course, management. They had not informed anyone of the situation, the consequences of which were far-reaching.

People knew something was wrong. Production lines were being systematically closed for a day, sometimes two, under the guise of maintenance.

That excuse had been disposed of by Jaime when she had inadvertently walked into one of the shut-down areas and found it in complete darkness, with no activity, repairs or otherwise.

And all the while, the General Manager was down at City Hall waxing lyrical to the Mayor about how the company was working hand in hand with the County to keep things going, and the future was bright.

Jaime’s mother’s friend had a travel agency, and she just happened to mention that bookings overseas were up a few hundred per cent, and that things must be great at the company because the management and Directors were all off overseas in the next month.

Not all at the same time, so it didn’t look suspicious. In fact, it might not be, just our imaginations working overtime.

‘So, what do we do?”

Bill shifted in his chair. He was the more senior and the one to be promoted. He hadn’t seemed upset when it was me instead, two years his junior.

“You’re in management now, Harry, you have to keep your ears and eyes wide open. You’ll know if anything is off. People who try to hide something always have a tell. A nervous twitch, a tendency to silence, short, sharp answers, and defensive when answering pertinent questions. There’s a meeting tomorrow.”

“They have to invite me.”

Something I learned about junior management, it was by invitation only, and I went to one soon after the appointment, the only one where I was introduced to ‘the team’. It was the only one so far.

“They will.”

It was all he said, and I think I knew why. It was prep before the walls fell in on me

….

The board room was also the managerial meeting room, a large room on the top floor adjacent to the Executive dining room.

It was where management held informal meetings and drinks after hours, a perk of the office they held. There was another for the managers, the next level down.

I was not, as junior management, privy to either.

Except today.

Bill was right. It was time to prime the fall guy, and they were going to dazzle me with the whole charade so I’d be distracted.

It was the spiel Bill gave me an hour ago. He seemed very knowledgeable about managerial practices. Jaime had managed to get some figures together, raw stock, production figures, per item costs, current wages, coatings versus profits, which were not good, and some estimates of various aspects of the production line that were shut down or limited.

Where she got them was anyone’s guess, but she was an accounting genius, and maybe they were he own assessments based on what was left lying around. I didn’t ask, and she didn’t volunteer. I just had to shred them after reading them.

I climbed the stairs slowly and then outside, Mrs Gatly, the Executive Secretary, was outside, expecting me.

I had met her the day I was promoted, and she had taken me through management procedures. She was very serious and ensured I was aware of the obligations of office. The most important. What I heard stayed in the room.

Confidentiality was everything.

I could understand that. She reminded me when she ushered me into the room. My position was at the end of the table. I was to speak when spoken to, and I was not to offer opinions, only facts.

I was not mingling before the meeting.

So, I went in, got a few glances from people I knew but rarely spoke to, and waited for the rest. None seemed inclined to talk to me.

I sat there for fifteen minutes while the others arrived, all having a convivial chat like nothing was wrong; in fact, some were comparing holiday destinations until the meeting started.

The General Manager sat at the other end of the table, and the twelve other managers sat down in order of importance. My manager was number three.

He opened the proceedings with, “I trust it is all good news and full steam ahead.” He looked around the table with the ease of a man who was fully in charge. He did glance at me, but only briefly. I’m not sure he wanted me there.

My manager spoke first. It started hesitantly, “We have just received the reports from Sanderson Engineering about the plant, and they say that we will be able to delay the maintenance cycle for another year, perhaps two if we don’t push too hard. Good news.”

The Financial Manager added, “That will release funds for the update to employee wages and benefits that were promised two years ago. They have been patient.”

The General Manager beamed, “Of course.”

The Shipping Manager was next, the man responsible for internal and external shipping via the fleet. One of the important aspects of the business was having our delivery venues being seen everywhere, advertising, the marketing department said money couldn’t buy.

A fleet of aging vehicles we couldn’t afford but persisted with. The new owners tried to get rid of them, but a petition from within and from a hundred thousand customers scotched it.

Maintaining that fleet was one of the deadweights slowly sinking the business. The same could be said for both Executive and Management perks.

“Delivery times are improving, and we are almost back to normal after a few problems with the vehicles and drivers. Plans are in the advanced stage to begin the vehicle renewal program. We are considering an offer from Argosy Fleet Management.”

Again, the General Manager beamed. “Excellent.”

If all of this was to be believed, the ship wasn’t sinking.

Except….

Argosy Fleet Management was owned by the General Manager’s brother-in-law, a little-known fact to any of those sitting in that room. I’d discovered it quite by chance when I had been researching Fleet replacement options.

Ideally, we should just use someone like FedEx. I found that would cut a considerable amount from the cost structure, but it would make quite a few redundant.

Other reports were equally upbeat, though those who delivered them were hesitant and nervous, as if they had to learn their lines from a script. Four of them used the same turn of phrase.

That told me I was there to hear what they wanted me to hear and pass it on, because none of what they said had any confidentiality about it.

At the end, my manager came down to say a few words and ushered me out. None of the others left. The real meeting was about to start.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

…

The thing is, I took Mrs Gatly seriously and didn’t tell anyone what I heard, just the shadow team, and not in the office.

We went to a diner management, and the executives wouldn’t be caught dead in, knowing that whatever I said would not be heard by the wrong people. Few people took us seriously anyway, even when we gathered at the local bar.

Lorraine started with, “So, how did they treat their sacrificial lamb, Sam?”

As if they were going to spell it out, with chuckles all round.

“Business as usual. The GM has a habit of saying good, well done, excellent, and business as usual. If anyone were to listen in, they would assume that everything is going according yo plan.

“Just we don’t know what plan they’re working on,” Lorraine said.

The waitress with the name tag, Dora, deposited and trauma of drinks and handed them out exactly as ordered. The ladies in the company cafeteria got it right.

“Did they sit you in purgatory?” Bill had predicted I would be isolated and land away from the main group. He called the seat at the end of the table purgatory.

He was right.

“Yes. No one looked at me, no one came over to greet me, welcome me, most didn’t acknowledge I was there. My boss came over at the end and tossed me out. No one else left.”

Harry muttered, “Of course. That’s when the real business is discussed. They’re probably hoping you’ll pass on the good news.”

“Is there any good news?” Lorraine asked.

“Some engineering consultants reckon the plant can go two more years before heavy maintenance.”

“Bought and paid for,” Harry said. “When it does break down, they have a fallback.”

“The money saved is supposedly being channelled to deferred employee raises.”

“Read money being channelled to the directors and management retirement funds,” Harry had a different answer for each talking point.

“They’re going ahead with the upgrading of the delivery trucks.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. On the surface, it seems they are doing everything they said they would, but the numbers don’t add up.” Jaime had been listening and waiting.

The food arrived. Lorraine said it was time to forget about work and talk about other things. She was going to join the growing trend at the company, and planned to take an overseas holiday.

…

There are many interesting facts about living in a company town.

Not only did the town depend upon the company for its survival, but it was the major employer, where the sons, the fathers and the fathers before them worked in some capacity over the years.

I was fourth generation. My father always told me that if I looked after the company, the company would look after me.

I believed him. I ignored a growing trend of people my age deciding there was a bigger world out there and went to more distant colleges and the bigger cities for better opportunities.

Maybe they had seen that figurative writing on the wall.

Another interesting fact was that in a town like ours, everyone knew everyone else. Families were united over time, and those relationships carried from outside work into work, where a close friendship was beneficial on the job.

Especially down in the so-called engine room, that group of lower-level workers who were the ones who made it all work, despite management’s attempts to interfere.

The managers didn’t make the machinery hum; it was a dedicated group of men and women who did not have that all-important engineering degree, just the 30-odd years of service and experience.

They never bought advanc3nent just the satisfaction of another day on the job, all problems fixed and ready for the next day. They knew the current state of the machinery and whether or not it needed an overhaul. Not engineering outside engineering reviews and ‘planned’ maintenance.

They were the people I had nurtured on my way up, and worked with, supported, and spent the long nights and agonising days with, something the upper management never did, nor asked for their input.

The people who actually knew the truth.

And, over the next month, the people I spent most time with. I needed to know if the plant was going to die, whether the reality of deferring the heavy maintenance was going to be the death of the company.

And if the General Manager had the right attitude, he should have too.

He didn’t.

Apparently, he had no time for the ‘wrenchmen’, what he called the indigent factory hands.

Louis Bayer was sixty-seven years old, always in oil-stained overalls, a wrench in his back pocket and hands with ingrained grease stains. Like his crew, varying from 57 down to the new lads just replacing their fathers at 25, they were the operating manuals for the machinery.

I went down into the power generation plant where he was supervising the overhaul of one of three spare diesel generators. We could power the whole town in an emergency.

He saw me coming and jumped up out of the pit. Truth be told, he was fitter than I was.

He’d called me, concerned.

“The boss has that Mulligan character snooping around.”

Mulligan was one of the engineers who did the assessment that led to holding over the maintenance. His job was done.

“Did he give you a reason?”

“GM wanted a follow-up review. Thing is, he’s been poking in places he shouldn’t. My guess, they’re going to sabotage the plant.”

“How?”

“There’s a vulnerability. No one knows about it, and you can’t tell it’s there, not unless you were born in this building. Someone told him, because he was caught in the very place.”

“Can you stop it?”

“Not if no one is here.”

“Can it be fixed?”

“Not before it causes just enough damage, so the bosses can call it.”

There was something she wasn’t telling me. I knew the plant needed nursing, and the crew would keep it going. But I hadn’t heard about any vulnerabilities. Not serious vulnerabilities

“We need security then?”

He laughed. “We need a miracle. Just thought you’d like to know.”

He went back to the pit.

I watched the machinery that had held together longer than my father or I had been alive. It wasn’t going to break down; they were going to break it.

…

In a perfect world, I would have asked Jaime out for coffee, more than likely in the company cafeteria, a place that had been the background for a great many romantic relationships and marriages

More than the pier at the park, in a more romantic setting for asking the girl of your dreams to marry you.

Jaime had many bottles and then men asking her for dates. Some she went on, many she didn’t and was still single.

I figured she was not interested in daylight, a guy from work. It was bad enough, she once said jokingly, that you would see him all day, but then all night too.

So when we were together, I just had to set those feelings aside and wonder what might have been.

Sitting opposite my desk, the door closed, we were able to speak of confidential matters.

Not that I was price to them, and not that it was earth-shattering, or perhaps I was underpaying the value of it.

“The General Manager just filed his vacation requirements. 6 weeks starting next Monday. Oddly enough, there are six directors and top-level managers taking various periods of vacation.”

“Hardly a revelation for the time of year.”

It was the pre-annual meeting period where everyone else stayed at work to produce the reports for the directors to mull over.

“Timing, given what we know about the current state of things.”

“You think he doesn’t want to be here if they decide to close the plant?”

“Or it crashes, and they have to.”

I had told her about my meeting with Bayer when I ran into her at the cafe. She was sitting alone at the back, reading a book and sipping a large black coffee. It was a romance novel, which I thought out of character.

“Whereupon I would be asked for answers.”

“Since your boss is also running away. The sacrificial lamb.”

“Want to go on a vacation with me?”

She gave me a sideways look. “Tempting as that offer sounds, we can’t. No one involved with the reporting can have time off, unless they are dead. I was told that was the only excuse.”

She didn’t say no, so I decided to push my luck. “Does that mean when this is over you might?”

“Die?”

“Go on vacation with me?”

The look she gave me said she would prefer to be an alien abductee. Or not.

“It’s taken you six years. You’re lucky I’m a very patient woman. Ask me again when this nonsense is done with. Now, you have to go see Eleanor.”

Six years ago, we were in high school together. I had wanted to ask her to the prom, but didn’t have the courage. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

…

Eleanor was the hotshot reporter who was that kind of person who could get under your skin. She was persistent and annoying.

It was what made her a good reporter. She ran the school paper, and after graduation, got a job at the newspaper, combining college with reporting.

Recently, she was added to the local TV station reporting on news from our town and the surrounding area. She was also vitally interested in our company and the persistent rumours that it was in financial distress.

We had a brief thing after graduation, but the fact that I was not important enough broke us up. I’d always suspected her relationships were based on breaking stories or advancing her career.

I was never going to do either.

But..

Now I had a story, but it was a matter of how I sold it, because it would not do to have her and her crew knocking down the door

Her involvement was purely to throw a cat amongst the pigeons, something she could do just by turning up.

Jaime and I had talked about it. How to light a hundred-foot slow-burning fuse so that we could be a hundred miles away when the bomb went off.

I was thinking about that when Eleanor took the stool next to me at the bar.

The bartender was waiting for her order.

“He’s paying for your best champagne.”

I did say, when I called her, the drinks were on me. It might have been a little brash.

“Don’t make me regret this. I’ve got people to hang out to dry.”

“Do you ever look for good news?”

I glanced sideways and took a breath. That girl never got less stunning, perhaps the reason she was so successful.

“Frankly, no. Who wants good news, really? People thrive on disaster and mayhem. In this town, it’s the company. They’re up to something. You work for the company. Are you here to tell me what it is?”

“How do you know anything is wrong?”

“You’re here. That tone of yours. You were always a lousy poker player, Sam. Why am I here?”

“To put the wind up management, specifically the General Manager. He’s going away on Monday. I’d like you to harass him at the airport.”

“With what?”

“Put two and two together. I’m sure you’ve been watching the company. The share price is dropping, the earnings are lacklustre, we’ve suffered shipping problems, and maintenance has been deferred.”

“Cash flow problems?”

“Not if six executives can afford long overseas vacations, just before the Annual General Meeting. Including a GM who should be here guiding the ship through the storm.”

“Rats deserting a possible sinking ship.”

Her champagne arrived, and the bartender poured two glasses. A salute and a drink.

I shrugged. “Someone has the answers. You just need to find the right questions.”

“Monday?”

“I’m sure someone down at the travel agency will help you with your travel requirements. Ask for Anna.”

She smiled. “A question for you. When are you going to ask Jamie on a date?”

…

That old saying, ‘I love it when a plan comes together’, is rarely applicable in any circumstances.

Plans made are always fraught with danger.

We didn’t have a plan as such; just a group of like-minded people with suspicious minds making conjecture out of a series of seemingly unrelated events.

The drip selling of blocks of shares in the company is a trend that no one would see if they weren’t looking for it.

A number of realty opportunities that, if you didn’t look closer at the ownership, you would simply dismiss as the market working as it should.

The carefully worded press releases from a company going through what anyone, and particularly the General Manager, would call business as usual.

Reports to the staff advising certain decisions to be ratified at the Annual General Meeting, such as wage increases, fleet upgrades and distribution streamlining, and the delay to scheduled maintenance to allow for all of the above.

No one knew about the cask flow problems that were caused by the loss of a shipment that insurance was refusing to pay, or the large bonuses being paid to the board and executive members for ‘a job well done’ and particularly that to the General Manager.

Or the fact that in an oddly screwed-up piece of paper that landed on my desk, when smoothed out was the draft resignation letter of the General Manager, one week after his departure on vacation.

It was clear that he was not coming back.

Sunday night, the day before our General Manager departed for what he called a well-earned rest before the AGM, the group of suspicious minds had gathered in the power plant building, all ready for the night shift. Curiously and unknown to most, the Sheriff in plain clothes was watching proceedings.

He had heard a rumour, one that sounded awfully like a criminal act was about to be perpetrated.

Louis Bayer and I were standing on a makeshift stage, looking out over a sea of faces, about a hundred in all, there because we suspected that the plant would be sabotaged.

We just didn’t know where.

Louis deployed the troops with one instruction. Whoever they were, they were not to leave the site, and they were to use any and all means necessary.

This place was their livelihood. Despite management, they were going to do whatever it took to save it. Or di the best they could.

There were other problems, but the plant and its machinery were not going to be the cause of the company’s demise.

It was like the troops were going to war.

…

Thus, it was 10 am on Monday.

The executives filed into the board room for the meeting, the Assistant General Manager in charge, and me, taking my manager’s place at the right end of the table.

I was there to take responsibility for anything that might happen while my manager was away.

A message had appeared on my phone from Eleanor telling me she had the General Manager in her sights, with a camera crew and a live cross waiting.

Another followed to say my manager had just appeared.

Five minutes past ten, the warning siren went off in the production line five building. It signified a problem. It could go either of two ways. Problem identified and resolved, or evacuation.

No one in the boardroom seemed agitated. The AG Manager simply asked me to find out what was going on.

I called Louis

“It’s done.”

I looked up at him. “Investigation underway. We’ll know soon enough.”

I looked around at the faces. Three of them looked nervous, the others, not so much. I wondered if they had met before to work on their strategy. The three who were nervous were the last three to offload their stick holdings.

I paced nervously. From the windows overlooking the outside picnic area used by the employees to eat their lunches and just rest, I could see the Number Five building. It seemed like nothing was happening.

Until smoke started billowing, and the siren changed to evacuation, and people started filing out. A very orderly and unpanicked evacuation.

I pressed send on my phone.

It rang. I answered. “You know the drill.”

“Thanks.”

I looked at the executives. “Catastrophic breakdown. The maintenance crew are being deployed.”

“It wasn’t supposed to break down. We had a team of experts go over the whole plant.”

“Initial report is that it was in an entirely unexpected area, one we’ve never had a problem with, and was never expected to fail. It happens.”

“Then I guess we’d better start working on a plane. I assume it means everything has to be shut down.”

“Given it’s the one place that we just didn’t need to fail, and the hardest and most complex to repair, yes.”

“Then give the order.”

Just then, Mrs Gatly came running into the room and flicked on the TV. It was the news, with Eleanor blocking the General Manager, asking, “Do you realise that a serious act of sabotage has been perpetrated at the plant?”

“No. What are you talking about? My flight has been called, and we need to get to the gate.”

“Are you running away from the problems? Did you cause the problems? How do you explain a letter of resignation dated one week from today?”

“What?”

Caught like a deer in headlights. And suddenly flanked by two deputies. We just caught sight of my manager being held by more deputies.

Cut to the sheriff outside his office, saying, “We currently have two suspects under arrest for the attempted sabotage of the number five plant room at the Bentham factory site.”

There was also a ruckus outside the boardroom, followed by the Sheriff. What was on the TV was pre-recorded, because the two suspects had been quietly handed over soon after they were apprehended, so they could not damage the plant.

Louis had correctly assumed what they would go for. There was nothing else that could do the necessary damage, and it was the most vulnerable point in the machinery chain.

Mrs Gatly had a file in her hand, and she gave it to the Sheriff. “It’s all in there.”

She glared at the executives. “Shame on the lot of you.” To me, she nodded and left the room.

“Sit down, the lot of you. It’s going to be a long morning.” The Sheriff wasn’t a happy man.

Outside, I heard a roar. People cheering.

My phone rang.

“Generally, I hate Mondays, but I’ll make an exception for today. The fire truck brought cakes, so don’t wait too long.”

I turned back to the executives. “Problem solved. The plant will be back online in half an hour.”

“Are you telling me you orchestrated this whole charade?” The AG manager said.

“No. We caught the two saboteurs you sent in to wreck the production line. They confessed. You were expecting a disaster, so we gave you one. Why you wanted one, well, that’s for the authorities to find out.”

“This factory is done, now or in a year, there’s nowhere in this current market it can be economic.”

“Not for those seeking to make themselves rich, no. But for ordinary people who simply want a comfortable life, it can be done. But there’s no point talking about that with you. You don’t think you’re ordinary people, but then you’ll have time in prison to wonder how that happened.”

And as I left, I wondered briefly about that comfortable life I thought I had. Perhaps when I saw Jaime, it would all become clear.

…

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.

I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.

“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 18

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

It was clear, however, that Marina was familiar with the man and very annoyed with the woman.

When I took a longer look at the man, I realised he was not a man at all, but a boy in his teens, blessed by the fact he looked older than he was. My guess, about 16. I was surprised he had not been conscripted into the war, there seemed very few young men in the area.

Marina went straight over to him and snatched the elderly rifle he was holding away from him, the glared at Chiara

“Are you stark staring mad. Enrico is not supposed to be out in the open, hell, it’s been a battle to keep him hidden away. What will his parents think when they discover he’s here?”

“Pleased,” Enrico said. “My father said it’s about time I did something to rid of the Germans, of the English too for that matter. None of you has any right to be here.”

Fervently spoken, and to the wrong person, it would earn him a bullet to the back of the head. But I agreed with him.

“All well and good,” Marina said to him, “but now there’s no easy way of doing that. We must be careful, and you must stay put with your parents. What we’re doing isn’t a game, you are neither trained or equipped to take anyone on, except perhaps rabbits.”

Back at Chiara. “Take him home, and never bring him back here. You don’t want to be the one who has to tell his mother if he gets killed. Now, both of you go now, before I shoot both of you myself.”

“This is not the end of the matter,” Enrico said.

“And when you’ve taken him back, come back here. We need to talk.”

Chiara said nothing, just nodded sullenly. I think she believed the less said the better and did as she was asked, nodding her head in his direction, and adding a few choice phrases in Italian to him that I couldn’t understand. It also just occurred to me that she had not asked Chiara the questions about the two men from the castle. I guess that would have to wait until the safety of Enrico was settled, and she returned.

“Make sure they’re safe,” she said to Carlo, and he disappeared, leaving us alone.

“I thought all of the young men had been taken away by the Italian Army.”

“Not all. We managed to hide a few away, but as you can see, despite our best efforts, they don’t seem to appreciate the trouble they could get into. We used to have about a hundred young men from 14 through to 20 at the start of the war. Two have found their way back, casualties of war, the rest, we may never see them again. Enrico just doesn’t see the trouble he could get into.”

“It’s called youthful enthusiasm. In the first world war, joining up, or going to war, was a lark. It was a little less so this time because most of the parents knew from firsthand experience what it was like and tried to shield them. And if you didn’t join up, questions were asked, and quite often jail, except for some who landed cushy jobs away from the fighting.”

“You were not so lucky?”

“No, I was one of those mad buggers who thought joining up to fight would be an adventure. That quickly faded when the enemy started shooting at me.”

“And now you’re here, and a spy to boot. That’s what they’ll hang on you if you get caught.”

“Then I shall try very hard not to get caught. Again.”

Chiara came back about an hour later. It seemed to me it was a lot safer to move around at night with the blackout, and I doubted Thompson would spare any men from the castle to check up on the local farmers.

And while I was at the castle, I didn’t hear anything raised about the local resistance, which I thought odd at the time, but now I knew why. Most of them had joined him. Better that than be hunted down and killed.

Chiara still looked sullen. A closer look showed she was not very old herself, barely out of her twenties, and surprising that the Italian army, or Thomson for that matter, had not rounded her up for ‘duties’ at the castle.

There were a number of the local women working up at the castle, but they were mostly staff, or more likely forced labour, though I had thought we, when I believed it to be a British outpost, would be fairer to the locals than either the Germans or their own Italian military. It’s odd how you tend to look at certain situations because of who you are, and the fact you would not do similar things at home. The Germans, however, we would always treat differently, because they were the enemy, and because we expected the worst from them. At that moment, though, wouldn’t the Germans think the same of us if the positions were reversed?

Best not to think about that. My view of the war and the people in it was clouded enough.

Chiara, however, clearly thought the worst of me, and of those in the castle, and certainly didn’t think I was as neutral as I appeared. A gun always in hand, I was sure she would shoot me again with the least provocation.

We sat, both Chiara and Marina with their weapons on the table in front of them. I wasn’t trusted enough to be given a weapon.

Marina’s first question was directed at Chiara, “I’m told there were two men from the castle following Sam, and that he told you about them.”

“He did. We did not see them. We didn’t take the path, because, as you know, it’s not safe.”

It was a reasonable answer. If the men at the castle were unfamiliar with the area, as I’m sure they would be, because they hadn’t been there for very long, and I doubt Thompson would want to advertise the nationality of those at the castle unless he had to, they would stick to the clearly-marked roads and paths.

I had on my way to the castle, from a different direction. It didn’t explain why I had not been met by the leader of the resistance as arranged, but that was now explained, both by the former leader trying to kill me in a roadside explosion, and then what I learned at the castle in the last few days.

“Even so, there’s not that much distance between the two, and it is possible to shadow them.”

“I keep well away from them. Perhaps Leonardo saw them. He doesn’t have to worry about what they might do because they use him to supply food. Maybe he knows more.”

“Perhaps I shall ask him next time I see him. We need to know who from the castle is about and when so that we don’t get caught.”

“I’ll remember next time. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

Chiara picked up her gun, gave me an extra-long sullen stare. “I don’t trust this one, Marina. You

need to be careful.”

“I will.”

We waited a few minutes until after she had departed, and then Marina said, “We should be going too. This place is a little eerie at night. There are far too many ghosts for my liking.”

I shuddered, then followed her out.

…

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

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

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 19

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

And the perils of writing on the fly often leads to back revisions to aid moving forward, and this is one of those occasions. A few revisions were required.

…

Short of jumping over the side, there was no way we were getting away. And judging from the expression on Rico’s face, now very plain to see halfway along the pier, he was not happy to see us.

Boggs stepped off the deck and joined me on the pier, just as Rico made it to where we were standing, just as it started in a gentle up and down motion with the water, churned up by a passing speed boat, but it was fear rather than the pier’s motions making me feel sick.

The sound of another boat caused me to glance in the opposite direction, out towards the sandbar, where I could see another large boat coming in our direction very quickly, and by the shape of it, quite possibly a police launch or the coast guard.

Rico had seen it too. “What have you done?”

“I called the police,” I said, trying to act braver than I felt. Even with the police on their way, Rico could still do something we’d all regret.

“Why?”

Movement by the fishing store caught my eye, and I saw it was two of the men who’d left the boat with Rico earlier, retreating. They’d seen the situation and were retreating. A police car with its siren blaring and lights flashing just stopped at the entrance to the pier and two officers were getting out, guns in hand.

Those men would getaway. Rico had seen them too and looked relieved. Odd for a man about to find himself in a lot of trouble.

Boggs blurted out, “There’s a dead body in the cabin.”

Rico shook his head. “That’s not possible. I’ve been gone for an hour and it isn’t possible he put himself there.”

He looked around to see the officers coming from the land side of the pier. There was no escape for him, or for us, but this could still end up a sticky situation for us if Rico decided to shoot his way out. Boggs said he owned a gun, and if it was not on him, it might be in the boat.

Rico climbed on board and then moved to the hatch. He lifted the hatch cover and folded it back to show an opening into the cabin. It hadn’t been locked; it just looked like it was. Just as the officers made it to the boat, he stepped in, then down into the cabin.

A minute later, when he came up Rico looked visibly shaken like he’d seen a ghost.

The police launch had arrived just off the stern, kicking up the water and causing the boat and pier to rock violently, two men at either end ready to secure their boat to ours. The land-based officers also arrived, somewhat out of breath, to join Boggs and I on the pier.

I recognised the officer who appeared to be in charge, a man called Johnson, the police chief’s deputy. He was known to shoot first and ask questions later. What worried me the most, he had his gun drawn and ready to shoot.

He looked at me, Rico, Boggs, then back to me. “What’s this all about?”

“There’s a body in the cabin,” Boggs said before I could say a word, still sounding very frightened, but whether it was the body in the cabin, Rico’s fury at his meddling or the fact the police were involved was hard to say.

He switched his glare to Rico. “That true?”

Rico nodded. “I don’t know where it came from, but it wasn’t there an hour ago.” A last look back at the cabin, he stepped off the boat onto the pier.

The seaman aboard the police launch slipped a rope over the bollard at the rear of our boat and then jumped on board to secure it. Another seaman did the same at the bow. Two more jumped on board, one covering Rico and the other going into the cabin.

When he came back up on deck he was talking into his cell phone.

I think Rico had a lot of explaining to do.

…

The 2 a.m. Rant: When you know you’re getting old

You know that you are getting old when sitting at a table where only one person is less than 65.

There were just over a dozen of us, meeting up a few years back for my older brother’s 70th birthday.

I have to say, from the outset, that I never expected him to live that long, but when you take into consideration the longevity of our parents, my father reached 99 and my mother 96, it’s no longer a surprise.

As for me, I’m 73 this year, and there are three years between us.

Something else I hadn’t realised, but what possibly seems coincidental is the age difference between our granddaughters, which is also three years. One is 23, another is 19 and the youngest 16.

But…

It was interesting to finally meet a number of the guests, as, for many, many years, I’d only heard of them in passing conversation. This is because we very rarely manage to get down from Brisbane to Melbourne to catch up, and almost never when my brother has had one of these rare get-togethers.

Of course, these people had known him for years, and there was a thread that bound them together.

Stamps.

They were all stamp collectors.

I remember a long, long time ago, I used to collect stamps, but I did not have the same passion for collecting as my brother did, and if truth be told, I was a little jealous.

And he had a Stanley Gibbons catalogue that could put a value on every stamp. That, to me, showed dedication.

I just bought stamps that were big and colourful from obscure countries no one had ever heard of. But, in another sense, it was where I learned a lot about the British Commonwealth. Some of those African member countries were those same obscure places I had stamps for.

Then, when I could no longer be bothered, I just handed the lot to him and said he could do with them what he would.

Naturally, at this gathering, we didn’t talk about stamps.

In fact, after describing myself as the black sheep, well, grey sheep on account of the hair, it seemed we became the centre of attention.

To be honest, I expected the lunch to last an hour, but who knew there was so much to talk about, even though I really can’t remember much of it other than it lasted almost three hours. That’s a lot of time talking about nothing.

But I guess when you reach that golden age, time ceases to have any real meaning.

We now have a standing invitation to return, and since time is running out for all of us, it’s probably wise to not take so long to return.

What I learned about writing – A story can go in many different directions

The Story’s Fork in the Road: Navigating Multiple Paths (or How Many Roads Should You Pave?)

Ah, the delicious agony of the writer’s mind! You’re deep into a scene, a character’s decision point, or a pivotal plot twist, and suddenly—BAM!—five equally compelling, utterly captivating directions unfurl before you. Each one a glittering promise, a potential masterpiece.

Do you freeze, overwhelmed by the narrative labyrinth? Do you toss a coin? Or do you bravely (or foolishly) attempt to build five different narrative highways? This, my friends, is the quintessential writer’s dilemma, and one we’ve all grappled with.

Let’s break it down.

The Agony of Choice: Why It’s So Hard

First, let’s acknowledge why this is such a powerful struggle. It’s not a sign of weakness; it’s a testament to your boundless creativity. Each of those five paths represents a fully formed world, a different emotional journey, a distinct thematic exploration. Choosing one feels like abandoning four perfectly good children at the orphanage of your imagination. You fear:

Missing the “Best” Story: What if the path you don’t take was the one that would have won the Pulitzer?
Wasting Potential: All that rich imagery, those intriguing character possibilities… gone?
Regret: The lingering “what if” can haunt future drafts.

So, how do we navigate this creative crossroads?

Part 1: How Do We Know We’ve Chosen the “Right” One?

The short, honest answer? You don’t. Not with 100% certainty, at least not at first. But you can make the most informed, intentional choice for this particular story. Here’s how to approach it:

Revisit Your Core Vision & Theme:
- What is the absolute heart of your story? What are you really trying to say?
- What is the central question or conflict you’re exploring?
- Which of the five paths most profoundly serves this core message or theme? Which one amplifies it, complicates it, or brings it into sharper relief?
Follow the Character’s Deepest Arc:
- Where does your protagonist need to go to achieve their most meaningful growth or transformation?
- Which path forces them to confront their greatest fears, make their hardest choices, or truly earn their redemption (or downfall)?
- Sometimes, the “right” path isn’t the easiest or most obvious, but the one that most rigorously tests your characters.
Consider the Emotional Impact:
- Which path elicits the strongest emotional response in you?
- Which one feels most compelling, most resonant, most likely to move a reader?
- Don’t underestimate your gut feeling. Your intuition, honed by countless hours of reading and writing, often knows best.
Outline Each Path (Briefly):
- You don’t need to write five full drafts. Take an hour or two and jot down a very brief outline for each of the five directions.
- Where does each path start? What are its key turning points? Where does it logically end?
- Seeing them laid out, even in skeletal form, often reveals which one has the most inherent dramatic tension, sustained conflict, or satisfying resolution.
Listen to the Story’s Whisper:
- Sometimes, one path just feels alive. The dialogue sparkles, the imagery flows effortlessly, the next scene already plays out in your head. That’s often the story telling you which way it wants to go. Trust that energy.

Ultimately, the “right” path is often the one you commit to with confidence and conviction, knowing it serves your story’s deepest purpose.

Part 2: Should We Write Five Different Versions of the Same Story?

This is where the practicalities of writing meet the boundless nature of imagination.

The Temptation: “Wouldn’t it be amazing to see how each version played out? What if they could be a series? Or alternate universe novels?”

The Reality (for most): Writing five different versions of the same story simultaneously is a monumental undertaking that can lead to burnout, analysis paralysis, and ultimately, five unfinished manuscripts.

However, there’s a nuanced approach:

The “What If” File:
- Don’t discard those other brilliant ideas! Create a “What If” document or a story bible where you meticulously log these alternate paths.
- Note down the potential plot points, character developments, thematic explorations, and even snippets of dialogue.
- This frees up your current WIP while preserving those ideas for future projects. Many successful series or spin-offs are born from these discarded “what ifs.”
Experiment in Short Bursts:
- If you’re truly torn, write a single scene or a very short chapter (500-1000 words) for the top two or three contenders.
- See which one “sings.” Which one feels most natural to write? This micro-experimentation can often clarify your choice without committing to full drafts.
Future Projects, Not Current:
- Recognise that those other four paths aren’t failures; they’re fertile ground for future stories.
- Perhaps one becomes a standalone novel set in the same world, exploring a different character. Maybe another becomes a prequel or a sequel.
- View them as seeds, not fully grown trees; you have to nurture all at once.
The Luxury of Revision:
- Remember, you’re not carving your story in stone with your first draft. Write a version. See it through.
- During revision, you might realise an earlier “what if” path actually does serve your story better, and you can pivot. But it’s much easier to pivot from a complete (even flawed) draft than from five fragments.

The “Right” Path is Often the One You Finish (and Polish)

Ultimately, the most important decision isn’t which path is objectively “best,” but which path you will commit to finishing, refining, and sharing with the world. A perfectly chosen, but incomplete, story has no impact. A story chosen with conviction, even one that had four other contenders, can move mountains.

So, trust your instincts, revisit your story’s core, outline your options, and then, pick a road. Pave it with your words, your sweat, and your heart. And know that those other roads? They’ll be there, waiting for another journey, another story, another day.

What’s your strategy when your story branches into multiple paths? Share your tips in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 173

Day 173 – The unrelenting thriller

…

Grab ’Em by the Throat: How to Write an Unrelenting Thriller

Legendary director Billy Wilder, the man behind Double Indemnity and Sunset Boulevard, had a simple, brutal piece of advice for storytellers: “Grab ’em by the throat and never let ’em go.”

In the world of thrillers, this isn’t just a stylistic choice—it is a functional necessity. If the reader stops to breathe, they might realise they’re holding a book. If they catch their breath, they might put it down to do the dishes or check their phone.

To create a truly unrelenting thriller, you have to treat your narrative like a chokehold. Here is how you master the grip.

1. The Hook isn’t a Suggestion—It’s a Siege

Most writers open with a scene-setter, a bit of atmosphere, or a slow burn. In an unrelenting thriller, that is a death sentence for your pacing.

Do not start with the protagonist waking up. Start with the moment their world shatters. Start with the body in the trunk, the phone call that shouldn’t be happening, or the gun pointed at their chest. The “throat-grabbing” begins on the very first page. If you spend three chapters building up to the inciting incident, you’ve already lost the reader’s adrenaline.

2. High Stakes, Higher Costs

An unrelenting thriller requires constant pressure. But pressure is meaningless if the protagonist has nothing to lose.

To keep the reader breathless, every decision your protagonist makes must cost them something. If they escape one trap, they should lose a vital tool, a piece of information, or a loved one in the process. Never let a victory be a clean one. By constantly stripping away their defences, you make the reader feel the desperation you’re trying to convey.

3. Kill the “Lull”

In screenwriting, we often talk about “beats.” In a thriller, these beats should feel like a rhythmic thumping—a heartbeat that never slows down.

If you find yourself writing a scene where two characters sit down for a long conversation to “explain the plot,” rewrite it. Move the scene to a moving vehicle. Put them in a building that’s burning down. The setting should always be working against the characters. If the scene is about information, make the delivery of that information dangerous.

4. The Principle of “Worst Case Scenario”

Whenever your protagonist thinks they’ve found a solution, present them with an even more terrifying problem.

This is the “never let ’em go” part of the Wilder philosophy. An unrelenting thriller is a series of escalating complications. Think of a staircase: every time the hero reaches a landing, they realise the stairs ahead are crumbling. Don’t give them a moment to process the last trauma before throwing the next one at them.

5. Short Sentences, Sharp Prose

The way you write affects the way the reader breathes. When you want the pace to accelerate, shorten your sentences. Use punchy, active verbs. Eliminate the modifiers that slow down the eye.

The long, winding, reflective sentence acts as a meditative pause, allowing the reader to lean back in their chair.
But this? This hits.

Use white space. Give the reader paragraphs that look like jagged shards of glass. It forces the reader’s eyes to move faster down the page, subconsciously mimicking the frantic pace of the plot.

6. The Psychological Clamp

Finally, remember that the most intense thrillers are internal. The reader needs to be gripped not just by the external danger, but by the protagonist’s psyche. We need to feel their sweat, their racing heart, and their irrational fear. Connect the reader’s nerves directly to the protagonist’s nervous system.

When your character is terrified, the reader should be checking the locks on their own doors.

The Takeaway

Billy Wilder knew that audiences are fickle. They want to be entertained, but more importantly, they want to be possessed by a story.

To write an unrelenting thriller, you must be a ruthless architect of tension. Stop being polite to your characters. Stop saving them. Keep the pressure on, keep the stakes rising, and keep your hands locked firmly around the reader’s attention span.

Don’t let go until the final period.

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Monte Carlo

Beyond the Boulevard: Monte Carlo’s Hidden Gems and Next Big Adventures

Monte Carlo. The very name conjures images of glittering casinos, sleek sports cars, and the sun-drenched glamour of the French Riviera. And while the iconic Grand Prix circuit and the legendary Casino de Monte-Carlo are undeniably magnificent, the true magic of this principality often lies just a whisper off the beaten path.

For the discerning traveller, the question isn’t if there’s more to Monte Carlo, but what awaits those willing to venture a little further. So, buckle up, because we’re about to unveil the next five must-do and must-see experiences that will redefine your perception of this jewel of the Mediterranean.

1. Dive into the Depths: Exploring the Oceanographic Museum’s Hidden Aquariums

While the Oceanographic Museum is a renowned landmark, many visitors focus on its impressive exhibits and historical significance. However, venture deeper into its labyrinthine halls, and you’ll discover a world teeming with vibrant marine life in its less-publicised, yet equally captivating, aquariums.

Why it’s a must-do: Imagine coming face-to-face with a mesmerising array of Mediterranean species, from schools of shimmering sardines to the majestic presence of groupers, all housed within a building perched dramatically on the cliff face. It’s an intimate encounter with the underwater world, offering a tranquil escape from the bustling streets above. Seek out the specialised tanks showcasing the fascinating biodiversity of the local waters – it’s a surprisingly serene and educational experience.

2. Ascend to Serenity: A Hike to the Jardin S an Martin and its Panoramic Vistas

Most tourists flock to the Prince’s Palace for the Changing of the Guard, but a short, pleasant stroll away lies the serene Jardin Saint-Martin. This beautifully landscaped park, perched on the very edge of the Rock, offers not just respite, but breathtaking, unobstructed panoramas that often get overlooked.

Why it’s a must-do: Forget the crowded viewpoints. Here, you can wander amongst fragrant pine trees and vibrant bougainvillea, finding your own quiet bench to soak in the sweeping vistas of the harbor, the superyachts, and the distant coastline. The juxtaposition of the meticulously manicured gardens against the wild beauty of the sea is a photographer’s dream and a soul soother’s paradise. It’s the perfect spot for a leisurely picnic or simply to contemplate the grandeur of the Riviera.

3. Uncover Artistic Treasures: The Nouveau Musée National de Monaco (NMNM) in Villa Paloma and Villa Sauber

Beyond the glitz and glamour, Monte Carlo boasts a thriving contemporary art scene, often tucked away in elegant historical settings. The Nouveau Musée National de Monaco (NMNM) is comprised of two distinct villas, each offering a unique artistic experience that transcends the typical museum visit.

Why it’s a must-do: Villa Paloma, with its stunning contemporary architecture and sculpture garden, often hosts groundbreaking exhibitions by international artists. Villa Sauber, a Belle Époque townhouse, offers a more intimate setting for exploring historical collections, temporary exhibitions, and often features engaging multimedia displays. Exploring these two gems provides a deeper understanding of Monaco’s cultural fabric, showcasing a dynamic and evolving artistic identity that might surprise you.

4. Savor Local Flavors: A Culinary Journey Through the Condamine Market

While Michelin-starred restaurants are plentiful, for a true taste of Monaco’s everyday life and authentic flavours, head to the vibrant Condamine Market (Marché de la Condamine). This bustling open-air and covered market is a sensory delight, offering a glimpse into the local culinary scene.

Why it’s a must-do: Forget tourist traps; here you’ll find fresh produce, local delicacies, and a genuine community atmosphere. Sample Socca (a delicious chickpea pancake), indulge in freshly baked Fougasse, or simply grab a coffee and people-watch as locals shop for their daily ingredients. It’s an opportunity to connect with the heart of Monaco, to taste its heritage, and to discover culinary gems that are far from the tourist trail.

5. Embrace the Outdoors: A Coastal Ramble to the Exotic Garden’s Secret Trails

The Jardin Exotique is famous for its breathtaking collection of succulents and its stunning views. However, many visitors stick to the main paths. Those willing to explore a little further will discover a network of less-trafficked trails that lead to hidden grottos and offer even more secluded viewpoints.

Why it’s a must-do: Beyond the cacti and the impressive cave dwelling, these winding paths lead you through a microclimate of unique flora, offering moments of quiet contemplation amidst nature’s artistry. Discover hidden nooks with unparalleled views of the bay, and feel a sense of discovery as you navigate these less-worn routes. It’s an opportunity to experience the natural beauty of the region away from the crowds, breathing in the fragrant air and enjoying a more intimate connection with the landscape.

Monte Carlo is a destination that rewards curiosity. By venturing beyond the iconic landmarks and embracing these less-travelled paths, you’ll unlock a richer, more authentic, and ultimately, more unforgettable experience. So, pack your sense of adventure and get ready to discover a whole new side of this legendary principality.

What are your favourite “off the beaten path” spots in Monte Carlo? Share your hidden gems in the comments below!

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 174

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 18

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

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 19

The 2 a.m. Rant: When you know you’re getting old

What I learned about writing – A story can go in many different directions

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 173

Grab ’Em by the Throat: How to Write an Unrelenting Thriller

1. The Hook isn’t a Suggestion—It’s a Siege

2. High Stakes, Higher Costs

3. Kill the “Lull”

4. The Principle of “Worst Case Scenario”

5. Short Sentences, Sharp Prose

6. The Psychological Clamp

The Takeaway

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Monte Carlo

Beyond the Boulevard: Monte Carlo’s Hidden Gems and Next Big Adventures

1. Dive into the Depths: Exploring the Oceanographic Museum’s Hidden Aquariums

2. Ascend to Serenity: A Hike to the Jardin S an Martin and its Panoramic Vistas

3. Uncover Artistic Treasures: The Nouveau Musée National de Monaco (NMNM) in Villa Paloma and Villa Sauber

4. Savor Local Flavors: A Culinary Journey Through the Condamine Market

5. Embrace the Outdoors: A Coastal Ramble to the Exotic Garden’s Secret Trails

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One writer's experiences, and battles with words

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Grab ’Em by the Throat: How to Write an Unrelenting Thriller

1. The Hook isn’t a Suggestion—It’s a Siege

2. High Stakes, Higher Costs

3. Kill the “Lull”

4. The Principle of “Worst Case Scenario”

5. Short Sentences, Sharp Prose

6. The Psychological Clamp

The Takeaway

Share this:

Beyond the Boulevard: Monte Carlo’s Hidden Gems and Next Big Adventures

1. Dive into the Depths: Exploring the Oceanographic Museum’s Hidden Aquariums

2. Ascend to Serenity: A Hike to the Jardin S an Martin and its Panoramic Vistas

3. Uncover Artistic Treasures: The Nouveau Musée National de Monaco (NMNM) in Villa Paloma and Villa Sauber

4. Savor Local Flavors: A Culinary Journey Through the Condamine Market

5. Embrace the Outdoors: A Coastal Ramble to the Exotic Garden’s Secret Trails

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